Perfect Respite- A story taken from life.

I have a confession. Well, not so much a confession as more of an admission about myself. Its nothing particularly jarring nor anything that would cause any measure of alarm. Just a factoid that you may even relate to in some form.

I have insomnia.

This is a somewhat new development in my life. Its become more and more prevalent in my personal world for about a year now. However, its also come in jolts at certain points of my existence. During trying times, thoughtful times, fitful times and even prosperous times. Time and time again, I find myself up , generally in or near the witching hour, as awake as I type these words, and for no apparent reason. It goes without saying that this condition lends itself to many issues in my waking life. Poor work performance, subpar exercise, overdependence on coffee and sleeping pills. Oh sleeping pills!

I’m practically a connoisseur what’s the Napa at this point. I can easily distinguish the effects of the one and the other like a sommelier in a fine restaurant can distinguish the best possible wines to go and with what dish to serve them. Yet all I serve myself is frustration. Something only somewhat quelled by reading, dead of night stretches- and on truly bed spells, cleaning. Two weeks ago, at 2:30 am, I experienced an insomnia spell so bad I leapt out of bed and completely cleaned out my fridge-which included polishing the glass shelves and scrubbing the counters as though the Pope were to visit.
As of this writing, this continues to be an issue. Some nights it passes and I sleep fluidly. Others are like some sort of hellish roundtrip where I can only catch vague snatches of rest and hope to god that its enough to see me through the next day, and if I’m lucky- can work in a siesta.
I share this with you dear reader because I would like to indulge you with a bit of personal mythos to which this musing on rest is relatable. The time I had-and this is no exaggeration-the perfect nap. Sound dull? Perhaps self indulgent? Understandable, yet flawed thinking. This nap, reader, was like a perfect string of pearls. This nap, was like a rare and magnificent golden chalice sought and fought for again and again. This nap was as exquisite as a crème brule conceived by a master chef who toasted the top with the finite detail of a jeweler. This nap however, was much longer and dare I say infinitely more savory. Some things must be shared. This nap, and the circumstances about it- are one such thing.

London 2007.

My very first trip abroad. I can smell the rain outside as I get this down. I’m staying a a modest hotel near Paddington Station Called “The Admiral Inn”. Its no resort. No shuttle. No Tariff and certainly no frivolities. My room is small. Very small. Obscenely small.. My room is a water closet with a twin bed, a tea pot, just enough room to stretch out and a small bureau in which to lay my clothes, of which I’ve over packed. Assuming this was once a private residence, as is most likely, I’m most likely staying in the servants quarters. Poor servants. regardless, The room is clean and unmarred and the bed serves me well.
I spend my London excursion as any high minded wandering soul from abroad would as you imagine. I visit the Tower of London twice. I walk the Docks of St Catherine. I eat fish and chips as a small pub near Holbart,( as a side note, if you ever want to find Americans in London- go to any fish and chips establishments. Its like moths to a flame) I visit Bath with its Roman Antiquity- and get a private crack dawn tour of Stonehenge which is sublime and mystic and ear splittingly cold. Now, here I am, in my servants quarters, only a traveler- not a servant.

I’m tired and don’t know who to fill my time.

I write simplistic journal entries. Very “Here’s what I did, than I did this and than did that” type fare, free of any mystery or nuance. I’m slowly reading a few biographies but have a rough go connecting with the narrative of the authors. Not yet owning a smartphone, I can only document what my digital camera has captured and that’s after I upload it into a computer, and given the prices for the internet cafes and my aggressive fatigue, I decide to pass for the moment.
So I sit. The rain falls as it would. It is after all London. There’s a chill in the room, but its not bad. More like a shift in the air that actually envelopes me and wills me to rest. Literal cold comfort. I’ve no plans. No itinerary. One more day left. I switch off an episode of ” Coronation Street” that I have on as background noise. I slip off my day clothes, all but for a shirt and trunks. Cracking the window open just so. The rain gently wisping in. There’s noise outside, though its more of a lingering white noise that slowly merges with the puttering rain so as to create a lilting soundscape that informs my mood. My eyes get heavy. I drift. Further on. Further on. The sleep comes on gracefully, as though some spirit has silently snuffed a beeswax candle. An old world sleep. The chill of the rain puttering outside transports me into a perfect slumber.

I’m gone. I could have been stranded in Krakatoa for all I knew. In any case I drifted. Lord knows to where-but I’m happy.

I open my eyes. No headache. No fatigue. No headrushes. No noise. 4 hours have passed since I ventured off to wherever it was that I drifted off to. My whole body is as a purring cat. Alive, yet in a state of unfettered contentment that I didn’t yet up until that point, know existed. Never was I more refreshed. Never was I so clear. Away I had faded and when I arose again the mental burdens had gone with me. Not to exaggerate too much reader, but this nap was -sublimation. In every sense of the word.

That was in Fall 2007. I still clearly remember it. A few days after Guy Fawkes day. 13 years as of this musing. How I’ve attempted without avail to recapture this rest, yet it evades me like a hopped up monarch butterfly. I’ve tried . God, how I’ve tried. On rainy days. With candles lit. With certain scents. With windows both slated and cracked. With seemingly perfect cups of tea dancing through my body. With fine music. In the arms of a beau. In front of a fireplace. Near the ocean. While traveling and setting up similar circumstances. Near the trees. With meditations. With lamentations. Through heat and cold. With breathing exercises that were all for naught. Yet, she still evades me like a mocking wandering djinn.
So now, as I go in circles with this insomnia, my unfortunate new companion, I’m given some recompense when I think about that perfect late afternoon 13 years ago on a rainy day in London. When 4 mere hours attained legend and an ideal slumber was mine for the asking. No props, no fan fair, no bargaining, no pleading.

It just -was.

One of the most perfect moments I’ve ever been privy to, and I wasn’t even conscious.

Its been over a decade folks

-and I still haven’t given up the chase.

The One Year Ennui



a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.

As of this writing, it is March 19th 2021.

My Christmas tree has been sequestered in my closet for 3 months now, I spent the New Years Eve countdown teetertottering through the REM cycle in my bed, cruised through a few gigs and a few more months. Saint Paddy’s Day has come and gone-and I have the corned beef brisket left in my fridge to prove it and the same aversion to Guinness I’ve had since just about ever. Sitting with my parents and a close friend at the table this year, I stopped and took pause of several factors. First off, I still haven’t been to Ireland. Secondly, brown mustard tastes infinitely better on brisket then yellow. Thirdly and not to be outdone- there was a different feeling in the air. A feeling of- lightness. A feeling of-hopefulness. Normalcy even. A feeling I certainly no longer take for granted. See, just over a year ago at this very time, all the world, my city included- was shut down. Images flooded my social media feed and the television news of bare shelves. A sense of hopelessness rocked me, and many others to say the least. Listlessness, balanced with mania balanced with utter darkness that rampaged through the streets like a geeked up town crier. Ennui.

