I wake up. It's still dark out. I can't go back to sleep so I go downstairs. The clock in the kitchen says 3:30. I think, "Oh crap." Then I do the only reasonable thing to do when you wake up at 3:30 am and can't go back to sleep. I make coffee and drink a cup out on the front screen porch. I light up a dirty rotten cigarette and curse myself for being a slave to nicotine. I ask the saints to help me kick the habit and see the light. It's nice and cool on the porch, a relief from the heat of yesterday. The fish tank is gurgling. Two quail in a cage on the floor are making a racket. Other than that, not much is happening.
I go back upstairs to my bed, thinking maybe I can go back to sleep and have a nice dream. I toss and turn. Sleep doesn't come. Dawn is breaking. I decide to try and mediate; get up on my knees and elbows with my head cradled in my hands. I breathe rhythmically, focusing my eyes on the pattern of my bed sheet. I start to feel pretty good, relaxed, in the zone. I notice when I'm really in the zone, the pattern on the sheet gets larger; when I slip out of the zone, it gets smaller. I marvel at this phenonenon for a while and experiment with it; shifting my focus, making the pattern increase and decrease, advance and retreat. I think, "The mind and the eyes really do work together like a camera." I ponder this for a while.
I decide it would be a good idea to get my camera and see if I can duplicate what my mind and my eyes were doing with the sheet pattern. It occurs to me that taking pictures of my bed sheet is a little crazy, but I don't care and do it anyway. My bedroom window looks so lovely at this time of the morning. I take a few pictures of it too.
Dante Schwartz was the son of
Gertrude and Morris Schwartz, and the brother of Dana, Dina and Donna, the
tap-dancing triplets who almost made it to the second round of the grand
championship dance competition of the Tappity-Tap-Tap
Fest.Had it not been for Dina acquiring
a wicked case of poison sumac located mainly between her toes and erupting
full-blown on the very eve of the competition’s second phase, the Schwartz
girls might well have won hands down and gone on to the third round, which in
all likelihood they would have won too, by a landslide, and from there God only
knows how much fame and fortune would have come their way.
Ronald
And
then there was Ronald and Donald, born ten months apart, who had their own unique
talents.Ronald was a courier for a
numbers operation, and Donald trained the scruffiest of dogs to do the most
amazing tricks.Ronald’s lucrative
affiliation with the underworld went unrecognized of course, due to the illegal
nature of his occupation.He passed himself
off as a super-duper paperboy and recipient of very big tips.That’s how he explained his bulging wallet to
Morris and Gertrude.Donald’s talent was
channeled into a covert operation as well, and although his “business” was by
no means illegal, it certainly would have been forbidden by Morris and Gertrude,
they would have been totally aghast if they had any clue what was going on.
Donald and his Dogs
It
was Dante who tagged Donald “Dog Boy” and it was Dante who drummed up all the
business for Dog Boy’s once-a-month Really Big Show where the doggies did their
stuff, come rain or shine, in the back yard of the Schwartz family’s red brick
row-home, or in the event of bad weather, in their basement rec room.These Really Big Shows went on when Morris and Gertrude took off once
a month for Allentown to spend the day with Morris’ aunt and Gertrude’s mother
who were next-door neighbors.If they
had known, all hell would have broke loose because both of them hated dogs to
such a degree that at least once a week dinner conversation between the two of
them centered on, was indeed consumed by, just how much they hated god damned
dogs and why.
Dante (actually James Dean)
During
these conversations the Schwartz children giggled and kicked one another under
the table.Sometimes they would even
initiate or instigate a dog conversation between their parents.Leaning back in their chairs, teetering on
the two back legs,with their mouths
full of mashed potatoes, they listened on the verge of hysteria as Morris and
Gertrude railed on and on against the entire dog population, and they tried
hard not to gag or spew out their potatoes in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Many times the potatoes flew and many times
one of the Schwartz kids had to be slapped hard on the back to prevent
choking.It was all the more wonderful
and hilarious when a Really Big Show was scheduled for the very next day.
Donald had a very strict conscience and he
protested strongly when Dante first put forth the idea of the Really Big Shows..It was bad enough that he was secretly training
a bunch of mangy strays in the back yard, and bad enough that he was pilfering
treats from the kitchen cupboard in order to entice his dogs into ever more
superb performances, but to hold shows for the public every time his parents went to Allentown, and
God forbid, to hold them in the basement if it rained, that seemed criminal.But Dante had great powers of persuasion, was
gifted with words, and with very little effort once he got rolling, was able to
convince Donald that he and his amazing dogs deserved public recognition.
