The answering machine cut him off today. It’s not as though he had nothing important to say, it’s just he didn’t say it loud enough. He used to carry the conversation, now he bears the greater weight of a cumulative fog so densely understated. First, but not for most, he was a Metaphysical outlaw. His struggle could prove more meaningful than most success but no one left is really checking, least of all himself. He has been heard to say he could never care who’d play him in the movie. All he wants to be is himself. That’s good enough and more than you should expect. You see people stand for just about anyone these days except themselves, and like I said, he’s definitely for the self as long as it’s his and not yours. This it is. So is that and so am I.
Being born into the middle-class really isn’t so bad. It’s the sinking feeling that takes some getting use to. You can be at the right place at the right time and think it feels all wrong. Every time. Every place. Still, words remain as good as gold even if they stem from hearts of stone or make their way over tin tongues. The best songwriter of my generation can’t generate a living. Why should it be any different? He’ll most likely remain a carpenter. That seems to be the profession for folks with things to say. Perhaps all the banging helps calm the fact that no one really wants to listen. Case in point: you’d never be able to tell by the capacity crowd, but that there is a vacant room. Paying attention to today is at the top of the list of things to do tomorrow. With such an agenda, there really is no need to kill time. It’s killing you just fine. And after all, we’re all dying and everyone needs something to keep their mind off of it. With this in mind, let me see your hands. Just as I suspected. The only one there that’s seen an honest days work is the pointer. Mine is working just fine. I use to employ the middle finger but vulgarity is such a bore and not much of an effort. Really nothing to be very proud of. Sex sells. Sex sells. Of course it does. It has been the driving force behind millions of years of evolution. Seems sure enough it should be able to sell a candy bar or some TV commercial time. How about we try something a little less obvious. Let us use this basic instinct to peddle education. That’ll give hot for teacher a whole new spin. Eventually, we could collectively become smart enough to see what a stupid idea this is.
Please excuse me. It was after all quite occidentally that I slipped, fell and lost my mind. It’s been known to happen. Turning over soap boxes leaves quite the residue beneath the feet. Just add a few tears, be they from a statue, a believer or just plain laughter and you have the makings of a very slippery slope indeed. Sure, if I was ever asked, I’d like to be part of the chosen few, as long as everyone else could come along. It’s not a party without everyone. And everyone is everything. And everything is where it’s at. Are you where it’s at? Are you everything? Everything you wish you could be? If I ever get there or high enough to view the big picture, I imagine all the little frames will seem rather ornamental. Not unlike Elvis in velvet, in Vegas, in that silly jump suit. You know the one with the high collar.
Now if I could show you the era of my ways, you ask how it would look? A leather bound exterior covering a blank book? Yes. Yes, it is true. I’ll admit my favorite medium to be pencil, but my favorite large remains living and it has in fact come to my attention that either I’m not very photogenic or far less attractive than I think I deserve to be. For my age, if you mean moral, is about two and a half. Speaking chronologically, it’s none of your business. Here’s a clue to save us some face…Nostalgia ain’t what it use to be. Then again, neither is my memory. Your number? You can give it to me. I’ll write it down. I won’t forget or at least this ink on paper won’t. You know, you never know when you’re gonna run out of ideas when stepping up to buy that lottery ticket. Luck of the draw. Draw! It’s all a crap shoot. A lot less like fish in a barrel than fish in the sea. Stay as you are. Where I want you to be. I’ll take your letters and burn them to brighten correspondence and if for just a moment get some warmth out of you.
Though I find myself time and again standing here at 42nd and Fifth, southeast side, New York is really no place to have a headache and I haven’t found anywhere particularly soothing to my soul. Least of all here. I have also been there. Also to no avail. The rest may very well be silence. Till then, I can’t see getting any rest with all the noise that persists. Put me out of my miserable head. Make me increasingly transparent. The consequence of immortality has been said to be letting someone else speak for you. As opposed to not speaking at all? I suppose. Can you tell me what the difference is? Ignorance. Ignorance will always remain a time-honored tradition and time a petty thief. Time steals every last sense. It rolls you as it goes rolling by.
Roll over and out time and again. Toast the town and burn the hours. The band? How was the Bland you say? As you’d prefer. As I’d expect. As we deserve them to be. The Greeks had a word for it but it doesn’t translate. Never mind. You won’t be able to hear it over the guitar player. Any how. Any way. Thou art splat. Thou art art. Life intimidates art. The life of an artist that is. But, art will always find a way. Always find it’s way.
Before I let you go, let me say the Atheists prayer. There, I’ve crossed my fingers. Now let’s stand here for a moment left with all that is sacred and profoundly mundane. Oh, god you say? He doesn’t play dice. Just like Einstein wasn’t much for dancing. He does however have a thing for five card. Can’t you tell by his face? I’m sure you can’t. See what I mean. As for me? When I speak to god all I can hear is myself. Maybe I’m him. Seems to me as valid an answer as any, until that is he tells me otherwise. As for cards, five card is ok. I fancy a good open hand as long as it’s not against my face.
So, I’ll carry on and play the one I like best in my big stupor. You know, life, love and other things that happened on my way through the cinema. For a sunrise can at times seem like a setting sun to the eye and the fact that I’ve one eye open at all times doesn’t seem to help the situation. The other eye? I prefer it shut thank you all the same. You see, well partially, the light needs the black like the silence needs the sound. And when it all looks gray I consider the music. For black and white in equal amounts may leave the field in shades of gray but music in equal parts can’t help but hide the shades. It’s all there if you know when not to play. Above all else and beyond question, know when to play and abstain from being defeated.
Behind The Prose
Once upon a time I was given two recordings of song ideas by Phil Gaita. Phil told me to try and “do something with these”. The first one became “My Beautiful Breeze (Beautiful To Me)”, but the second one I just listen to over and over while I collected and formed a bunch of lyric scraps into what became “Expletives Deleted”. So as you read “Expletives Deleted” you can listen to Phil’s song idea and get the full dizzying effect.