Surrounded

I’ve surrounded myself with good people

Like I was told

I was taught good folk from bad

Excerpts from the Bible

But the Bible confuses me

 

The Bible says that the highest folks

Do the very best things so well

Then I watch them do the worst shit

While my best sinner friends

Are making the world a better place to be in

 

The Good Book

Was rewritten by overwhelmed men

With the fear of losing

Their hold on their women

 

I’ve surrounded myself with good friends

Like the Good Word I was told led me to

I know the good folks from the bad now

And I love them, all of them

I love all of them

 

Fucking assholes, I love you

I was taught to love you by the Good Book

That same Good Book that you’re reciting from

The quotes that tell you to to hate me

And all my peace loving friends

 

I’ve surrounded myself with good people

Like I was told

I was taught good folk from bad

Excerpts from the Bible

But the Bible confuses me

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About Another Dream

There was a book that I use to read to my daughter called, “The Foot Book”. It was written by that superb author, Dr. Seuss. The book recounted the author’s struggles of walking a block or two through life in his own shoes while colliding with a healthy dose of the other souls struggling with walking a block or two in their own shoes. This book had hit lines such as: “Left feet, right feet, how many, many feet you meet” and “Slow feet, quick feet, trick feet, sick feet, up feet, down feet, here come clown feet”. Anyhow, I read that book to my daughter so many times that I suppose it must have gotten stuck on heavy rotation in the subliminal part of my limbic system.

So fast forward a score, plus or minus a year or two (do your own math), and this is the kind of dream that my subconscious is capable of relaying to my current working mind….I don’t remember the very first part. It may have been important. I will let you know after the beginning of the start. There were steps involved. The steps got smaller and smaller as the dream became more complex. The steps will come in later, let us not forget. After forgetting the beginning,  I do quite well remember the ending. There were shoes, one and two and I held them in both hands, hand one and hand two. There was a conflict, the shoes were hard to procure. But I knew I was dreaming and so I told myself to grab the shoe, reach the shoe! It was a difficult task that we have all grown into. Hold the shoe, grab the shoe! It can be so hard but then why and who knew?

I’ve spent a lifetime wearing an excessive amount of cheap shoes. From the first baby step to the most current comfortable excuse. So I tried to pick up that shoe, the first one with my right hand. It was so hard to grasp it but I told myself it could be done. I convinced myself that I can do anything and then I picked up the left one. Self gratification and a bit a dwelling on the aspects of each shoe’s specifications. Oh, the reflection. How I do remember northern winters with blades for the ice and the hot summers with open toes for the heat of the South. I reflected, I remembered how so many years walking in retreaded shoes can become bothersome.

But I fought for those shoes and I believed I could grasp them. It took a bit of a toll although I do pay may taxes but still get charged for some roads. So remember those steps from the second paragraph? I decided to head down them with my shoes and bring them all back. Descending the steps, I tried not to step on the children’s feet. The feet of the kids that were climbing the steps that I had not so long ago defeated. They were so young. They were just children with empty hands, matching shoes, and a guardian. How I loved them. How I hated them. I watched as they climbed their way up to where I was leaving from.

— That is all I remember of the dream from that night but I do still remember this from the Dr.Seuss book: “Small feet, big feet, here come pig feet. His feet, her feet, fuzzy fur feet. In the house and on the street, how many, many feet you meet. Up in the air feet. Over a chair feet. More and more feet. 24 feet.Here come more, and more, and more feet”.

I ONLY SMOKE CIGARETTES & DRINK WHISKEY WHEN LIFE HAS GONE AND DONE ME WRONG

If life has churned you into butter

That is what you live through for worse or better

Me, I have been the cream

And also inhaled the bottom of a lovely aged barrel of sorrow

 

Now I take my time

Now I’ve learned not to apologize

For everybody being

On one side or the other

 

I’m an inanimate object

That has been objectified

I have been the reason

Why your credit line has been accepted or denied

 

Push me over Niagara

In my barrel full of butter

I can’t live in water

But I do float to the top then drop to the bottom

 

Whiskey barrels have made me strong

Whiskey barrels have made me recite things wrong

Whiskey barrels have made me stupid

Whiskey barrels have made me sing songs

 

Rapid fire has been blasting

All through this starry night

I obscured my senses in a disguise

Long before I set out to set myself right

 

I am warbling

I am distorting

I am thinking

That nothing is precisely accurate

Summer

Summer in Florida has taken the breathy wind from my sails with its stagnant evening air. Hot air full of depravity, hopeful ideas of youth, wisdom filled old age, first time chord progressions, second thoughts crafted from originality, body odor, salt on the body like salt lick, bodily fluids in general to be licked, beaten, or washed away. It’s hot. It’s air filled with the water that never had the good fortune to fall and be over with or begin again. It’s just a lot of water taking up space where otherwise good breaths could have been inhaled. But hey, it makes our skin look great while refilling our pours with it’s moisture; all the moisture that escapes our bodies from places that tend to make us smell poorly. That’s Florida. Ya, that’s it. But hey, my skin looks great and I’ve made a great record here…or two. Even if the weather gets to heavy to inhale, I’ll know that I fucking did that despite the water in the hot air.

