Requiem

I wrote some music today.
I composed my thoughts in notes,
In harmonies, in suspensions,
In cadences,
In climaxes,
Expanding a piece I began in the eigth grade.
My own requiem.

My own mass for the dead.
Written for my funeral to be,
Like a bride in waiting.

Patiently waiting
For my surprise party.

So much has changed since then though.
It's almost silly to continue on with it,
But continue i do.

Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison.

There will be a bass and a soprano,
Echoing one another.
Calling out but hearing no angels,
Just the callback of another person
Wondering the same thing.

Requiems are for the living,
Like funerals.
A way to express the beauty of life
Within a structure,
Within a design.

I doubt I will finish
Before life is finished with me.

Falling


He told me he was leaving
And then the rains came.
The leaves fell overnight.
Summer had turned to fall with no warning,
Just as his departing.

Would it have been easier in the spring?
The dead of winter?
Midsummer?
Who knows such things.
Nature would remind me
Whether through empathy or irony.

But time stops for no one.
Not the living, not the dying,
Not the mourning or rejoicing.
The days march on 'til the cold reality of winter sets in,
Followed by the forced cheeriness of spring,
The laziness of summer,
And finally back to here,
To the rain, to the leaves,
To where I stand now.
To the fall.

Back to the beginning.
Or is it the end.

I'm reading Running With Scissors
and identifying with it greatly.

Augusten Burroughs is my hero.
I hear myself in his thoughts.

I see myself in his neuroses
and admire his honesty.

I can relate to the absurdity
of his upbringing.

How in the face of some things so horrible
Laughing about it is the only way to stay sane.

Brutally honest.
Prematurely self-aware.

Gawd, my writing is so dry right now.
I sound like his pretentious, self-important mother.
Thrilled by the sound of my own voice.

Too many filters on right now.
Too much thought police-ing.

Going to bed.

QuadRant

I wrote a piece of free-form music on the piano this morning. Instead of specific notes, there's a super-structure that is completely flexible, but cohesive. After I wrote it, I realized that this same super-structure could be applied to other mediums to yield more from this simple universe I discovered, but that is yet to come.

I will attempt to convey the structure visually.

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It consists of alternating 4 note phrases in cycles of either ascending or descending pitch. So, with eyes closed and starting anywhere at the top of the piano, 1) a high note is played, 2) followed by a low note, 3) followed by a note closer to but not as high as the first note, and 4) finishing with a note closer to but not lower than the low note and not higher than the third note. The rhythm and tempo should be internally dictated and can change dramatically throughout the piece. There should be some variation of the space between the notes, meaning that the distance between the low note and the high note and the notes in between should not be the same from phrase to phrase, and in the descending cycle, the entire phrase should descend as well, meaning you do not skip from a lower phrase to a higher phrase.

It is not wrong if the distance between notes happens to be the same as you perform the piece, but that should not be a goal. If the piece is performed descending, start at the top of the piano and work your way down until you feel you have gone far enough. For ascending, you would start at the bottom and work your way up, keeping the original sequence of high to low etc. intact.

Keeping the eyes closed is important. You find a key by feeling for its edges and choosing it arbitrarily and striking it with purpose, to see what unique sound it will give you without prejudging.

This piece, while random in nature, should not sound purposeless. The execution (meaning the choice of notes, the emphasis of notes, the tempo and flow of the piece) should be informed by the artist's emotions at the moment, not striking in the dark without rhyme or reason. The notes will betray you, so don't have a vacant mind.

It's like creating 4 dots on a blank page. When there is only 1 dot, that dot is considered entirely and commands all the attention. When a second dot is introduced, a relationship albeit ambiguous is formed, not only between the dots themselves, but also to the space that is occupied, the frame. The third dot increases the texture and complexity, pulling all the dots in another direction and the fourth rounds it out by harmonically shifting the balance in a unique way.

There emerges a sophistication that belies its humble form, but that is what appeals to me most about this work.

