My Very Good Year

My Very Good Year  
(To tune of “It Was A Very Good Year”)

When I was 17
It was a very good year.
I left school, saw the world,
slept in deserts, hunted pearls,
I sought what was true
and what the world really knew.
I saw the psychedelic glean,
when I was 17.

When I was 21
It was a very good year.
I looked into the stars,
drank in all the right bars,
I drove too fast in my car.
I fell too fast and too far,
I had girls and knew everyone,
when I was 21.

When I was 31,
it was a very rough year.
Losing gait, lost my girl,
moving out in a whirl.
What became of that love?
Thundering showers from above.
So alone and with no one,
when I was 31.

But now I’m 32
and its a very good year.
Lost some weight, got new parts,
walking tall, winning hearts,
I can see it so clear,
looking forward, not rear.
A new state, a new you,
when I was 32.

And though my life is not so short,
I’m in the prime of my years.
And now I can see my life
as vintage wine from fine old kegs,
from the brim to the dregs,
it pours so sweet and clear,
it is a very good year.

-CMB

La Rue de Knowledge

                                                 La Rue de Knowledge

“When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares into you.”

-Zen Proverb

When the young Buddhist monk Sai-Pen reached Satori, or enlightenment, at age 15, he released so much sweat, that it poured down the steps of the monastery like a stream. This image came to me one afternoon while visiting the historic district of La Rue de Jin. It was during the 1930’s that the spirit of Paris was awakened here in the states, and several old sections of towns throughout the country still bear the street names and decor made famous during its’ heyday. The Rue de Jin was no different. The overlapping styles of years of remodeling had hidden the entirety of the original glamour, but here and there it still peeked out, yearning to be enjoyed. Some vendors had restored their shops to the original grandeur, funds permitting of course, and some just sported cheeky names to identify their businesses with their surroundings; La Vie Porci Salon, Chateau de Mona, BonBons and Crepes by Pierre.

It was on this particular Sunday I was faced with a truth so profound, it would forever change my opinion of the concept of good and evil. The weather that day was picture perfect, bright and clear yet balmy, an almost out-of-place light breeze with the sounds of the distant fairground sailing over the senses, the clattering of wooden coasters, the high pitched wails of excited and terrified children, the Calliope music eerily distorted by distance, all of this added to the moment at hand. A car slowly made its’ way down the thin pavement, it caught my eye from the sidewalk cafe table I was sitting at, the sun glinting off the chrome, dancing on my cup for a moment, then gone, the moment exemplified the idea of the lazy Sunday drive.

I had come here to write, a failed attempt now after the waitress had taken me out of my head and quickly into hers. The dialogue was pouring quickly from the pen, one of those rare moments writers dream about and wish for every Christmas, that gift that is always remembered and treasured. Here my characters currently dissected each other into oblivion, all the while their forces solid and complete, and very far distanced from me, the writer. I felt like a scared father. “What will my characters do next?” I was giddy with excitement. It was, of course, at this moment that she appeared.

”Whatcha writin?” The waitress had obviously been watching my fingers do their private deeds. I felt like I was caught in a malicious act.

“Woha... Didn’t see you there. Hello. No, I’m fine. What?” It was back to the world of the living for me, my characters running off, terrified like little children.

“You a writer or somethin'? I think I seen you in here before once.” She was young and not from around here, a transient being just along for the ride, and yet so young, she might not even know she was on one yet. Her incorrect speech patterns raised my teaching habits to the surface but I quickly swallowed them.

"Well yes, I do and yes I have but, its just that... I don't like anyone to watch me..." I tried to be kind but firm.

“Why not?” Her innocence was painful, yet strangely intoxicating.

“Well, it changes my workflow. You become an apparent piece of that writing...’

“So, you mean like, you’d use my name or maybe the girl would twirl her hair or smack her gum?” She did both actions playfully and laughed.

“Well, maybe not that literally, but yes, your presence would be detectable in the words. At least, to me they would.” My mind was saying things it never said, all the while a running inner dialogue told me to shut up and get back to work.