“After
all,” said Dante, “how could it be called wrong if in the long run it was
beneficial to the canine community at large.Justice.Retribution.Reward.That’s what Donald’s doggies
needed.A chance to rise above their
mangy station.An opportunity to excel
in the lime light.Some decent treats
from the big barrel in the pet store instead of stale saltines from the kitchen
cupboard.Rhinestone studded
collars.Neat little wool jackets for
the winter time.Flea and tick
powder.Worm pills.Maybe even inoculations someday.Who knows where it could lead.How far it could go.David Letterman, Barnum & Baily, Moscow.”
Gertrude, Dante and Morris. Gertrude and Morris feeling confident that Dante, being the most responsible of all their children, will hold the fort until they return from Allentown.
Donald
was sold.What was a minor deception
compared to a major altruistic goal.Two
days later, ten minutes after Morris’ big black Buick pulled out of the
driveway headed for Allentown in a driving rain storm, the Schwartz’s basement
rec room was full of barking dogs and hyperactive children.Ronald was the doorman and bouncer.He collected admission, a dollar a head, and
threatened to break the knees of anyone who tried to sneak in or was caught
messing around with Gertrude’s nick-knacks which were displayed on shelves all
over the basement.Gertrude was heavily
into ceramics.
Dante
was the Master of Ceremonies who, after a twenty minute monologue, most of
which was political and only vaguely humorous to a few intellectual types who
happened to be present and could understand what the hell he was talking about,
introduced the opening act: “Dana, Dina & Donna, The Three D’s; Delightful,
Dynamic, and Determined to dance, dance, dance their way into your heart.Give them a big hand folks.”Anyone caught booing the sisters was smacked in the head by Ronald.It was an awful long dance, and even though
the girls were truly talented, they didn’t have what it took to grab this
particular audience. Ron ald was growing tired of smacking kids in the head, so
he motioned for Dante to cut the music which Dante was about to do anyway, and
which he did abruptly right before the Three D’s were about to go into their
final grand finale.There had been a few
teasers previously, followed by many disappointed audience members voicing
their exasperation quite audibly, saying things like “Oh no, not more,” and,
“Just when you think it’s over!”
Dana
was so humiliated by the general lack of appreciation and the unconscionable
behavior of Dante and Ronald that she threatened to blow the whistle and tell
Morris and Gertrude exactly what was going on when they were not around.Dante responded to her threat by telling the
audience that Dana wore falsies and threatened in turn to tell Morris and
Gertrude about her secret infatuation with a member of a motorcycle gang.That shut her trap quickly.She and the other two D’s stomped
up the cellar steps in their tap shoes, shouting the vilest of profanities down
at their brothers and the rest of the low life losers in the audience.If they hadn’t needed money for cigarettes, Dina
and Donna would never have popped that pop corn and gone back downstairs to
peddle it for twenty five cents a bag.But as Dina put it, “Sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta
do.”Donna was in full agreement with
Dina, and followed at her heels with a gallon of cool aide in each hand saying,
“I hear ya, baby, I hear ya.”Dana,
mortified by what Dante had revealed to the audience, refused to help her
sisters withthe refreshments, threw a
stack of paper cups down the basement stairs and shouted, “Yous are all a bunch
of assholes!”
The
show went on to be a success, with encore after encore provided by Donald and
his Dogs, until, alas, they ran out of time and had to forcefully usher out the
audience in order to, as Dante put it, “spit-shine” the basement before Morris
and Gertrude got home.Dante swept,
Donald mopped, and Ronald ran around with a can of Lysol, spraying away the
tell-tale odor of dog, which was easier to get rid of than the dogs themselves,
who hung around until the very last minute, and who then, upon seeing the big,
black Buick pull up and one of Gertrude’s’ black stockinged legs get out, took
off at high speed like a single entity, except for one malnourished pup who
lagged and moseyed, lagged and moseyed, looking back over his rump, earnestly
hoping for one last treat from Dog Boy.
Morris
and Gertrude went to bed early that night without the least suspicion that
anything out of the ordinary had gone on while they were away.As they snored away in their king sized bed
under the purple sateen comforter that Gertrude had ordered through Spiegal
catalog, the kids held a business meeting around the dining room table.The purpose of the meeting was to discuss
ways of improving the show and increasing profit.The thirty seven dollars they had made that
day, after being split three ways, was chicken shit.The triplets were dissatisfied with the
meager ten bucks they had made by selling refreshments as well.And, they also believed that they deserved
some kind of gratuity for that opening number they did from Oklahoma.Everyone agreed that raising admission would
not be feasible.It was hard enough
trying to get a single buck out of some of those kids.Two shows instead of one, however, might be
the answer.