To have my corner of life rocked and upheaved- and it was nothing compared to some, was something I couldn’t wrap my head around.

I have told people time and time again, the most galling aspect of the pandemic was there was no precedent, no model, nothing, at least in my lifetime, with which to go off of, balance myself and put this into context. People were cloistered in their homes, strongly encouraged and in some cases mandated to stay there, and a strange almost medieval feeling of superstition and paranoia, coupled with lack of human connection wrought a miasma in the air I was unable to escape. I went to my parents house across town for our yearly St Patrick’s Day dinner as though I were fleeing the Cossacks. Up until this point, I considered myself fairly isolate, going out only for specific occasions and even then rarely. This I took for granted. However, I never realized how much I needed others til this time. There’s something dark about being discouraged from hugging your loved ones. From seeing your neighbor. Those people who become an unquestioned part of your daily rotation. I cant describe what it was like. I’ve yet to experience anything as paradoxical. Animals and plant life were reclaiming the planet, yet humans stayed inside. Earthed thrived, we turned to baking bread and insufferable “quarantine concerts”, but I digress. Moreover, people were forced to take a good hard look at themselves. After the 10th bottle of jack, the 12th series you “binge watch” and your frequent visits to the doordash app that it. You cant go out. Now trust and believe there is only so much shallow escapism you can loose yourself in before those feelings over take you and your forced into a long look in the mirror. Now some are horrified by that notion, hence distraction. Yet we can only Netflix away so much. At some point, the gravity of the situation will come calling, bells in hand.

Now, a year has passed. A few days more actually. Life seems about 60 percent normal. Competent hands now hold the reigns of power and people line up for vaccinations like an E ticket ride. International travel may be possible again. Corrupt people in power who rode in lockstep agreement with the last administration and being taken to task. There’s still masks. Every kind you can fathom. Tight medical itchy ones, luxury ones, custom ones, basic ones. A mask for all seasons! By and large, life seems to be on the fast track to normalcy..
Or is it?

History teaches us that great catastrophes of the past leave an imprint on the psyche of those who lived to experience them. Everyone on was effected by this. From the militantly disciplined sanitizer fiend to the willfully idiotic collegian partying on the beach at the height of pandemic. The teachers who taught zoom meetings. The market workers who were swamped and screamed at for not supplying enough toilet paper and ramen. Nobody in the world was untouched. So in that regard, whether or not you contracted- you still got the fever in a way.
My feeling is, I don’t believe things will be completely normal. How can we as a society go back to the slow numbing burn of same ol same ol without looking over our shoulders? Reaching for our masks when we aren’t even required to have one anymore? Standing shoulder to shoulder on the subway or the bus and not having the fleeting desire to grab the sanitizer, or that marked urged to briskly and thoroughly wash our hands within an inch of their lives?

Things like this don’t simply vanish. Not from what I see. The pandemic wove its way into the interconnected consciousness of all humans beings living on this planet, whether they accepted it or not- it was there now- in their heads, pressing on. No matter how much you dismissed it- you were bound to see the news. No matter how saccharine and shiny your mask was- it was still to fend off a very real, very lethal disease.

Ultimately, we are changed by this. I say this as I glance outside my Arts District Apartment window and see cyclists going by. Hear planes in the air. Hear engines in the distance, and acknowledge the slow but returning beat of life. Will we set ourselves up for a catastrophic downfall that was fully avoidable? Will our own hubris and base juvenile instincts win out and will we simply toss a quilt onto a crocodile?
Or shall we, possibly and maybe -bite our lips, gird our loins and take one for the team? That team being the world? As much as I’d like to have a fast and ready answer, only time shall tell. However, I stumbled onto this quote from the great Albert Camus which was-by coincidence from his masterpiece “The Plague” and I for one feel it is an ideal capstone to this like musing, a year in the making.

“In this respect, our townsfolk were like everybody else, wrapped up in themselves; in other words, they were humanists: they disbelieved in pestilences. A pestilence isn’t a thing made to man’s measure; therefore we tell ourselves that pestilence is a mere bogy of the mind, a bad dream that will pass away. But it doesn’t always pass away and, from one bad dream to another, it is men who pass away, and the humanists first of all, because they have taken no precautions.”
― Albert Camus, The Plague

A Flaneur’s Lament

Flâneur is an ambivalent figure of urban affluence and modernity, representing the ability to wander detached from society with no other purpose than to be an acute observer of industrialized, contemporary life.

I have a confession. Are you sitting down? Great. I hope you have both eyes open.

I hate to work.

Loathe it.

Abominate it.

Destest it with the heated passion of a thousand and one suns.

There’s a word for people such as myself.. “Flaneur”. Which I describe above in no uncertain detail.

Proving once more the French get me more than I thought I got myself.

See I’m a wanderer by nature. I know in today’s incessant work culture there is simply no time for people like me. Moreover the kind of white hot contempt that should really be reserved for most Southern politicians, employees of Monsanto or tobbaco lobbyists. In my defense? Well. I guess there’s little defense.

That said, my attitude is born of innate idleness and a love of observation and a good old fashioned disdain for corporate modernity. Bottom line? I hate the American standard of working. It is particularly galling. A spiritually stagnant world of artificial smiles, synthetic satisfaction, lame jokes, more backstabbing than Julius Caesar and forced comradery. There’s something so death dealing and unnatural about the whole thing. I don’t know what veil drops with a man when he walks into the office or the warehouse or his theater of choice in and adapts this persona, but as long as Ive been in the workforce, I’ve always found it telling and blatant. I know it sounds haughty, maybe to some minds just egocentric, but I have a difficult time attaching myself to anything that is not in synch with my truths and the song of my soul. So suffice it to say, soul feeding jobs are not really in the market these days, and if they are seldom do they merit a solid, life sustaining paycheck.

Now, it goes without saying, that with such ruthlessly idealistic standards- Ive had plenty of time between jobs.

I’ve worked. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve been a waiter, a busser, a gallerist, a sales clerk, a cashier, a paid apprentice, a booth worker, a bookstore clerk etc. I’ve done my shuck and jive and earned my bread with the best of them. Ive had colleagues that have been friends and foe. Coworkers who were either a face in the crowd gone and seldom recalled or have gone on to become an indelible part of my life- perhaps even reading this blog. I’m sorry to say I’ve even had some to which the exact opposite is true and I make no bones about the fact I would like to see struck repeatedly by lightening. I’ve done swing shift. Morning shift, graveyard shift, which is pure hell. Like many-Ive danced on command when asked to-provided I got my pesos. My pride licking its wounds in a corner afterward.