It is freedom within structure. Random organization. Abstract expression. Simple sophisticate.

My mind is a comet trapped in a snail.

Hurtling at the speed of light on the shortest of leashes

in the smallest of confines.

These are volatile times.

Note: The expression of my emotions when I become upset or deep in thought tend to take form in words, metaphors, descriptions with evocative visuals. Yet I do not consider myself a poet per se. That is too limiting. What I am learning to do is channel my thoughts, ideas, and emotions and breathe another layer of life into them by reincarnating them into another aesthetic form whose medium and language serves to shed light on another angle of the subject heretofore unseen, unconsidered.

This is the work of an artist in whatever medium.

Too much energy is spent controlling the medium, which only causes a stifling and a dilution. This is not to say that technique is unimportant, but what is most important is that the energy put into the technique and application of the medium match the energy that conceived the work. Otherwise, the truth will have been misrepresented to such an extent to prove irrecognizable by the heart despite the best of intentions.

That is why so much of my art has failed in my own eyes.

Well-crafted dead things do not incite the spirit. But spirited work, work that has integrity being true to itself, however clumsy or imperfect, screams its own living-ness. Of course, the ideal being a balance of the two - spark and craft. But the spark is the most crucial element. This is what the soul responds to. This is nourishment for the mind, the heart, the imagination.

This is what makes artistic pursuits significant in a world of excess.

So artists, be true to yourself, and create truthful art.

Epic Spoem #1

i get these emails you see...
unsolicited.

someone named them
after the curious meat product so popular in Hawaii: SPAM
and the name stuck.

they are also known as 'junk mail',
but if i've learned anything,
it's that junk, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

i've noticed that sometimes
at the bottom of SPAM,
there is a paragraph of half-sentences
that ramble on and on
about nothing in particular
and have nothing to do
with the blackmarket medications they are
peddling so pesteringly.

sometimes coherent,
more often not.

but i have deciphered the code,
broken the riddle.

they are pieces of epic post-modern poems,
a new form:
part spam, part poem.
spoems, if you will.

all i had to do was put them
in order.

call me the accidental spoet...

(please read aloud):

interpol it's dostoevsky see may egan , ! latitude it's
! pity in it marriott but , fluid it see
streak ,not ablaze see.
live not bong try in rankle it or transpire or
on goren may but forbearance the on impious ! may
stenographer inin hubbell see.

lottery on sus may the shore but the six on
a swingable , some veil try and dystrophy not ,
doorman notmay sooth try.
Update on site
sole it's benediction the not erotica see in graven it
, backbone , try cavemen be the conclude or may
emeriti !it's scull some.

stride may dominant may on gusty not it's iq it's
see subtly the see francoise some on glutamate see in
dewitt seea swarthout in.
Update on site
flam or naacp it , contravene but ! captaincy some
a pun try the algae on ! pasha not on
astral atry grater the.

insolvent or solicit may in indistinct , be backyard and
some hera see on sandra on be koppers the be
anthracnose bebut polyphony but.
trichloroacetic , someday the and needle or be sparkman it
in charcoal it's , cody ! it's switzerland the ,
solidarity trysee decollimate a.

bonfire a cheap in or mathias or it lucretius or
but ayers on be phenyl and on polytechnic it but
corvallis and! federal some.
Update on site
combinate and impure ! may aerate on not trade or
may lofty and may watanabe may or moiseyev be in
increment onsee seduction in.

doldrums it's dram try some brice try ! baird try
see whoa may it's regional in the spidery ! try
dendritic asee phalanx a.
fission or tarpaper some on limitate on be befuddle a
in licensor not be connive or try chalmers try may
wynn somesome beware !.

I've seen this before.
Canadian Geese in the sky.

Three this morning.

They stay close enough for comfort,
but far enough to fly
unimpeded.

Flapping together
but not in tandem.

And then,
as if on cue,
for they are always on cue
they all

Stop flapping.

Glide.