“Well, sorry, I won’t bother you again.” She feigned the emotions being hurt, and for some unknown reason once again, I play along.

“No, no, it’s not an intrusion, think of it more like a pause. Or a perfectly planned break.”

“Yea, wish I had one of those coming up soon.”

“You don’t get many of those around here?” Again, I was in shock internally, what was I doing?

“Not as many as I’d like.”

“How many would be good?”

“I don’t know. Whenever I want, I guess.” She laughs at the thought, or the silliness of it hopefully.

“Well, I think I might have to go to another spot for my favorite meal of the day.” I was serious, but smiled to provide a mask.

“Aww...” She feigns sadness again, obviously her “go to” playful response when dealing with tables.

“Well, lucky I like the view.” I realized how it sounded instantly but it was too late.

“Well,...” She began to start into another false hurt remark, then stopped short, letting all the playful mood spill onto the sidewalk. She dropped her head, and quickly walked off.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” quietly fell from my lips.

Feeling foolish and old and my writing time ruined for now as well, I swallowed the last dregs of bean water down, left a larger-than-usual tip on the table under the cup so as not to see it blow away down the street, along with the childrens’ screams and cotton candy scents. I could go home, sulk about the loss of momentum, and end up watching T.V. until my head hurt but something told me there was more in store for me that day, just one of those hunches you get, sometimes acting on but mostly never, so you become accustomed to burying it under food and beer. Getting lost in the back streets of the district, it can feel like you are disappearing back in time, back to another place and world where things moved at a different pace, slower, more docile, even dream-like.

I have promised to keep the location of this district a secret, for fear of disrupting the unique balance there with my humble words. It is a cherished and unique thing that there still exists a place where people say hello to you and welcome you into their little home or shop for a warm danish or maybe just a chat, enjoying the qualities of humanity as well as business. The sounds and smells of this area have warmed even the coldest heart but when one is at ease and accepting of its' treasures, it takes on an almost surreal quality, one of real security and safety. One where the senses can be easily fooled into letting their guard down and letting the conscious collide with the subconscious.

I wandered aimlessly, letting my feet take me past the side streets and gardens, through the arched overhang of budding roses, eventually ending up at the door of one of my favorite shopkeepers, Madame Pinochet. Her residence is not easy to end up at, tucked at the end of a tiny back alley path, the first floor windows covered in brambles. One would never know the address of 31 1/3 Shaded Lane unless they had been shown it by someone else, the numbers buried under a large pigeon nest, varnished with years of continual droppings. Her soft early classical favorites drifted out of the upstairs window and soothed my ears from above.

“Madame?”

“Ohhh, is that you? Ha! The poet returns! What a nice surprise.” She peered out of the second floor widow, concealed with brush from below.

“Why, thank you. I was just strolling the Rue when Bach dragged me down the alley.”

“He’s known to do that. I think that’s what dragged my first husband in to tell you the truth, if I didn’t play, I am positive that man would never of noticed me!” She closed the window and mere seconds later she was opening the front door in front of me.

“My, that wasn’t you was it?” I couldn’t imagine, the vigor in the strings seemed youthful and light, it had to be a recording but she was not the woman to really be playing CD's, and I distinctly did not hear crackles, hisses or pops, let alone the needle coming up when the music ceased.

“No, just a record. I played third chair cello for the local orchestra for almost 10 years. Those were fun times. But he would swoon under my notes. And that was about all that did.” She chuckled to herself.

“Well, I doubt that, Madame. I’m sure it was just an added bonus.” We entered her home, a curio shop in itself. Shelves behind shelves lined the tiny cottage, filled with treasures from around the world and the heyday of Paris intermingled with her own belongings, sometimes indistinguishable from the former. Madame Pinochet was a round woman, difficult to age but on in years, her spry step kept everyone guessing. She dressed according to her moods and I had seen her don everything from ball gowns to Dashiki robes, always fitting her mood snugly into her extensive wardrobe collected over a lifetime of travels and experiences. She had already disappeared into the kitchen and now was returning with a silver tray, laden with steaming croissants, fresh cream, jam, and tea, Earl Grey, of course.