I’ve made a key observation in this time.

Passion creates you. Work breaks you. The American impetus to work ourselves into the cadaver is particularly unnatural and death dealing, especially as an outsider looking in. Perhaps this is a case of grass is always greener, but during my time in Europe, I noticed that the general attitude towards life and a job is well-more fluid. In Prague for instance, on one of many day time outings, I stopped in at a furniture store. There was a well built middle aged man who I assume was the proprietor who greeted me casually. He wielded a small hammer and was alternating between building a shelf and nursing a rozay- at 9am. I watched him with the intense fixation of a novice apprentice or young student. Something in his air entranced me. The offhand casualty of day drinking whilst at the workplace? Work? Wine? Morning? Dazzling!

In the same trip, I made a stop by the famed Charles River by nightfall. One thing about Europe I find particularly egregious is pay toilets. They’re everywhere- and should nature call-you better have some cash on hand. So, I make my way to the facilities and saw a small woman with blond curls manning the area. “Pay”, she said, with a voice both firm yet gentle. No gatekeeper or sentry before her was more diligent now or ever. I handed over my crowns and did what I came to do. However, all the while, I noticed she moved with humble grace and ease. The Hare Krishna of public johns. She smiled. She hummed an old tune even. Wiping mirrors and polishing johns seats with the contemplative devotion of a groom bushing a prized mare. Because of this energy, the Charles Bridge pay toilet- at night no less- was –calming.

Now, bare in mind, I’m aware to an extent I’m certainly romanticizing these two workers. I’m certain I may have just caught them on an off moment or in good humor. Lord knows how the rest of their nights transpired after I left their places of employment. I get it. However, what I’m driving at is the energy they extolled was so authentically at peace. So natural. There was no forced comradery. No team meeting. No managers office with awkward family pictures , employee files and the everpresent copy of “Who Moved My Cheese”. No pasted on alligator grins masking seething malcontent. No blank stares, nor beady eyed gasping gleams. There was no nametags, no rushing. There was mutual respect for space. Now I’m certain the jobs aren’t always roses. I’m certain there’s days of frustration… I’m certain there’s short or late pay or boorish superiors. However what is it about the American working environment that evokes such inauthenticity, such disdain and such un questioned subservience to absolute petty bureaucracy and nonsense?

A number of factors goes into this kind of speculation. Why do so many feel so content with this? Obviously the need to pay bills, keep a roof and buy groceries is a factor. Yet, why have so many in our modern work culture opted for this monotony? Also please don’t think I’m going to regard any of these other newer corporations that value “individuality” and parade in bright colors and all sorts of zany pageantry. Please. That’s a a smokescreen. When its all said and done- you are a number plain and simple!

Now, I have a theory. Humans by nature have massive potential. We are innately creative and have within us the ability to render magnificent paintings, compose operas, splice atoms and plunge the deepest depths of the oceans. Yet how does that factor into the monotonous soul crushing toil of a nine to five? How can something that depletes one leave you with enough facility to compose your own magnum opus? It seems thought out. Orchestrated. I mean, if humans left to their own creative devices all the time and had a way to sustain themselves solely through those means, our minds left incandescent, unfettered,unhampered by bills and burden- what wonders would be be rendering consistently?

Well, I know the counter arguements are many.

Well if you like your work its not work”

“You can still make time”

“Its all about the attitude”

Decent counter arguments, all of them- and not at all untrue to an extent. Yet why does the vast majority of modern work have to be so draining? I can assure you for every other “influencer” (one of the most grating words to come of of my generation’s vernacular) out there preaching the benefits of “loving what you do” there’s ten thousand dead behind the eyes retail, post office and food service and warehouse employees who who either know the ship long left the harbor or that the buck stops there. By and large, the objective of this musing is to ask why. Why is the work culture, particularly in America, so utterly soul crushing? What is it it about the culture of artificial camaraderie and false bravado and zoom meetings that feels so inauthentic and unbearable?

Perhaps maybe its a yen for something more rich. A longing for something more genuine. Some people simply operate on passion. Some people eschew nametags and would rather wear their hearts firmly on their sleeves. Some, simply can’t go along to get along.. some simply can’t fake it. Try as we may, many of us are are more lone wolves rather then rats dancing to the systematic rhythm of the unfeeling piper-and by the way- the rats all ended up guided to a riverbed and drowning..

Now please, don’t construe this rambling perhaps overly philosophical post as an admission of never working or making any kind of contribution to society. Its more of a dissection of why some of us, just don’t really grasp what its all about. Some things simply need to be said and pondered. I dream of a day when I personally can unsheath myself of my home and modern husk and travel again, rest under a tree, wander the world and fathom words to faithfully conceive and ultimately hand back to the muse that gave them to me. Sadly, you won’t find many posts for that on Indeed.

In the meantime, we can learn. We can watch. We may even have some fun. Whether or not it renders a paycheck is anyone’s guess.

As for myself?

Well- I’m a work in progress.

-even for a flaneur.

In Vino Veritas- A story taken from life

There’s an old Italian saying. “in vino veritas”. Meaning, when a man in under the influence of alcohol, in particular, wine, he reaches a kind of divine sublimation. No longer impeded by his pesky inhibitions, he tells the truth. I would also add that he reaches a kind of purity and equilibrium. Flowers erupt. Fires are stoked. His mind is perversely incandescent and his fetters matter no longer. This one such scenario is an instance, taking place only recently- and serving as an unflinching example.

Its a Saturday afternoon in my district of the city and I’m feeling inordinately spry.

Its several contributing factors. A fresh haircut, a boon of confidence in my step, my look and the overall character of the new day. The seams of the city are bursting with new noise and new life. Bicyclers parade down the avenues, donning colorful masks. Young and stylish and tattooed idealists eat vegan fare at outdoor cafes. Everyone exists and co mingles in a happy if not somewhat contrived communion, face coverings optional. It’s the center of the day and I have a few hours before my next stop, so I decide to pop in a small local wine bar just down the block from my home. I’ve only been a handful of times. No real reason. I adore wine. Perhaps with an almost religious abandon that should be reserved for certain saints or holy venues.