Wings down to
decrease the uptake of air.
Less surface area to catch their invisible buoy
as they coast and circle down
to the pond below.

Careless choreography.

Three birds.
One mind.

Not a sound exchanged between them.

Oh, to be that in tune.

I shut the front door,
checked for my keys...

Shit.
They're in the house.
It's raining.

At least I have an umbrella,
my cell phone,
my wallet,
and an energy bar in my pocket.

Maybe I can catch the bus.

I just can't stand and wait for a bus,
I just learned.
I last for a minute or two,
but the itch to move gets to me.

I called to find out when the next bus would be coming.
Not for another 15 minutes?
I'll walk further ahead.

Caught the 9 heading south.
Then it started heading east.
"Does this bus go to 5900 South and Ninth?"
"No, you needed to get off two stops ago
and take the 44 Outbound" she said.

Great.

It's 8:40 am.
Missed another morning workout.
Called again for times.
"Not til 9 am?"

Kept walking.
By this time my maroon A&F sweatpants
that make me look like a clydesdale
are soaked at the cuff.

Gym bag is getting heavy.
Why do I pack so much shit in this thing?

Made it down to Wal-Mart.
2 miles in the rain down, 2 to go.
About halfway there.

Thought about sticking out my thumb
wondering what kind of person
would pick up an obviously
non-homeless person
with my Speedo gymbag, umbrella,
matching maroon hoody,
glasses, and a cell phone.

A serial killer no doubt.
Or someone with the lurking fear
that I was one.

Finally spotted the 44
coming down the hill.
Fished my bus transfer out of my pocket.
"Good til 10:30" she had said.

I bet over 100 cars had passed me
there on 9th east
walking southbound.

How many on the bus?

Four.

"A Certain Kind of Death"
they say.
The kind when no one knows you've passed.
Until strangers smell what's left of you
A few weeks later.

The kind that leaves no memory,
No living person to hold onto
the ephemeral trappings -
the thousands of little choices
that surrounded and defined you.

It's death at its most unsentimental.
Death at its rudest.

No one to lament your loss.
Only a public administrator
that calls you "the decedent"
and tries to figure out
whether or not you will end up in "public dispo".

A mass grave
marked only by the year.
With 1600 others that shared your lonely fate.

It's a documentary I watched a few days ago,
while drinking a chocolate protein shake at work.

"That will never happen to me"
I thought to myself,
forgetting that death "happens" to everyone,
and those people with decomposed mouths agape
probably thought the same thing
when breath filled their bodies with life.

And then there was yoga last night.
And Diane, the instructor, had us meditate.
Knees lower than hips, legs crossed, eyes closed.
"Your thumb is the past.
Your index finger is the future.
Where they touch is now - the present moment.
Enjoy this for what it is - the Life Force. This gift."

We have such little time.

Don't we.

I work out at a gym
with a lot of senior citizens.
I think they think it's the Lions Club
or something.

They seem to be there for hours on end,
laughing and comparing aches and pains.

Colorful conversations.

This morning in the showers,
a guy with an accent I think was Russian
was jibing someone saying,
"Bush screws you with no vaseline,
and you STILL vote Republican!"
raising his arm in the air
and laughing so loud the tile reverberated.

I overheard another conversation in the steam room,
where I was trying to soften the hair on my face
so my raw shave would not be quite
so raw...

They were talking about high school.
"When did you graduate?"
"1964. How about you?"
"1949".

I graduated in 1994.
Here was my reverse doppelganger.

Later, at the sinks,
I struck up a conversation with this 75 year old man.
He told me when he was in high school
he stocked shelves at Woolworth's
for 35 cents an hour.

35 cents an hour.

He bought his first car brand new for 1900 dollars.
"You can't even get new tires for that now",
he said.

Used to go to a "show"
(that's what the older generation calls movies)
for 25 cents.

I didn't ask him what he thought about gas prices these days.
I bet I would have gotten an earful,

and I was already late for work,
arms swollen from a bicep workout.