Much ado about nothing

It's long past the witching hour and I am wide awake. Today's entry will be something similar to an episode of Seinfeld well they spend the entire time talking about nothing at all. Please excuse my rambling. I took a nap in the afternoon which I thought would last for about 30 minutes but ended up lasting for three hours. Before I closed my eyes, the sun was high in the sky. When I opened them again, there was nothing but darkness in the room.

I actually don't have a story to tell today. I tried to think of one, but nothing came to mind. I need to find a track I can follow like the track I was on when telling my life story. That was perfect for a while but then I realized that no good can come from telling too much. There are some secrets that should remain secret. Like any gentleman, I shall not kiss and tell. The other problem is that I found myself here today living in yesterday. It contradicts what T.S. Elliot taught me. He said, “What might have been and what has been

point to one end, which is always present.”

Here in the presence of my red wine induced reality, I'm slipping closer to the true tone of my natural voice. What words can be derived from experience that are divorced from existence? We are who we are and yet we are not, not completely. I noticed that over the weekend when my son came home to celebrate his mom's birthday, he had completely forgotten that the next day was Father's Day. They always forget. Here I am telling personal stories again but those are the most meaningful.

Growing up and throughout my entire life I have been chained by my own bashfulness. I've never been to a physical therapist or any sort of shrink but I know that more than the environments in which I grew up, it is the combination of chemicals and cells that make up the physical me which have determined who I have become. I was born this way and there's nothing I can do to change it. The best that I have done is to learn how to ignore it. What's fascinating is that I noticed the same tendencies within my own children. Both of them suffer from excessive shyness which can be characterized by the feeling of not knowing what to say, how to be, or how to interact with others. I suppose this log entry will be another nail in the coffin of my social demise as I put forth another weakness. In all honesty though, I really don't give a fuck. The most meaningful people in my life are the people who more than a matter. At this particular moment and at this particular age I've come to grow quite font of them. They come from many different parts of the world from the humid Isles of the Philippines to the icy cold of Finland. From misfits lost in the bottle living by the sea, a dancer so beautiful and broken by the lifelong unawareness of her own beauty. I love them all. They are just a few, of course, the ones who immediately came to mind. There are more.

Have you ever seen the movie altered states? It's an old film, I don't remember when it was made. In the movie, the main character begins to transform from his physical self into a kind of spiritual being. Gradually, he becomes less and less like a human. He exists within the outer reaches beyond the tangible. With a little more than 100 days to go in this project, I feel as if I'm stretching towards a kind of altered state as I make each entry. Everything is moving in abstract terms too obscure for a coffee table book but true to how my mind works.

That’s why poetry has always had such an attraction to me or rather I to it. It is the language of abstractions, of symbols, metaphors and similes. As my old professor, Dr. James Magner used to say, poetry is a concentrated language. Saul Williams once called it coded language.I know that what I'm saying doesn't make much sense to some of you. It does to me though.

I remember a moment in my 20s being at psychedelic rave party and sitting on a sofa with a beautiful girl from Finland and watching abstract images on a screen flash before our eyes. The intoxication of alcohol made everything seem fuzzy and surreal. I also remember asking her to speak Finnish to me. When she did, I was immediately transformed and transported into another dimension. To her, it was a language that she had known her entire life, but to me it was the sound of aliens trying to make contact with humanity. I couldn't understand a single thing being said but the sweet delicate sound of her voice speaking in tongues in my ear made everything sound magical. These moments made the natural born bashfulness of me disappeared. They were wondrous like jewels shining in dark caves. No matter how hard the journey has been, I had to stop, take a look, and marvel and the magnificence of it.

Anyway, the wine is almost done, and I have to go back and clean this up enough so that it's readable. Before I go, I'd like to leave you with one poem. There's no particular reason other than I have been thinking about poetry these days. It's a disturbing one and I am sorry for that. Poem is called raping on a Tokyo Commuter.

The trainman's whistle

screams into the humidity

and steps up the pace

of work bound feet

in their usual morning rush

A hired pusher

squarely places his palms

on the bottoms of business suits

and gives the forward thrust

that always throws the whole car

a little off balance

for 30 or 40 minutes

stranger embraces stranger

countless dozens are frozen in mid kiss

into the loop of a two-armed hug

young girls silently cry

while old men and young men

unnoticed smile

at each station

new bodies forced themselves

into the tightness

New tears fall

into the thousand-legged abyss

where wily hands disappear

and male flies

make the zigzagged most

of a bumpy ride

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