There’s something so perfectly pure about a freshly popped bottle and that magical life giving Dionysian substance flowing into a pristinely cut glass that nothing in the world can replace. The proprietor is a man a few years older than I. With the energy of a horsefly-sturdy, affable and bursting with grand ambition. Its a bit early in the day for my usual red, so I opt for Cotes De Roses, which I’ve recently become quite fond. A small smorgasbord is placed in front of me consisting of cheese, fig jam, proseutto, artisan bread and peppers. A little slice of Naples in the center of the Arts District. I sip, I nibble, I sip again-I observe. We all have our vices, and its clear this is mine. Some men loose themselves in the speed of the racetrack. Some in the grit of the boxing ring. Others in the bloodlust of wrestling area. The arrogant grandeur of a souped up or new car, or something banal as stamps or baseball figurines. My mind flashes to Fortunato, the grandstanding drunken and ultimately doomed fool of Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado” whose aggressive posturing ultimately leads to a slow solitary death, deep in the niter soaked catacombs of Venice-surrounded by caskets. A nice metaphor for what ultimately lay on the other side of any kind zealotry. We cant outrun the reaper- but can dance with bells jingling until he catches up.

I look at my surroundings. There’s a young couple at the table near mine. A girl with hair black as the center of night tracing all the way to her back. Two women sit at the bar. Outside, another woman hawks vegan ice-cream at a pink stand. The proprietor comes to my table and I request another glass of the Cotes des Roses, which is quite good. Its a light balance but not too light, with some semi sweet finishes. I rise to go to the restroom, feeling the slow trickle of the rosay work its magic through my synapsis and body. Firing off hit points like gassy nebulas and moving with a serpentine ease through my system. Everything becomes so wonderous, so tolerable under its spell. There’s a sizeable record collection outside the restroom door. I get a close look at the variety. Its a good collection. I find myself hoping its a “lending library”, as I could easily see myself taking some of these hard to find beauties home to play on my own turntable.

Suddenly, there’s a racket. A clattering noise. I look up and see all of my fellow wine drinkers pointing outside-wholly focused on something. A manic wind is tearing through the city. A powerful gale that uproots trees, rips signs off their hinges, and makes mincemeat of any outdoor diners. I think the wind will just pass but it gets worse. The clouds above grow darker and a rolling storm encompasses the area. Rain and hail spatter sporadically. Outside, lights shatter, garbage bags fly in multiple like strands of confetti, chairs and tables are jostled and overturned and in no time flat the serene afternoon is upended into a twisted ramshackle version of itself. The room shakes and the lights flicker. The doors soon thrust open violently…the ice cream tent off to the side being jostled and tossed about like a child’s toy. The couple next to me goes outside to help as the cascading winds summon tables and chairs, potted plants and unhinged signs, hoards of food and debris form a type of inverted parade, smashing into walls, shattering glass and morphing a idealistic afternoon into the type of surrealist apocalyptical scenario that directors and playwrights and poets live for.

What little is left of the ice cream tent now salvaged, the proprietor locks the door. The enormity of the situation hits me like a roving windswept patio chair outside. Suddenly, all of us, the couple, the two women, the ice cream lady and the proprietor have become characters in some sort Twilight Zone episode, or a Manuel play. Everyone around me is rattled, though I embrace the moment with a coveted secretive glee. My mind flashes to all sorts of theatrics. My imagination fraught with untold numbers of artistic scenarios, as the poetics of such a situation are too much to ignore.

All of us. Characters in this farcical moment. Plucked from a moment of frivolity by the desert roar of Mother Nature who honors no such things. The Couple. The Ladies. The Proprietor. The Ice Cream Girl….and I? The Wanderer, I suppose. Suddenly, we aren’t in Las Vegas. We are in War time Berlin. A man plays a piano off in the distance. In spite of the rumble of tanks outside, the marching of boots, café goers sip their cognac, sample their caviar, albeit with hands shaking nervously. What will tomorrow bring? Making hay whilst the sun shines, forming some scope of normalcy in the midst of madness, we drink our champagne with unsteady hands, never knowing if it shall be our last…

Now we’re in a play. The curtains rise. The doors close. It is just us, taking on whatever form. Perhaps a ballerina, a solider, a banker, an aristocrat, a cad and a pauper. With hinges sized shut , we observe a fallen world. We look outside, recognizing nothing….there is a large and looming light ahead…what is in the light? Nobody knows, for all who venture close to it vanish, the one after the other. A stern parable that in the grand scheme things our titles, our vanity-mean nothing. In the distance, we hear a strange unearthly roar. What being could make such a sound? There is no God in this moment. There is no God anywhere. Something much older-and unseen.

Now we’re in modern days. A café in Madrid. A student, a fashionable woman, an older matron, an unhinged drunkard, and a failed writer are taking in the afternoon. Suddenly a bomb goes off outside. Government officials are called. Tanks go by the windows and men and women and children run bloody and screaming in the streets. Strange deformities appear on their faces…. All of us have suddenly, unaskingly become unified if only by instinct and necessity, huddled en masse in the café corner near the cigarette machine, quivering like pet shop mice in a cage soon to be plucked. Something bad is going on outside, something we aren’t supposed to know about. Things become more and more grotesque as men in bloodied hazmat suits walk the area and barricade us inside. One after the other, we look around- our titles falling like dead skin. Uncertainty, primal fear-rule the moment. We wonder- what lay on the other end- not simply tomorrow- but the next series of seconds?

Then the final scenario. Belgium. 19th century. Several people have been invited to a party. A Baron, a lady, a stenographer, a penniless duke, a corrupted priest. They celebrate a long languorous evening, sampling every kind of caviar- every scrumptious bit of finery only fortune and prestigious connection or sheer dumb luck can enable. The night runs long, inhibitions are let loose, laughter roars and its soon time to leave. Yet, there’s no door. The guests look all around themselves. Soon sobered by fear. No exit. No door. Just a party room with empty champagnes bottles. Panic, uncertainty, fear and trepidation quickly set in. Soon titles fall to the way side and peoples true nature set in. Ugly, self interested, manic -crazed. In this once elegant room, man kind shows its teeth, true, uncouth and beastial-barbaric. Yet, the next morning, the maid, curious as to where the party guests have gone, opens the door-not prepared for what will soon meet her eyes.

How will our story play out? How will the series of stories like this taking place in cafes all over the valley play out? What will greet the eyes of those that thrust those doors open? Smashed wine bottles, discarded clothing, strange howling in darkened corners…or perhaps-the most unsettling possibility of all-nothing. Only a few solitary scrapes. Only a few missed hours. Business as usual. Sloughing off the moment like a loose hair with an offhand casualty and commencing living in our phones, disavowing the scared lessons of such scarce moments.