It
was Ronald who suggested that the first show be a kiddie show for ages six
through twelve, and the second show be geared toward a more mature audience of
thirteen and up.Dante reluctantly
agreed, after much pressure from his siblings, to eliminate his monologue and
use his talent instead for Public Relations and Advertising.It would be his job to psyche up the
neighborhood kids well in advance of the next show by spreading the word
through discriminatively and strategically placed flyers and posters.In fact, he would start selling tickets the
very next day, better to get that money off those little suckers right away
before they had a chance to blow it on something else.Ronald agreed to distribute the flyers along
with his newspapers, and to reach the older kids, he would go the route of the
grapevine, dropping the word in pool halls, pizza parlors and hoagie shops.
The
triplets would still be in charge of refreshments, and whatever they made they,
of course, could keep for themselves.They would not be needed as an opening act for the kiddie show; in the
interest of time it would be best to get the little ones in an out as quickly
as possible.They could, though, if they
so chose, open for the second show, but with no percentage of the door.This meant that they would have to rely on
gratuities alone if they expected to be compensated for their time and energy,
and yes, of course, for their remarkable talent, first and foremost.It was vigorously recommended by the brothers
that they work on a more sophisticated routine, drop the Carrousel crap, and
loose the goofy polka dot costumes.The
triplets, more than a little indignant, didn’t make any promises, but agreed to
take the advice of their brothers into consideration.
My eldest daughter painted this portrait of my grandmother, Lillian. She used a black and white photograph as a reference and she jazzed Gramma up a bit. I love the pink frames, red lipstick and auburn hair. My grandmother was Southern Baptist and very conservative, but I think she would approve of this portrait and enjoy the escape into a world of brilliant color.
Russian artist Sergey Tyukanov
works in many mediums creating both large and small-scaled,
highly-detailed pieces, bringing back a familiar Western Medieval style
of art with contemporary themes and subject matter. Tyukanov currently resides in both Kaliningrad, Russia and Chicago, Illinois, USA.
Serenade de Schubert
Serenade in Five Movements or The Privatization of Purgatory
I
It’s all a load of crap and you know it.
Get off your high horse and don’t take
any wooden nickels
from the chicken man.
I made the mistake of doing that once
and ever lived it down.
The problem started with
those yellow shoelaces,
but I guess you know that.
Still, I should have
known better.
I was warned.
It’s interesting to wake up and find
the third floor of your house missing.
I tried to explain this to my doctor once.
He told me to eat more oat bran.
I don’t like my neurosis
being shoved under the rug.
I keep tripping on it.
You can laugh all you want.
It won’t change a thing.
They still pick up the trash
every Tuesday.It’s
amusing.
Carlos visited
yesterday
Brought me some bananas.
I will put some on my oat bran
and think about Dr.
Cyborg.
Eventually
everything will fall together and
I will get back to work on my
volcanic cranium simulator.
The paper is going well.
Just a few minor details to reconfigure.
Do you remember the time we crashed
the party at the Teetzleburgers?
Ronnie shoved gherkins into his pockets
and you played the piano with you nose.
What was it?
Schubert’s Serenede?
“Softly my songs
implore
you through the night;
down into the quiet grove,
beloved, come to me!”
II
I wish I had more time to explore all of this
but Nostradamus is calling via that tingly
thing I invented when I was three years old
and you know what that means.
Dinner tonight or is it tomorrow night?
I will have to tingle him back to make sure.
He may be out on his snow mobile
just another of his
many toys
purchased at my expense
with brain droppings he scooped
up when I wasn’t
looking.
If only he wasn’t so negative
we might could probably would
make a go of it.It
has nothing to do
with incest but try
telling that to
the naysayers down at the coffee station.
They’re so hung up on taboos.
They see them everywhere then
hunker down and develop code words
which they finagle
into Christmas cards.
Like we’re not
supposed to know
those messages the elves
leave on the kitchen table
are more than butter wrappers.
I don’t trust anyone who says
“Use these to grease you cake pans.”
Nope, I’m not falling
for it.
That’s just the way I am.
I’ll call Nostradamus later.
After my
pedicure.
Petrified in Pink or Furious in Fuschia?
Decisions, decisions.
“Slender treetops rustle,
murmur
in the moons radiance;
dont fear the hidden listeners’
malice, my dearest.”
III
Up here on the third floor the wind howls.
Everyone I talk to says ignore it.
Sometimes that’s hard to do.
