Penultimate day

 So, today is the second to the last day of 2020. I wish I could believe the insanity is over but, as the ole saying goes, Ten miles into the woods, 10 miles out.

Getting to the end  (sound on)

Spider

I'm currently sharing my work space with a spider. I've explained to him that it's not a safe place for such a little fellow but he insists. He's spun a line from the main table to the tip of a pallet knife in a jar of pallet knives on a different table and has been coming and going all morning. I'm trying to be a good neighbor but am worried  this won't go well for him. I'm not sure he can see me, or if he does, what makes of me but he did stop and look at me as I explained the dangers of hanging out in such a cluttered, always getting shuffled around place. I offered to move him out with Plantie on the balcony but he doesn't seem inclined.


—UPDATE—
Spider
is now
making his way
out from under the glass

Worlds beyond the glass

Pigeon Cafe

"Today is today, the only day there is,
this day, today, so live it and love it"!
- Juan Carlos

It's been open for a long time, five or ten thousand years, give or take a few thousand but, most importantly it is open this morning. In the words of Juan Carlos, "Today is today, the only day there is, this day, today, so live it and love it"!

I can think of no better place than here at the Pigeon Cafe and I use that word "here" lightly because pigeons are everywhere.  In fact, the way I see it, it's their world. I just live in it. So, I'm having coffee this morning at the Pigeon Cafe and what better place to start the day?

Harbor watch for the predominately inattentive

It looks like a small city at sea, 17 smoke gray stacks against the flat horizon, and the deep voice of a fog horn taunting me with intriguing blasts. This particular freighter has been parked at the mouth of the Tagus since I got up this morning. It must be waiting for a dock to open. Generally the ships just chug by.

I keep binoculars nearby, always hoping for a glimpse of arrivals and departures. I don't have a camera these days otherwise maybe I might catch an interesting photo now and then. As you see, at this distance, my poor phone can't make much sense of things.

M.'s position is that I've never learned any of the cameras I've had so why waste the money. Ok. He's partly right. I haven't studied the technical side of photography but I do have a decent eye, plus it's something of a meditation for me and, as someone with acute ADHD-PI (PI being "predominately inattentive") I can use all the help I can use and I can use photography because it shows me how to focus exactly on what's in front of me then rewards me with a photo to see if, in fact, I did. If you're not ADHD that probably doesn't make much sense.

More good news

Submitting to more publications this year than last wasn't a New Year's resolution but the fact that I just did send work to two more journals does land in my good news column. That makes three submissions so far this year . . .  one to Rattle, one to StepAway Magazine, and the third to AGNI. The piece to AGNI has been languishing around here for some time. I haven't know what to do with it. It reads like the opening of a novel but it isn't. It's more like a word sketch of a moment in time.

We back in Portugal now. It's easier here. Winter helps. Also no travel plans at the moment although M. is brewing some up.

Studio notes: Degas and Henri Roché pastels

Seems that flu I had over the weekend is finally winding down. I spent this morning in my studio and did a couple of quick pencil/pastel drawings. When we're traveling, I put the studio out of mind but being in it is like being in the middle of the world. Now, M. Lee is planning another big trip. The question always is how to the studio with me when we're on the move.

Interview with Isabelle Roché at La Maison du Pastel

Speaking of pastels, when we were in LA last week we saw some of the later pastel works by Degas at The Getty. Also we saw one of Degas's personal cases of (used) pastels—Henri Roché's, handmade in Paris at La Maison du Pastel. I've never work with that brand. My pastels are cheap and sold in many places. Henri Roché pastels are not. A quick web search put to rest any notion I might switch to them. A single, full-size stick costs 20 Euros, currently that's just over $21 US.

Complete set of Henri Roché pastels
1201 colors
$17,550.00

Note to self, good ideas

After five

Tonight, having written nothing new, all I have for today is a fragment from a notebook sitting nearby.

Photo source: Trevor's Blog

half in
half out
turning around
to better see
who
what
I am becoming
or is that you
coming after
consuming me
as I go?

Office report

I took a first pass at reorganizing my office today and I must say, it went pretty well. I moved the two file cabinets together. That left the drawing table without a place for the night but tomorrow I'll wedge that in somewhere too.

In this mad effort to reclaim myself from the mess I'm in, I thought the following poem by Gregory Corso especially suitable for the evening. I heard him read it in the winter of 1981 at the Fifth Annual Santa Cruz Poetry Festival not long after I left the Krsna Movement. It was a weekend event. Baraka, Acker, Ferlinghetti, Rothenberg, Kaufman, di Prima, Reed, Corso, William Everson, Micheline, John Chance, Wanda Coleman, Country Joe McDonald were there among many others. It was pretty insane but wonderful. I had been in the movement many years so I was still reeling from having just thrown God and Truth and Hope and all the rest of it out my window. Actually, I didn't throw Them out the window. I jumped. Anyway, I always liked that Corso ran downstairs and caught Beauty before she hit the ground. Then sent her on her way.

The Whole Mess ... Almost

I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:
"Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!"
"Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide ... OUT!"
Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:
"It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!" "OUT!"
Then Love, cooing bribes: "You'll never know impotency!
All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!"
I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:
"You always end up a bummer!"
I picked up Faith Hope Charity
all three clinging together:
"Without us you'll surely die!"
"With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!"

Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty --
As I led her to the window
I told her: "You I loved best in life
... but you're a killer; Beauty kills!"
Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her
"You saved me!" she cried
I put her down and told her: "Move on."

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out.
The only thing left in the room was Death
hiding beneath the kitchen sink:
"I'm not real!" It cried
"I'm just a rumor spread by life ..."
Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all
and suddenly realized Humor
was all that was left --
All I could do with Humor was to say:
"Out the window with the window!"