Yet, instead something wonderful happens. We gather in circle. We look around. We pour another glass. We begin to talk. We talk about our fears, our hopes, our childhoods. We talk about what went wrong in our lives- how even our best laid plans were for naught. How we don’t know what to make of ourselves anymore let alone such a world. In this span of time, not one of us looks at a phone. Looks at the clock. Our masks are on, yet simultaneously off. We look in each other eyes.

I look up. The weather is unsteady, but calming down. A semblance of normalcy begins to descent like a weary spider. The couple next to me is getting ready to leave. What was this, I think? Outside, awnings slowly reopen and café chairs are reclaimed from heaps. The ice cream girl gives us free scoops of something delicious in gratitude for assisting. Too surreal, I think.

I summon my ride and bid goodbye to my new friends, almost sad our strange unity has come to an end as abrupt as it began, yet I feel all the richer. My mind still swimming in Dali-esque, Bradberry worthy scenarios. Some moments are so random, so abstract, so our of our usual scope of monotony that we must preserve them and all their madness in some sublime way- if anything leaving them on a shelf in our mind, so as to age well, let them gather dust and become part of our own personal collection of parables.

Maybe one day cracking them open and drinking them with a sense of reclaimation.

Familiarly well aged. Like a very fine wine.

In vino veritas!

Exasperation and Disillusionment

This may com off as a bit of rambling but its what was on my mind as of this writing. Hey, its still a young year. However, if I can add to the conversation, I’ll be glad to do it.

The other day, I happened on some of my old writings. Some were poems, other more prose oriented. Alot were recollections of dreams and desires I had at the time. Much pie in the sky, save more some downright magical thinking. To say I was a high minded idealist is to put it lightly. Then I got up, brushed off my jeans and proceeded to finish polishing the floor. Exit stage right.. lights off.

This leads me to this singular thought.

What happens to us? When to we loose the spark? When does the magic dust we see so often in youth fall to the floor and eventually get swept out? When do we stop believing in magic and start believing in ideologies? When do we loose our hearts, join in, lockstep, grit teeth- and succumb to the mob?
A new year is upon us.
Seven days in we have already seen the downright putrid emerging in our society, and hoards of the blissfully ignorant trampled on my countries front lawn and with a zeal and ill gotten swagger that was revolting, proceeded to soil on all they claimed to cherish, goaded on by tinfoil ideologies logic born of misinformation and bad old fashioned bigotry. Working as a leasing temp, I intentionally went in and out of the office all day long, so as to see what exactly was playing out. With every trip past the tv, every scant scroll of my cursor past some media, the images got more and more grotesque. Lord of the Flies mixed with Madmax and Deliverance. Such was my horror that, like anyone in my age group, I made a post on my social media claiming, “This isn’t us.”

In retrospect, I must recant. This is exactly what we are. There’s an old saying…when a man shows you who he is-believe him. Here it was, full screen, livestreaming-in full view.
A festering boil primed to burst. A tinderbox needing a singular flame.
Its a hard and ugly pill to swallow knowing that this level of at best ignorance and at worst, unadulterated hideousness, has somehow seeped and slithered through the cracks of our society to where something this severe, outrages and vile could manifest. Yet- here we are.
So, why the digression from my original point? Not a digression. Its an example. At what point do we loose the magical thinking? At what point do men go from dreaming of saving a damsel in distress in a book read by their grandmothers to donning a shirt labeled “Camp Auschwitz” and befouling the rooms of the home they claim to love with a toothy and heinous grin? When do we as a people stop believing in beauty and magic and start shouting over one another, reeling in hubris and hatred and instead of taking of shovels in sandboxes and coloring books, we take up guns and flags and march like rats to the call of a pied piper who never ultimately cared about you at all?
To quote Ms. Prentice in “Guess who’s coming to Dinner”, “What happens to men when they grow old?”
Personally, being one myself-I can only speculate.
Maybe this is why I couldn’t relate to any of my older writings. Disassociation. Maybe I’ve simply seen too much to relate to that person. Maybe the ugliness just gets to you after a while and you just-move out. Trust and believe this is not that tone I wanted for my first post of 2021. As of this point however, I still still carry a cautious torch for this year. A heinous event in our nations capitol doesn’t define me or those I love. However, it does cause one to pause. Stop. Think…and reflect.
Sometimes, as I sit here with my laptop propped up and the window ajar in a hoodie with no music on- that’s really all you can do.

So you better do it well.

Needful Things. A Covid Holiday

As of this writing, I had many plans for the day. Then I got up and I made a key realization. I didn’t want to do any of them. What results is a long shower, a second coffee, and an impromptu jotting down of a few thoughts I have about the holiday season in this strangest of years, 2020. So as I sit here to the soundtrack of my neighbors chattering mindlessly downstairs, Ill pretend I’m in a cabin, high in the Alps, far from the noise- perfectly serene. As nice a place as any to rant.

7am. I’m up. I turned off my alarm last night. I stay in bed as long as possible, for no particular reasons other then the siren long of pure unadulterated idleness, which given my hectic job schedule, is more than earned. As I lay there, keeping my phone at bay all the way on the sofa- I do my best to fashion some kind of Robert Louis Stevenson style convalescent whimsy. I’ll use the time to fathom poems in my head- perhaps some so good I may write them, maybe share them, and then the final crescendo-read them. Yet, to my dismay, the only thing I can fathom is the desire for coffee. I get up- seeing myself in an old bar mirror from the 60’s I got during some scant period of extravagance. Not my best look. Fortunately nobody else is here to see it,

I make coffee, black as night, and top it off with cinnamon, and then saunter back to bed, managing the seemingly impossible feat of not spilling a drop on the pure white sheets. Egyptian cotton, not to brag- also got during a scant period of extravagance. I try to crack into my latest read, a biography of Queen Marie Antionette, but for some reason, I just can’t get into the whirl of 18th century French societal intrigue this morning. Something is lacking, as I’m too enmeshed in my own world to loose myself in that of another-no matter how seemingly fascinating. I sip. I stare. I look up. I survey my home-a feat readily accomplished by simply glancing left. There’s the tree. Her tone is audibly tan this year. Has even she succumbed to the malaise of 2020? I have reason to believe so.

Last night, as I cut into a plate of take out lasagna from the place around the corner, half the lights burned out-as though on cue. Okay, in all fairness, they were three years old. Still I’m less annoyed and more oddly amused. I’ve a big believer in signs. Certain things can tap into our subconsciousness and reflect them. The vibrations of our temperament and tone, or something to that effect. This year, spurred on with an ankle biting fatigue and a waning whimsy for the season, which I can only see as the result of an endless cocktail of hours working a seasonal job in a warehouse, where you sling heaps of useless overpriced crap nobody needs onto a conveyer belt and answer to people with the intellectual capacity of 1 year old toe nail clippings, an endless onslaught of pandemic imposed fear, my constantly itchy face mask, pie in the sky political promises ready to be broken, as well as a manufactured dead ended corporate joy that would no doubt make even the Christ child reel in revulsion-I think I’ve had my fill.

