It's not like I didn't know he was horrible, but I watched Donald Trump on tv last night for approximately 4 seconds before I became filled with an emotion I can't identify. Leaving the room was like a fight or flight event.
A great sadness is in me this morning. Oh, god, I really don't think he can win this election, but what if he did? Oh, god. The emotional reaction...it's an indicator. I hate him when I see his face, and am completely and utterly filled with bile when I hear his voice.
Because of the current world we live in, I'd like to encourage all people who have the means, to look out for those who don't. Like handing out a few dollars to the guy standing (or sitting in a wheelchair) at the end of the off-ramp. Like buying lunch for the family standing on the corner—mom in a wheelchair, dad, two young boys—along with your own. This means tipping 20% plus a few extra dollars, because when will you miss a few extra dollars? But that waiter/waitress/delivery person will feel empowered and gain faith in the world when you do. Isn't that a small price to pay for more faith existing in the world?
People have to help people. Our government will never get around to it. And they can't, not enough. It's up to us regular people who have jobs and a little bit to spare.
Just do it.
I give thanks for having a job that gives me a home and food.
I give thanks for a body that's pretty fucked up, but can still hold down that job. This post is written in honor of my grandparents who taught me to
care for people in need. I give thanks for them, up there in heaven
where all the angels live.
Literature boils with the madcap careers of writers brought to the edge by the demands of living on their nerves, wringing out their memories and their nightmares to extract meaning, truth, beauty.
After days of turmoil caring for our 5-yr-old by myself, I found I was hungering for a certain musical sound. In my head, it was like Sonic Youth, but not. It was random; was it jazz? If it was jazz, what jazz? In my head the sound was chaotic, syncopated and weird. I asked a jazz friend, a bass player, “Who should I be listening to for this sound I feel?”
And while he gave me a number of suggestions, none was quite right. That made it easier to narrow down. Who was missing here?
Of course. Miles Davis, what the fuck is wrong with me? I immediately searched in Spotify and clicked.
Ah, the relief, OH, the relief when I turned Miles on.
What is this need? And what’s the connection between Miles and Sonic Youth?
Sonic Youth is chaotic and overbearing, and completely rob the soul of all sense of self with discordant sound arrangements that travel through dimensions, and build rooms, and become enveloping, all-encompassing...disappearing.
I thought of Jean-Michel Basquiat talking about jazz in the beautiful doc, Radiant Child. I thought of his favorite type of jazz, Bebop. I went through the players...shit!
still not one that fit the bill...who hadn’t I tried?
Chaotic, loud, absolutely sure of its place in space and time, his sound is fucking free flying sound, with the volume, and the travel in and out. It’s random, beautiful chaos. There’s so much freedom in that. It’s a language spoken so clearly, as if to say, “I am reality. I am all.”
To which I say, “I submit. I give it up. I’ll become nothing for sound.” UPDATE: it was the grateful dead i was hearing. not miles. not sonic youth. the grateful dead were brilliant at playing noise too. known as "drums/space", they used it as an intermission at shows because they played for three hours. played. instruments. three hours. sometimes four. the drummers would take over and the guitarists, keyboardist and bassist would take a break; then they switched. sonic youth. miles. the grateful dead. the most beautiful noise three-way you can get. time to put on headphones, listen to this trio, and become nothing. phew.
This girl I know, she gave up too quickly. She was a kid living in a
depressed area, she had few skills and was looking at low pay. She said,
"I'll never be able to afford it here."
moved to Oklahoma, that dustbowl of dead opportunity. So she moved to
the same tiny town not close to anything. Or anyone. Or any future
bigger than the reality right in front of her.
No 21-year-old who lives here ever has enough money, and always gets low pay. I wish I had told her that. You
stay and work it, because this is where opportunity lives and without
opportunity, life will always be the same. No movement. No growth. No
risks. No learning.
To live here at 21, you
have to adjust to not eating much. You find a home that will let you
split the rent into two payments a month, a place with included
electricity. You move into a closet, one big enough just for a futon on
the floor and a place for the door to open.
didn't have a dream, she didn't think she could do it. But what about
me? I had no confidence either, but I was filled with the juiced-up
anger of 100 galloping monsters. That anger burned like a fever, forever
moving me forward. Bad decisions led to mistakes which led to learning, far reaching discoveries, and devastating humiliations.
the right amount of insanity is a very good thing. I'm so grateful for
the fire inside. I worked San Francisco and I won. 16 years of struggle.
Nonstop struggle, with no net, no backup, no parents with a handy check
to send. I worked my way up in a creative industry that paid a lot, because
of the raging fever. Because I held tightly to the conviction that mediocrity must be avoided at all costs. I could stop eating and I could live in
the ghetto and I could survive a nervous breakdown all by myself. And
get back up and work more and be abused more, just to make it past the
And then, 16 years later, I left the boiling cauldron of City culture. I had won.
when I won and I was done, I said goodbye and good riddance and went on
to have a peaceful life in a quiet town on the other side of the
When I was done I put that City in a headlock and threw it down on the ground and stepped on it. "Thank you, tar pit trap, for making me a person I can respect."