- Gregory Corso

Gregory Corso poetry

New space

End of the day. A dog is barking in the distance. At dusk I caught a glimpse of the waxing moon at midheaven and now the stars are out.

I set up another work space in my office today which is amazing because the room is so small. I found the table yesterday at the second hand store, seven bucks, talked down from ten. It fits perfectly so I'm feeling pretty good about things.

And at the moment I'm listening to Low through headphones...

"two-step around the room
kneel down on white

that's not all
voices small
heed them either way they call

and the light, it burns your skin
in a language you don't understand."

Jim

Jim

Spring and molting

I hate beginning with "I" but that's where I am at tonight, in my head, mulling things over. I've been getting rid of more clutter; books, furniture, clothes, points of view, expectations, resistance. Everything is under review, not just because it's spring, although spring always drives me out of my mind, but because it's time. Everybody knows when it's time.

It took me a long time to get one thing straight. I can't put into words exactly what that was but since then I compare everything to it and that's what I'm going on now. The latest things to go were the poems on my website. They were among the least viewed pages anyway so I doubt they'll be missed. I'm going to start submitting them, like everyone else does, to those obscure poetry mags no one has ever heard of, including me. If one gets published, I'll re-post it but not until then. It's a good day. I am making peace with a certain irrevocable sense of loss that is bitter as it is sweet.

It's a wrap

I did it! I winnowed my books down, got rid of the book case, filled a box for the thrift store, tossed a lot of junk, and put my office back together all in one day. I especially like the books on the shelf above the desk.

The best part is that I did it all in one day, thus avoiding Slacker Catholic Purgatory. The nuns used to tell us that the only difference between purgatory and hell is that hell is eternal and purgatory lasts one second less. Obviously they didn't know about nanoseconds or they would have happily shortened the gap.

My office has much better feng shui now.  Also I got the results back from my surgery. Benign. So yes. Today was a good day.

Confession of the Day 2.22.05

Perhaps no one will read this post for days. After all, only an occasional visitor happens by this outpost. Perhaps it will lie unread forever in the dustless bin of the blogosphere. Nevertheless I need to tell you, my hypothetical future honored guest, that today I am cleaning my office.

World to world

I admit that blogging is part of my deeply rooted pattern of work avoidance but, don't worry. I am exploiting that weakness. Being a recovering Catholic, by divulging my plans, even to a stranger, I'm intentionally triggering my Confession Reflex. The way it works is that once I confess something, I am emotionally obliged to mend my ways.

Hypothetical future honored guest

Otherwise, I torture myself. Naturally, every time I use this technique I run the risk of a tedious and draining round of the dreaded Catholic Guilt so I always weight the worthiness of my goal against the ever-pending backlash of failure. In this case, it's worth it. My tiny office is bulging with stuff, junk, litter and clutter.

True north

I've made progress against it but now I'm taking on the Wall of Final Resistance. From here on, I'm fist to fist with my personal demons. I will spare you the details. Today I get rid of some of the books. I know. Shocking! After all, isn't a writer supposed to be surrounded by books? Aren't books the true north of the writing life? But they're going. Some of them. Ash Canyon has a poetry library so I'm "loaning" some of my poetry books to it, though I have a feeling I'll  never get them back.

Goldie

 And I'll give them the book shelf.

Tides

I put the two black pens back in the cup. The green pen is still out but has moved. It is now laying in the small pool of light coming from the desk lamp.

Friday night

My office is a mess. I pick up a piece of paper and move it to another part of my desk. A green pen rests precariously on a pad of paper. Two more pens lay beside the mouse pad. They are both black.

I'm out of orbit today, stalled on everything. Here are my notes from Sunday. Morning, with all its possibilities, looms before me, then rushes past. Mid-morning. Ideas bob along the horizon like marker buoys in choppy waters. Noon. I'm completely lost, surrounded by a flat, endless horizon towards which I row my boat in widening circles. This has not been a very productive week. I haven't decided on a server and, more than that, I dread making the switch. Up until now, a friend has hosted the Ashabot for free. He set up it up. I have no idea what I'm getting into now. Probably it's no big deal, but thinking about it is making me nuts. Also, I haven't finished reformatting an issue of my zine that needs to get done yesterday. Bad. Very bad. On the up side, I did find a place to present my one act play, Ghostwriter. It's the Comma Cafe in Carson City. The place has a great little stage, a very comfortable atmosphere and comes at a price I can afford, free. When I asked the proprietor what the space costs she said, "Nothing. It's people helping people". She makes it on the refreshments. So, here's a little fun a friend sent me. Try it out. While sitting at your desk, lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles with it. Now, while doing this, draw the number "6" in the air with your right hand. Your foot will change direction. See if you can do both actions without a change of direction. If you can't, you know how I'm feeling tonight.

I'm planning to do a Reader's Theatre presentation of "Ghostwriter" in conjunction with the Indie Writers Group sometime this fall. At the urging of my brother, I began this script in 1992 for the National Ten-Minute Play Contest hosted by Actors Theatre of Louisville. I wrote a few pages, missed their deadline and put it aside but the idea stayed in the back of my mind. Finally, last winter, I dragged the script out, dusted it off and finished it.

I say finished but, more realistically, Ghostwriter is a work in progress because it seems to hold together in a few different formats and I've only played around with it in one. First off, it's an easy read so it's a short story in dialogue form. I've already published it as such in the third issue of my zine Reddog Review, available this fall at Tower Records. However, because it requires no props or set, it can also be done as a staged reading or radio play. If I do manage to pull off this staged reading, I'm sure the script will change, however slightly, in rehearsal. And, if it does make it to a audience, it will undoubtedly change even further because a live audience adds it's own dimension to things. Lastly, add a minimal set and a few props and it's a one act. I'm sure, if I ever got that far with it, it would change even further.