Therein lay my proposition. In this year of societal isolation, squandered stimulus money, mass produced custom made face masks gallons of sanitizer flowing from bodegas like the Ganges – would simply pausing the holidays be too much to ask? No trees. No turkeys. No gifts. No THINGS. How many THINGS do we need? Enough surreal events have happened to be sure. Would it really be too much to simply-not get together and overeat? To not spend money we should be saving to to get things we don’t need? If the Christmas spirit is your thing, then why should material objects and a glutted stomach mean anything at all? Even the Grinch, a character in a children’s book no less- was wise to this! The artificial needless synthetic of any holiday, not simply Christmas, seems ill suited, silly and needless in light of year of pandemic. Is it really asking to much too much for a year while we simply learn to better ourselves?

The joy of the season is free. The cold weather is free. Listen to music. Get a pine scented candle if you must. Now, I know that this proposition has the appeal of eating a live roach to the average American consumer. One would easily be named a “Scrooge”, which in my opinion, is a blanketed and loathsome moniker heaped on anyone who has a less then spry to the point of manic attitude in regards to the holidays. The older I get, the more I get Scrooge. Scrooge had been through things . Scrooge, for lack of a better term, had “seen some sh*t”. A measure of cynicism in my opinion, especially in a year such as this, seems not only appropriate but necessary.

This makes me figure eight right back to my little tree. Maybe we were on the same page. Perhaps in its hushed and unspoken little way, it was saying, “what’s the point this year, man?”


I know to many these are wasted words. More often then not my soapbox is not as high and flashy as I’d like. However, the least I can do is get them out.

As far as I’m concerned, in the year of 2020, my ideal Christmas would be to be sitting in a nice large easy chair, near a warm fire, in a secluded bar, nursing my second martini. Unburdened by all the rabble and nauseating noise. Unchained to any gifts, turkeys, nog, reindeers with bizarre physical abnormalities, cards with snappy wishes, vile social media filters and 20 dollar cinnamon scented candles. My boots off, my feet up- my mind incandescent, totally free. The idea of holiday celebration in the time of covid19 is like watching ICU patients suddenly bursting free of their beds and jamming to disco music, their fluid bags spilling on the floor. No thanks.

-Yet here I am. In apartment. A more aware cog, but a cog nonetheless.

Now time to go to the store and get some damn lights.

At this juncture- thoughts on 2020 so far

Havent written in a while. What with all thats happened since my last entry, I frankly didnt know where to even begin. Its been quite the deluge. No sooner do I feel I can distill something into words then 9,000 other things emerge shark teeth style to take its place. Between fires, riots, political smug, rampaging idiocy of covid deniers, and the disease itself- 2020 is a year that wont quit, for better or stupefyingly worse

Alot has taken place in our sphere of existence such I rhapsodized about the poetics of Timothee Chalamet. Increasing pandemic numbers, masks, racial tensions hitting a zenith, and masks, black squares , and masks, a chest beating bore in the office with the empathy and emotional intelligence of a 9 year old frying insects under a magnifying glass- and masks. When the virus began, I hated the idea of “masking up”. I felt confined, suspicious and rebellious. Now, its basically assimilated itself into my existence. I mean, its not the great oppressor I felt it would once be. You can get all kinds of them. Pink ones, red one, mickey mouse masks, ninja turtle masks, a mask of your favorite sports team and a mask with a picture of your newborn. Now when I do step out, its second nature to pick it up. The new normal.

I can think of alot of different terms to describe this year, and they continuously grow. Many can brush of 2020. I certainly know that’s what I was ready to do not long ago. A twisted caricature of a year whos mascot was a a rat, a mask and a black fist. As of this writing, its 30th of August. Soon September. Soon October. Soon November. Many will be elevated or shaken. One thing is for certain, many will be unhappy no matter what the outcome. What can and will be said of such a year?

Only having recently returned to work, I spent months simply coasting. Like many, a stick had been shoved in my personal spokes. No outings, no friends and little interaction outside a facetime or a text message. My big outing was my weekly walks to the Walgreens up the street to get wine and necessary sundries and then haul up old west mountain man style on my precipice. I watched the world unfold. Watched the youth of the nation bust into uproar over a police brutality. Graffiti and riots tearing through streets blocks from my home. Watched the arrogant peacocking of self proclaimed patriots wave their flags and cry wolf in defiance of those selflessly working without tire. Watched the innumerable occurances of the world around me, a juxtaposition of people singing from balconies, people rioting in streets. Saw a tension, thick and potent, form like a repugnant fog over society. No sooner had Mother Earth healed decades of wounds then we all began to take up whatever banner we saw fit and fight again. I didn’t want to champion anyone. I felt a mixture of isolation, confusion and revulsion at the world around me.

The year past its halfway point, many have come to accept this. Blissfully hoping and thinking the normalcy will come back soon. I frankly, dont feel that. In a way, I don’t wish to. Much has come from 2020. Not exactly bad, but still, things powerful, provocative and not easily brushed off with time. I have a saying about 2020 that I feel basically encapsulated the year entirely. “In putting on masks, we took our masks off”. This has been a year of brutal truths. How can we simply return to “normalcy” after our year was dominated by a mixture of masks, sanitizer, black squares and some of the most vile politics that ever witnessed? How does a society simply pick and move on from that? At best, we will forever be looking over our shoulders, awaiting the dropping of the next steel toed shoe.

I wish I could tie up this musuing just a bit better, but sadly, I can’t. One of the most deflating aspects of this year is the removal of any kind of certainty. What is it we want from this year, or any year for that matter I ask? How is peacocking from our group of chosen people and hurling insults at the other helping anything?How many times is that actually achieved, even? I mean, is it so bad that we sacrifice one year to- reflect? Shake off the dust? Get it all out? Have conversations we always put off having? Don a mask and heal? Sometimes, the best balm is for things to simply hang in the air and be uncomfortable for a while.

I get it. We want to travel. We want to be social. We want to have peace with our fellow man. We want to have trust in our elected officials. We want to have a sense of security and know that everything will be alright. This has so far been a year when all of that has been shaken. Only now are people starting to emerge into the world, socialize, go back to some semblance of life. Whether or not that ultimately proves foolish, well only time will tell.