“They have fresh blueberries in them, hand-picked this morning right out of my patch on the roof.”

“You have a patch on the roof? Of blueberries?”

“Well, where else am I supposed to put them? In the bath? Of course they are on the roof!” Her British

accent always made me smile, even when she was belittling me, as older British women tend to do so

well.

“Well, actually I just ate at...”

But by that point, the pastry was already on a small plate on my lap with a few extra blueberries on the side and the warmth which resonated through the plate proved that they were extremely fresh. Madame Pinochet made me feel at peace, one of those special people in your life that can relax you and put you at ease. She reminded me of my grandmother, yet not in her “Southern Belle” ways, Madame Pinochet had a worldly appeal, almost universal due to her age and experiences, a twinkle in her eye and pep in her step which made her all the more special, a woman who had lived lives, in multiple countries, with multiple men, all gone now, her new life and the only one I knew was but an inkling of the entirety this woman had lived. I had gotten in the habit of stopping here on each of my visits, knowing she was always here proved a nice constant, and one I enjoyed to partake in, but this time it felt slightly different. She sat and smiled as I ate and I caught her up on my recent work.

“So, the last time we talked Jessie and Frank were not doing so well. Any changes?” She followed my ongoing characters like a soap opera and it gave me something to focus on, an interested audience.

“They have now arrived at Jessie's childhood home as that planned stopover on their vacation, and Frank finds her keepsakes from old lovers.”

“Oh dear, I can guess what that's going to do.” She sipped her tea, I was trying to not get lost in the eureka that was my croissant.

“No, I don't think it will be the usual, I think Frank is ready to come to grips that he is not her first romance, just as she had to come to grips with the fact that this is not his first love.” It sounded cheap even as I said it.

“Hmm, well, maybe they will see something they both need to see. In each other maybe, even if painful.” This thought had occurred to me, she knew me well and my predictable characters. She probably noticed my defeated pose because she stopped, letting me finish in silence. Sometimes we would have long talks about the past, me being a history buff, I was fascinated by her spirited tales of

Prohibition and Speak-Easy’s, her adventures in the Congo during the 1950’s with her second husband, Eddie, her witnessing an airship accident as a child. As I finished the treat, she asked me to follow her up to the second floor. It seemed like an odd request. I had never ventured that far into her privacy, but her demeanor expected it, and so I followed without complaint. The stairs were so narrow and steep I again wondered how she managed to get around in here all those years, and at the speed she moved, seemingly impossible to me. When we reached the top of the landing, I noticed the large window overlooking the Rue from above and there was even a small balcony which allowed access out onto the roof. I had never noticed it from the front, concealed from view by the brambles below. She bid me out and once there she remained quiet. The floor of the balcony was painted in intricate patterns, a mandala pattern with criss-crossing lines from the defined compass rose which surrounded it.

“What is the design all about?””

“This place, this height, this exact point in space is very special, my young poet. I want you to see what it has to tell you. What you will see. Only your words can convey your vision.”

All was normal at first, that perfect day rolling along below, I breathed in the air, the popcorn and spun sugar grazing my nostrils and then something changed. The air fouled, the sugar turned to salt, the popcorn burned to a crisp. I quickly gagged then held my breath, like I knew I was not supposed to breathe it in, this led to a quick burst of panic which I immediately focused on to control.

“It is alright. It has begun. Let it in, it will not harm you.”

