there is fast becoming an unpunctuated area of disdain for the daily drudgery of tracking all those things we don’t really care about in the long run but have to do. those things seem to be a large proportion of what our time is spent doing — keeping records, monitoring bullshit and ending up like gonzo in that cannon — how he saw lift itself. that plus the merry pranksters, my lack of punctuation and having thrown capitalization out the window long ago–procrastination, plain and simple. Lost of confusion, emotionally and otherwise. Lots to process, get over, fix, re-couperate from with and / or [would that technically be and and/or or?].
What mattered eons ago is uneventful now, and not necessarily held with disdain but more of a weary shrug as if that person who was carrying your soul around for the past 46 years and counting was not the same person you see before you today. [pauses, sips water at podium]
I forget the joke about the self-help book and why it’s an oxymoron of some kind. At some point, it’s about creating some kind of meaning in life, but how exactly to do that remains a wondrous mystery, a conundrum that when it’s merely mental and sometimes just in the ‘life’ category, it’s a-ok, but when it becomes mucho-mondo stressful like losing everything or dealing with dissociative order for let’s say the past 42-43 years and how my mind is running things and my body is suffering the consequences.
I just want to have a simple life, without complexities like legal tender and ‘issues’ that impede my steady progress towards doing what I want to do as I get older and still have to work, clearly, as that ‘plan’ went out the window when I chose to go into this ‘field’ of study-work-S&M category–you call this work? It feels more like punishment?! More so, it’s about worth to reward—the sheer take-take-take of the film tv business that chews anyone in its path, showing no quarter and none asked.
The idea is here is I am going to write about the fact that I have done very little for the past 10 days or so (from that Monday a week ago thru this morning, a Tuesday in June, the 11th I think. It was Tuesday all day long.
The idea is not to beat myself up (the self-help aspect) for being unable at some point in my young adult life, unable to open letters from my parents. After their divorce. Once I was in Hawaii living with an abusive person to trust with all my belongings, making a life in that house; rebuilding after a hurricane will bond you like that. That and the most adorable puppy ever, in the history of puppies saved from the cooking pot there on Kaokolo Place.
I wish, in the end, that I’d been a music producer of some kind (without it being too traumatic, for the obvious reasons. Let’s just say for the fantasy to hold, it’d have to be a serious idiot savante situation where I just took to it and was strangely good at my little niche, but instead I fell, it feels quite literally if you listen to my stiff muscles, into ‘reality’ tv, which, in full circle fashion, is a semi-oxymoron (I am the do-not-commit girl in my language today, in my love for half or other measured-parts and quantifiable measurements of space, some kind of ‘real estate,’ whether it’s eyeballs or the brains and trains of the masses, voraciously digesting an infinitude of digital domain content refrain, the ways of the past with the whiteout poised by the brother typewriter (i forget the yellow original — smithline? is there such a thing?) and the ‘dredgery’ (malaprop intentional as part of my oddly Twain-like in the inventing of language as it suits me or maybe more like Faulkner or Joyce sans literary pretense (coz i am not well-versed enough to qualify as that kind of serious linguistic ‘buff’ — take disciplinary action for that one, please, which in recent cave time (when I didn’t leave the ‘cave’ but watched in marathon session-fashion, several back-to-back films: the beat hotel about the beat poets in paris for a time and burroughs always a light subject, doing his ‘cut-outs’ (but that alone inspired me, went on the to do when you can retire for a while list and make some art installations but how do you go about that? Instead, I watched hours of netfilx ‘arthouse’ fair. Next, I think was the 80s in NYC. The fall of Alphabet City as artist haven, apparently. But fascinating depiction of that time, which I knew very little about and probably would have died had I been exposed to NYC at that time….The Blank CIty. About Manhattan, mayhem and this air of 8mm or 16 mm film collaboration that went from ‘no-wave’ (pun off the Frenchies no doubt) into the cinema of transgression. IF I were to collectively (fully entrenched inside my own head, having kicked off the whole cultural immersion with “Gonzo” as a guide) employ the idea of a collaborative effort in the genre of my generation, and I stand at the cusp of such a thing, a little late by the mainstream standards, however, I feel more resolute in my expressions and more cognizant of and confident in a resulting style. Another story for another time.
The Beat Hotel into Gonzo into Blank City into a dark film about addiction and photography that was so good–toys in the attic or something like that–antiquity city? something of antiquity? NO! It was workship! Acts of Worhsip! Not antiquity. How telling that I mis-appropriated THAT one in my head.