Location, Location

Location, Location

So I am home now with my can opener and my kitchen sponge. The rule of threes is important but not right now. This conversation will only speak in points of two; can openers and sponges.

Can Openers: It is with a vengeful can of worms that I open these proceedings. What DJ knows the internal workings of a songwriter? How could a person take something so pure and abstract it to fit their point of view? There is a row between DJs and songwriters. This may very well be an eternal row never to be hoed or sown. It is with a heavy heart that I come to you to discuss this interval and eclipse in format. But know this, the originator is, almost, always correct. Do we need to dance more? Yes. Do we need to open up a song for interpretation to the illiterate? Yes. This is of no consideration in the matter of a song however. A song is a song. It was most likely written in 30 minutes but garnered from that songwriter’s lifetime of experience in matters that mattered on the subject. Everything else is just Karaoke after that.

Sponges: We are all absorbing a constant stream of input from as many sources as we have excuses. Let us not be bogged down by the impulse to be drawn up into a stream of something shiny. We all can shine, at times. It is not our place to reinterpret someone else’s shine. But do not be ashamed at how someone’s shine can be absorbing, insulating, and intoxicating. Ok, I used the rule of threes there.

For the First Time

I don’t think I did it correctly because I left white spatter strewn across a table. There was nothing important to be garnered from this experience. No wild horses, no devils, no angels. I just left of few people at the corner of Central and 3rd who may have thought otherwise. Honestly, I’d rather have had a good cup of coffee and a side of interesting conversation.

About A Dream

**Elvis Presley was not the actual person in my dream but I am inserting his name here instead of my friend’s real name.**

**Wolverine is not my actual boyfriend but it was just fun to say he was for a second.**

**Bob Dylan was really in my dream.**

**My cat’s name is Boobert. I love him but he’s not smart enough to ever read this.**

I woke up this morning without ever hearing Wolverine, my boyfriend, leave the house. Just another stitch in our ever-running seam I suppose. Boobert, my cat, was still sleeping at my feet and that was somehow comforting, as comforting as an unconscious animal is capable of being. I didn’t remember dreaming at that point, but just lay there for a bit while playing out my plans for the day in my sleepy head. Side note, I saw about 70% of those plans to their conclusions. Not bad for a spur of the moment sort of person. The thought of coffee and breakfast is really about the only thing that stirs me into actual movement in the morning, even when I’m not hungry. I could almost always go for a cup of coffee. Food is just something I’m supposed to do. I settled on pancakes due mainly in part to the lack of food in the kitchen and a box of pancake mix in the fridge.

While digesting my pancakes and scanning over my work related, computer associated necessities; I remembered fragments of a dream I had had a few hours previously. This was brought to my wakeful state by a newsletter sent from a friend and local musician, Elvis Presley. I scanned swiftly over the email before deleting it but was left with a lingeringly strange feeling. I didn’t know why and didn’t really think about it except for the fact that I knew it was there, hanging around somewhere in an either overly or underly evolved part of my brain. After another hour or so of computer work it came to me. I dreamt that Elvis had died of something and I remember being terribly saddened in the dream. Thinking how could something like this happen to such a descent person? That gloomy feel left by the memory of the dream suddenly bloomed into the more complete movie version.

I was at a concert in a darkly abandoned but spacious lecture room with concrete floors and neatly ordered rows of gray metal folding chairs all filled with hushed inhabitants and all looking forward. Their gaze was cast upon a sole, male individual sitting in a similar folding chair but he was facing them and holding an acoustic guitar in his hand, strumming it with casual intensity and singing nasally with a slight head tilt and even slighter head and body movements. It was Bob Dylan.

There was a woman seated behind Bob Dylan at a desk as he performed his winning songs. There was no stage but if there would have been she was at stage right, located close to a lighted doorway that served as the entrance. I suppose initially she was there collecting money for entry to the show but now the woman sat in shadows with a phone in her right hand holding it to her right ear. And talking. She was speaking quietly, of course, but not so quiet as to be unheard by myself, seated in the front row, and especially not unheard by Bob.

I only took notice of a few odd fragments from her one sided conversation but it appeared that she was speaking with a friend and the talk had nothing to do with work related matters. In her defense, if she was there for work purposes, her work was done for the night as the show was sold out and no other person could be admitted. But there was the small matter of talking over a performer’s performance, which Mr. Dylan did not take kindly to. After a small time Bob simply got up and left. The hushed crowd never rumbled or removed themselves from their folding chairs. Instead they sat undisturbed awaiting his return, which never came.

I don’t remember getting up or leaving my gray chair but I do remember seeing the marquee on my way out and noticed that Elvis Presley’s name had been crossed out with a cancellation sign reading, “The opener will not be performing tonight due to death”. It was at that point in the dream that I recalled Elvis’ misfortune of dying and felt deeply saddened by the fact that his death cost him his big shot.

Dreams are interesting in the sense that they tell us exactly what we think about shit in a really indirect way. We’re all dying for our big shot, we’re all sick to death of having some fuck head talk or screw with their phones during our performances, and we’re all hoping desperately for a crowd that will never abandon us even when we lose focus and abandon them momentary.

October 12, 2015