Who know what will come to pass. What with perhaps the most heated and vitriolic elections this country has ever faced a mere 2 months away, a virus that continues on, in spite of our obvious denial and a societal tension that’s been unsheathed like earwigs under a rock, gone to scatter, I don’t know what will happen one day to the next. I can only offer this suggestion. Be cautious, be alert, be mentally open but physically careful and more than anything..

-wear your damn mask.

Why Timothee Chalamet means something.

I believe it was the Bard himself who once said, “Some are born great, others have greatness thrust upon them”, and to that I say, that may be true Bill, but ALL depends on the will of the public. The silent film actor Rudolph Valentino once stated, rather darkly, that “I am the canvas upon which people paint their desires”. This can be said for both male and female actors of any period. What are they but heavily feted public figures, lauded for their looks and talents? How they captivate us on screen, watching as their name flies up the opening credits, we root for them like demigods who are incapable of wrong. We project our innermost desires and imaginings on them- which, for them, serves an awesome responsibility.

Projection. Celebrity worship. Veneration. By this outsiders observations, it seems ultimately hallow. Every few years we throw another young vestil Hollywood virgin on the pyre and set them aflame to laud and worship. Why? You may notice that decidedly cynical tone of this so far, but that’s actually not the direction I’m leading to. This is why, upon a recent viewing of Greta Gerwig’s “Little Women”, I came to a sterling conclusion.

Timothee Chalamet means something.

While I dont seek to undermine anyone’s talents, in the past few years, I feel the paradigm of the Hollywood leading man has become sort of a contorted , modernized caricature of the 40’s male. Personalities, though at one time, unique, beginning to feel a bit processed, hypersexualized and for lack of a better word, macho. You’re only as good as your most recent cover of Esquire. Now, I have no issue with that, for some of these actors do damn fine work.

That said, this young man, svelte, stylish, barely into his twenties, theatrically trained though seemingly sprung from nowhere, represents a paradigm shift. What do I mean? Look at him. The way he carries himself. His eyes speak of old wisdom. There’s not a single empty pocket of his being, even if he is simply doing a bit part. The way he plays the camera, knowingly, a boyish innocence juxtaposed with a dark intelligence well beyond his years. He’s aware of this.

A good example is in his film “Beautiful Boy” where he portrays a drug addled youth. In a pivotal scene, he sits adjacent to his father played by Steve Carrell and pleads for money. In that moment, his youthful features still pristine, though tarnished by meth, his aura reads like something from a Jim Carroll novel. His behavior erratic, screaming madly, eyes bloodshot, arms flailing. His face, weathered before its time. He resembles a ruined cupid. A character sprung from a painting; in this moment, he is the mourning Orpheus, cresting the underworld alone again. A poisoned Romeo. A weeping prince arriving just too late to give the life saving kiss. You want to protect him, though you know you cannot, as his youthful willfulness seems set on destroying him slowly. His inner narrative not some pre packaged Instagram ready lothario posturing, but a grieving Tristan. A young and cold Chatterton sprawled out on a daybed, cold and blue, yet still smiling.

Watch this scene sometime and analyze it. He is a master of this moment and traces something evocative and raw deep within him to conceive a persona that is at one time selfish and naive, yet at the same time, disarmingly pitiful. There’s a wisdom, but a tangible helplessness.

That is really the great enigmatic quality of Timothee Chalamet. The visual poetry of another, more youthful, yet old world distilled and made attainable for jaded, superfluous, technologically obsessed modern world. One can easily see Chalamet in the thirties and twenties era of film making. He seems tailor made for the pageantry of a gone Hollywood. Regardless if he realizes it or not, he is the return to a long deceased world of great lovers. The high vaulting whimsy of John Barrymore, Errol Flynn or Valentino, yet with the accessibility of the video game loving boy next door in a Vans hoodie and sneakers.

His eyes produce a yearning for another , richer, older realm. One you’re certain he knows very well.

Case in point, the final scene in the film “Call me by your name”. His character Elio, watches a roaring fire, having just spoken to an older man, Oliver, with whom he shared a romantic summer. Now Oliver is far away. Now its just Elio again. With his parents. Just being another teenager on his walkman. As though nothing happened at all. Yet as he stares into those flames, and slowly begins to weep, an indecipherable yearning is evoked in his eyes. This is genuinely relatable. Anyone who has had and lost something, knowing full well it can never return, at least not the same way, or ever be replicated, knows this feeling. It is pain beyond measure. It is a feeling of being totally hallow. It is secrets. It is internal solitude. Yet deep in the the center of all of this, is fragile, lingering beauty. The beauty of perfect memories- and as Elio weeps , he slowly smiles again, returning to those moments back in Oliver’s arms. In the bliss of a secret Mediterranean summer, wanting for nothing. For though they may have passed, no matter how baleful the loss, they still existed- and will live within both of them forever.

Chalamet knows the truths of the human condition. Fear, lust, passion, joy, hope, and even utter damnation- and plays them to the core of his being, assembling them in a face that seems too precious, genuine and true for the brassy impersonal world of celebrity, decadence, and hollow noise that the Hollywood film industry seemingly revels in. Theres in him, a genuine substance in a highly disingenuous realm. A Monet painting lifted from the Louvre and passed through a cheap gallery in a tawdry shopping mall.

As I write these words, young Timothee continues to move up the pipeline of stardom. From a role as Henry V of england in “The King”, to ” a reimagining of “Dune”. I’m glad for him, but worry. Maybe it’s an older brotherly instinct in me. Hollywood is a mean place to say the least, and there’s far more stars cracked and stained on pavement then there are in the sky. You’re only as good as those whom you surround yourself with, or how big your last hit was, what parties you go to and what your workout routine is like and the designer you’re wearing-and everyone wants a piece of you. Ultimately, it seems like a vacant and meaningless dance. Few survive, even fewer still come out of it well. What will become of this feather haired enigma of French ancestry from New York City? In a few years, will he be pushed to the sidelines as another takes his place, hurled down the pipeline, and be reduced to a sad caricature of himself? If I could make a guess, I wouldn’t say that. He has already transcended most his age, so far as style, artistry and shear talent and guile goes, matching creative wits with those twice his years. So, perhaps we need him. If only to remind us what a soul looks like. Feels like. Thinks like. Yearns for. Forever in flux and bound to nor iron clad ideals of masculinity, conceiving moments through the soul of his art alone.

Why the point of this musing? No reason. Just a feeling that needed saying. Bringing me back to my original inquiry. Why does Timothee Chalamet mean something? Put simply-

His is a soul from another era with the grit to make it in this one. Put even simpler?

He is truly, unflinchingly, embodied.


Image courtesy of Interview Magazine

Easter Eve

A little prose piece of whats on my mind.

The signs were everywhere. The paradoxes, plentiful.