Onto the queue diligently watched and studiously observed for details that get embedded into the DNA of the process of choosing some artistic apprenticeship to devote one’s existence to, very literally starving for what some people call your ‘art’ coz when are you gonna get a read job, anyway?
From Burroughs to Hunter S. to the no-wave warhol disco cocaine heroine lower east side still-felt-like-outside-looking-in prob coz the new york filmmakers were such snobs but that’s okay they mentioned madonna and keith haring and basquiat in passing, remnants of my fragments. Again, had I been in NYC from 15-22, I may have died or gotten into some serious trouble. I was ‘tuning out’ on Kauai, as it were, going into something deeply that was not part of the general gestalt zeitgeist time and space between me and you with some kind of notion of circular time (again, mangling of perfectly good song done on purpose, as part of my sense of humor that I have decided to semi-embrace while never committing to anything except the very do-able secretary job. Secretary of lives and the boob tube transmission. But that, indeed, is a different story.
So the film was ‘heavy’ but surprisingly good and not over-acted. Until I found myself trying to figure out which was heron and which was crack since she went at it with such verve and equally chaotic trades/deals/stoten property being negotiated and, eventually like all good girl gone bad movies, she ends up doing what she said she wouldn’t — AND, to make matters worse, a ‘don’t let the door hit you in the ass’ departure. Never good. Not when whatever ‘high’ you’re after doesn’t justify the humiliation just endured. And to be endured again, no doubt.
After that, back to the ‘cultural’ documentaries — the MAGIC BUS about the Merry Pranksters. That must have come from Gonzo. That sucked me into another world. They were off to the World’s Fair, before I was born.
I am hoping this is turnaround time. The Good News is here. At least I ask for that in my prayers and dreams. That is all I want, to be able to live a semi-comfortable existence (which means catch up on things like trips to the doctor, some kind of eventual vehicle and commensurate cost and ‘COB” or costs of doing business, which in my line of work, if I continue on this track of focus should consist of getting in shape to do my job which is very physical and work to transition out of it as a day-to-day in-the-trenches overseer foreman type deal to somewhere where I have a slightly more stable position.
Oh, yes, and I forgot the Skid Row doc Lost Angels narrated by Catherine Keener. So sad, so amazing. Around 2006 when the world I knew dismantled, right around that time, the city converged on those living outside in skid row, as it moves east, west like a blod and the historian-social worker type workers are the only one to tell us in relation to truth and reality, the mentally ill addict stat. So, yeah, there was that too, with it’s incredibly tragic epithet.
Cartoons and such in between. Nothing today. The music add-on session. Song after song. The DJ touch master mindful of alterations to reality.
So that was the backdrop to the end of the meltdown which was done very quietly, with nay a whimper but acknowledged and experienced with too high a proportion of guilt for not doing everything all the time anyway — the crack up, inward motion, dissolve, fragment, hibernate. Disengage. Lay about. Heal. renovate your soul. I think of all of them I probably reference Gonzo and Magic Bus the most. Gonzo as something to remember about life and Further all about Ken Kesey and how he intellectually incapacitated and decapitated a notion of the world as it was (it changed right in front of them on the trip and carefully orchestrated acid tests) in 1963 ish — the World’s Fair was the destination that once they got there, they declared SUCKED!
Ah, such is life. Back to the Beat Hotel and that amazing French woman who maintains it. I want to go to Europe but not Greece where they have killed all the broadcast tv as a strident measure to try to lockdown the cultural chaos of people in the streets (see Turkey too) — and maybe nowhere where I can get robbed, beaten up or in some way harmed. I just want to go there and look and breathe and sleep and do whatever. The man with the RV announces he’s going to Amsterdam June 28th, so matter-of-fact is just seems to fit the whole surreal demeanor of day bleeding into day until I have to move again, and then it just won’t stop. So I have been in a suspended animation state of shock from all the normalcy and all the dysfunction wrapped up in one. And the toll on my psyche. Okay, dually noted. Just laid here and watched. Just like the old days after the divorce or the hurricane watching VHS movies as some kind of automatic salve.
It always helps. Except I felt so guilty for hiding out.. Then I came up with and Edward Corey apothatgorey type name blast in my head, but because of our almost daily trips to the Downtown Discount Center, I forgot it almost immediately upon entering a new eco-sphere (indoor-outdoor transition always throws me, like stepping out of bath or pod-like shower into the cold air, naked and always in need of more than you brought to the shower area).
That was the a.m. pages for a few days.