Just because something is missing
doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
That’s the first principle of
my Hi Ho Silver theory.
Go ahead.Laugh.
But don’t come running to me
when it hits you in the ass.
Of course if you want to you can,
and please bring some of those
wonderful little exploding cigars.
The one’s you turned me onto in Mississippi.
Ah, I remember, not always fondly
(except for those times
when I forget the details and
only have to deal with the gist
which never eludes me)
the air was so sweet after the rain
and that hat you
swiped from the judge
while he was
screaming in pain from
a self inflicted though
unintended
blow from his own gavel,
well that just speaks volumes.
Oh, yeah.And,
coincidentally,
have you heard the news that
our favorite tropical island has been
invaded by the ghost of Annie Oakley?
I know it’s hard to believe,
and even harder to accept,
but sharpshooters happen
and one must be vigilant and
prepared to dodge bullets
even in Paradise.
Cough, expletive, cough.
“Do you hear the
nightingales singing?
Ah, they appeal to you,
with their sweet plaintive tones
they’re pleading for me.”
IV
I purchased a new cerebellum.
Couldn’t resist when I saw they were
having a buy one get
one free sale.
I know, I know.
But the price was right and I’m
thinking about giving the other one to Nancy.
Do you remember Nancy?
That woman who lives on
a houseboat down at the marina?
Well, I’m thinking,
maybe a new cerebellum will turn her around.
She’s a fortune teller but doesn’t have a clue.
The CIA infiltrated her crystal ball.
She thinks she’s living the good life on the Ganges.
The whites of her eyes have turned yellow.
She’s got an evil rash that defies treatment.
It’s not a pretty sight.
Last time I saw her
she was
shacked up with a
military man.
Jumping when he said jump
and hitting the floor much too often.
Yeah, she’s got great upper body strength
but what good is that when you’re tied
to the pier selling bait and tackle.
There’s no fish in
that river.
She ought to know that.
A new cerebellum mightcure all her ills.
Of course, I’ll have to
disguise it as something else.
Haven’t figured out how to do that yet.
She’s crazy but she’s not stupid.
Note to self:
‘contact the support team at Biotech Inc.’
“They understand the
hearts yearning,
they know the pain of love,
touch with their silvery tones
every feeling heart.”
V
Okay, back to Junior Jackson.
He’s in purgatory.
No date set for release.
Junior says it’s not such a bad place.
A hell of a lot better than limbo.
Whoa.
Hold on a minute.
Someone just threw a rock through my window.
Hmmmm.There’s a note
attached.
Hmmmm.It’s a ransom
note:
‘If you want to get
Junior
Jackson out of purgatory
say two million our
fathers
followed by
one million hail
marys
followed by
five hundred thousand glory bes.’
Signed – SayPay,
a division of Whackanut.
Hmmmm.Well,
Junior’s a cool guy and all,
but that’s an awful high price.
Not that I’d mind paying it you see,
but with the recidivism rate
being what it is, Junior would only
be out for a week or two and then,
wham,
his ass would be back there again.
And not only that, I have certain principles
I must adhere to, like
never encourage, enable or contribute
to the privatization of purgatory.
And besides,
Junior’s doing okay,
getting three meals a day,
listening to good music,
sleeping on the grass under a nice tree,
writing his memoirs.
“Let them move you too,
my darling, listen to me!
Trembling, I await you!
Come, dearest, enrapture me.”
Lucca is a city and comune in Tuscany, Central Italy, situated on the river Serchio in a fertile plain near the Tyrrhenian Sea. It is the capital city of the Province of Lucca. Among other reasons, it is famous for its intact Renaissance-era city walls. Lucca
Saint Gemma is patroness of students, pharmacists, tuberculosis patients, love, hope, spinal injury. Her attributes are: Passionist robe, flowers (lilies and roses), guardian angel, stigmata, heavenward gaze.
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its rest
less tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink form the river of silence
shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top,
then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs,
then shall you truly dance.
Since August, I've been afflicted with a strange malady. I've decided just today that "Malady" is the best, if not perfect, word to convey the condition my condition's been in, give or take a few periods of relief or remission which only serves to make the next bout more grievous. Miriam Webster defines malady as an
abnormal state that disrupts a plant's or animal's normal bodily
functioning. The dictionary also uses words like disorder, disease,
sickness, complaint, illness and a few more.