The world was in bloom/ Yet hospitals were full

The sky was never more radiant/ As people were sequestered inside

Our hands never more clean/ As fear of a virus made us scrub them within an inch of our lives.

The people communicate now more than ever/ Yet it is born of pressing fear and uncertianty

My pen was never more animated/ Yet the topic was bleak.

Here lay my reminder. I began to really see the frailties of my human condition. The chinks in what I felt until now was infallible armor. Life is so delicate. Spider web level. Yet spun on a brittle branch often besieged by brutal winds, and it weakened my reserve. The constant beat of news and information, well meaning as it was, made me fear and dread any cough, sneeze or seemingly innocuous seasonal symptoms, blowing them out of proportion until my sleep was minimized, and my mind upended by trepidation. I lay in bed with neither phone nor music. Only the white noise of my fan and the delicate trickle of a defuser as my soundtrack. Try as I may, it left me shaken. Like a sturdy picture had come crashing down after years, now I was always watching over my shoulder. My faith in my own body had been rocked.

It seemed that life itself had toppled to the floor, and all had to reassess themselves, as Mother Earth, long ago banished to the sidelines had brazenly seized the rug back. This didn’t discriminate. Mothers and children, Fathers and sons. Lawyers and artisans, painters and garbage workers, waitresses and welders, collars of white and blue, bodies of old and young. All would be affected. All would be up-heaved. All would lay heel to this archaic uncertainty. The stubborn and resistant would be just that. The complicit would shun themselves away until the coast was clear. The indefatigable and willful would try to bargain and negotiate the matter.

But it didnt matter. Like in some modern variation of the Danse Macabre, all of us, of all ranks would clasp hands with this ever stalwart, crimson crown donning chaos lord and go dancing off, willing and unwilling to who knows where. Some to our homes. Some to a hospital bed. Some having no idea yet at all. All the while the skies would shine blue, the larks would sing aloud, the rivers and streams shone crystaline and divine and nature would roam again.

-giving no thought to us at all.

Something to think about, this Easter Eve.


3 weeks. They go by so fast.

Up. Coffee. Back to bed. I forgo the social media in favor of a copy of Grimm’s fairy Tales, always a nice go to comfort. Fully caffeinated, I stretch, lace up my shoes and hit the track. A sprawling 3 and a half miles that takes me from underneath a normally busy intersection, beneath an overpass past an eighties era neighborhood, into a park, where I do 4 rounds and then take a beat. This is a sacred time. My answer to meditation. Some goofy at home exercise wont fit the bill, and I’ve never needed endorphins more. I have at this at least, I think somewhat bitterly.

Sitting under a tree at the park, I’m happy to see other people there, runners and elderly couples on walks mostly. All politely keeping a sizable distance of up to and including 6ft. I look about my own surroundings as my leg muscles burn and I feel a trickle of sweat cause my head to itch furiously under my knit cap. The sky has never looked more grand. The birds sing in chorus, so sweet and so lively. It can’t be all bad, at least nor for nature. I recall my thoughts in my last entry. The torpor my mind was enmeshed in. The mounting images, the ugly ply-boards on windows, the feeling of being pulled into a crazed societal whirlwind, the erroneous information being spread like gospel, the feelings of scarcity. The inability to embrace a loved one. For one reason or another, I crashed and burned that day only a few weeks ago. Something cracked. Perhaps my own cognitive dissonance, or being buffeted to and fro by a force much larger than myself, comprised of mania, medical masks and ever present uncertainty.

The days that followed werent as dark, but still peppered with an aura of unknowing. It could be felt everywhere. In the eyes of grocers. In the weariness of hospital staff. In the unfeeling phone queue for unemployment. Through all this, I etched out a life, not as though there was another option.

Its afternoon. I sprawl out on my sage green sofa. I hear the birds outside. The late spring winds whips the windowpane. The taunting siren song of reborn world we are not permitted to fully embrace. For some reason, I feel tired. I attempt to close my eyes and nap, but my tireless brain still churns out mental offal comprised of the latest covid19 reports, well meaning though patronizing diatribes on hand washing and face touching, the soul sucking rantings of a blithering orange faced fool continuously doubling down on his own incompetence, as well as a mental inventory of the contents of my pantry and what I should retrieve from the store- if I’m brazen enough to go to one, and last but not least a veritable assembly line of “what ifs”, that seem to rule the currant collective consciousness like an unseen, though omnipotent sky king.

“This is how you become old”, I think.


I’ve wondered so many times, I’ve made myself dizzy. ” We don’t know”. The only answer I get. I feel mocked and taunted. I envision mobs of people, parading down streets and backallys, clutching bags of stolen goods, shattering windows and inducing heart attacks. The most jarring reality of all, that it wasn’t at all far from possible. It was so far afield from my perception of reality, my brain almost won’t permit me to indulge such things. But here it is, in all its surrealism, coming at me like a typhoon, full force.

Suddenly, I catch myself having an internal dialogue. “Why do you want it to end?” It gives me pause. I mean, in the abstract, it would seem ideal to any writer or creative. Long tapering listless days of sketching thoughts and thinking. You could live in that realm forever, pontificating and creating. But the romance ends fast. Soon you crave the human touch. Contact, voices outside a sterile screen. “So why do you want it to end?” I hear myself asking. That innate knee jerk desire to want something simply because we can’t have it.

“Normalcy, I suppose? ” Alright, but what was normalcy? A busy, though ultimately hallow existence comprised of filling voids with unnecessary things. Engaging in forced dialogue. Forced get togethers. Laughing vacant laughter, tempered with occasionally profound, meaningful moments, yet still smiling empty smiles to a parade of people I’ll most likely forget, ultimately making a mad dash to the safety of home and waking up to notice I’ve forgotten almost all of it. That fever dream existence. Was that ever really living? Was that really a life worth longing for? It wasnt simply myself. It was a comforting numbness that seemed to pervade others. A perverted stagnant version of reality that was so long standing, it seemed a sin to even question it. Now people were loosing themselves in take out fare and over-hyped Netflix schlock instead of using the opportunity to confront their own shadows and come out better for it. So what was the solution? The answers I provided only seemed to invoke more questions. The questions becoming steadily more prying and oblique and convoluted as the world around finished it off with an absoluteness that made me shudder.

‘Things will NEVER be the same!”

“We CAN’T go back to normal”

“We are FOREVER changed”

It was all too much, even for a writer.

There’s a saying in Buddhism. ” Desire causes suffering”. I was desiring, and in turn I, and many others-suffer. For what, is all relative. That said, with this interlude yet ongoing, let’s all see where this leads-hope for the best-and keep our pens handy.

There’s still much to be said.