The symptoms of this weird disorder consist mainly of pain that travels and shows up out of nowhere in various parts of my body. I call it "the traveling pain" and liken it to the spin of the wheel of fortune; "round and round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows." My chief complaint is muscle pain, severe enough to limit my mobility. I've been to the Emergency Department twice, consulted with my doctor, had various lab tests, X-rays and CT scans - and still no diagnosis. While I thank my lucky stars that no morbid pathology was discovered, I would like to know what's going on with my body and why. Fatigue is also a part of this mystery, and the onset of a bout brings depression, fear and anxiety. It makes me a pain in the neck to live with - do I have to say "no pun intended" ? I suppose I should, but would like to add, puns and slips are great diagnostic tools.
Okay, now that I've gotten all of that out of the way, (not all of it, that would take pages), let me explain this blog post. At first, I meant only to post my poem "Goliath" which I wrote many years ago, and a famous painting to go along with it. When I first wrote the poem, or better said, when Goliath first wrote itself, I had no real or conscious idea what it meant. Now I do, or think I do. The meaning came to me when I began googling (thank you Google) in search of images of David and Goliath. Those images led me to 1st Samuel, chapter 17 and an essay by Jesus Vega called "The Way of the Sling". Both of these writings enlightened me, illuminated me, not only about the meaning of my poem, but also about the nature and origin of my malady (Goliath) and the best way for me (David) to conquer it. Metaphor is also a wonderful diagnostic tool and also sheds light on a cure.
I think I've said enough. I have only one important thing to add. Grief can be overwhelming, present itself as being bigger than life and insurmountable. Grief, if repressed and not dealt with, can lead to despair. According to Keirkegaard, despair is the sickness unto death. Tomorrow will be the 6th anniversary of the death of my grandson. He was taken from us suddenly at the age of 21 in an horrific car accident. My grief is compounded by the added pain of having to see his mother, my daughter, suffering and trying to cope daily with her own overwhelming grief. Now I understand why, without warning, after a 3 month remission of my symptoms, they suddenly re-appeared a few days ago when I was happily shopping for Lilies of the Valley. The body senses these kinds of things, has it's own intuitive cosmic clock and calendar. Grief and despair is my Goliath, and by God, it is my aim to sling that ugly giant a shot in the head, metaphysically speaking, that will put him out of business for good.
48 And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came, and drew nigh to meet David, that David hastened, and ran toward the army to meet the Philistine.
49 And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth.
50 So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of David.
51 Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut off his head therewith. And when the Philistines saw their champion was dead, they fled.
David Victorious Over Goliath
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio
Goliath
In embryonic half-clad sorrow
the Philistine unknowingly
projects his sad inheritance
over great and glossy apparatus
His shadow lies
Accordingly he penetrates
His purpose moves and then it fails
I feel him feeling nothing
Include this incipient
beater of drums
Pardon my pagan for showing
It isn’t easy ecstasy
that propels the climate
of my imagination
into a no-man’s land
of motor oil and misinterpretation
I beg and borrow
a cyborg here and there
under the thunder brush
It doesn’t matter
there’s always the incinerator
a madman to lead the way
I hook it and crook it
wear it around my neck
Eat it
Beat it
It doesn’t matter
when your head is in the giant’s
lap
and your mouth is broken
by Leo
The shot I will hurl from my sling, personally monogrammed.
Excerpts from The Way of the Sling by Jesus Vega
The things that influence us are usually very simple, but they reach inside of us with greater impact. I believe that the Biblical story of David and Goliath, transmitted like an archetypal message, has pierced us and has become a way of feeling. David, a shepherd boy touched by divine grace, defeats the gigantic and frightful Goliath with his slinging ability. David’s humility, fortified by the security inspired by his religious spirit, wins over the pride of the giant. What boy [or girl] will not feel touched in the most intimate way by this story? Perhaps we all have a forgotten slinger boy[girl] inside.
What is the mechanism for using a sling accurately? The answer was given to me as a child, hidden in the story of David. The mechanism of precision in the sling is in the interior of the slinger. It was within David, and his religious inspiration. These "religious" feelings, or perhaps mystical, like the one of perfection, veneration, or delivery to a historical destiny, mobilize a series of internal resources that extend our natural capabilities. These are interior to the slinger, who is equipped with that wonderful capacity of precision, which escapes to his conscience. This capacity is too subtle and quick to be controlled. It is only necessary to know how to communicate with it. That communion between the man’s conscience and the magical background of his unconscious provides a joyful and enriching experience: knowing that we have something extraordinarily perfect and intense inside all of us.
This it is the way of the sling, the one of communication and harmony with our unconscious. It is a longer way, but their profits are very worthwhile; more intense, but less tired; more difficult, but simpler. And mainly, it is a rewarding, joyful and magical way.