Within a few seconds I began breathing and my thinking changed. A could feel the thought processes warping, neurons melding, synapses sputtering, stopping, restarting, reforming, exploding and then beginning to be reborn again. My brain would begin to ask a question only to have it answered internally just as fast. I then watched as a hooded man ran out of a jewelry store on the thoroughfare, holding all the money and valuables from within, then simultaneously a woman near the corner of Rue de Jardin began violently beating and shaking her silent infant and then unbelievably two motorists at the intersection just got out of their cars and began viciously beating each other to the ground. I saw my favorite waitress being raped in the park by an ugly man, all to the cheers of a gathering crowd. Her screams overpowered the sounds of the fair until the air was hers alone to work with.

“Oh my god... What is going on? Madame, are you seeing this?”

“What, poet...What do you see? Not what you expected? Or is it truly the unexpected?””

“It's all just so bad.”

“It's humanity, just the side you are not used to seeing. You stay in your own world, choose your environments carefully so as not to disrupt your balance. You are getting to see another side.”

“But what does it mean? What I am seeing?”

“These things happen. You know they happen, they might not be happening right here, right now on the Rue, but they are happening somewhere right now and that you know.”

“Can it be stopped? What point is it that I can see all the horrors of the world?”

“Already happened a dozen times over, what’s the difference?”

“What’s the...? I’m sorry Madame, isn't life supposed to be protected, kept in motion?”

“Are you a hero now, poet? Or are you a writer, one who will tell the world of the truths it cannot bear to face? To say the things others only think and believe they are all alone in the world until they read you, and see then that they are not alone.”

I looked back at her, now seeming old and wise, yet powerful and dangerous. This change happened quickly and the change was more terrifying than the visions outside, like something cute with fangs that bunny-hops too close. She slowly stalked forward, her words echoing around in my head, seeming to be fueled by the demented Calliope already playing on repeat in the now swirling winds.

“There is always a bird in flight somewhere in the world.” Then everything froze. The universe stopped and looked at me, waiting for my approval to continue. The understanding that everything is happening everywhere every minute of every day drowned me in it's overwhelming truth. My upbringing and social and moral contract had been ripped to shreds by a little old British woman on a cramped balcony above a indistinguishable alley. I leaned on the railing, breathing deeply now, knowing the air was putrified with the corruption of the world, but it was real, and now I was awake. When I opened my eyes the vision was evolving. The men were bloodied beyond recognition, throwing wet punches into mounds of flesh. The action seemed robotic almost, with the program set to destroy. I could not bear to watch, yet my eyes were locked in a dance with the horror. The robber was now in a shootout, and was blasting away at police and civilians alike. The poor waitress was not moving, dead beneath the frenzied beast. My legs suddenly felt very weak and I steadied myself on the columns supporting the roof of the second story.

“Tell me what this is, please God, tell me this is not the world I just left. Were my eyes that closed? Were my senses that false?”

“You are seeing that which exists. That which you know exists in the farthest place from your own happiness. Breathe, boy. Again. Let it in and accept the world, in all its’ ugliness and horror!” I did. In and out. The taste was sweet and clean, I swore I could taste the cotton candy from the fair far away. I looked out. I realized that the district was moving along at it’s regular pace, the casual clip-clop pace of a quaint little village and despite the now cooling breeze, I was sweating profusely. I could feel the rivulets cascading down my back, coursing down my calves, pooling in my shoes. Madame Pinochet helped me down the stairs and ushered me into a chair by the small fireplace. She draped me in an old quilt and instantly the chill evaporated along with the dampness of the clothes it covered. She dissappeared into back of the house and I was left alone with my thoughts. They were a mix of my words and characters but now they were changed. Deformed now albeit ready to heal from new wounds, new territory to unfold. My plans for Frank and Jessie were done. They were mentally shelved instantly. Madame Pinochet scurried around, fixing and arranging things that did not need it, the little old lady I knew was back, but she too seemed tired and less of herself than usual. She brought me a cup of tea and I sipped slowly. I finally asked, “What was in that croissant?” She quietly chuckled and shook her head, finally saying, “Like I said, fresh blueberries... Makes all the difference.” The twinkle in her eye revolved a full turn. Her reference made me think twice whether the whole experience was conjured by her, as I thought back on it, seemed so far-off, like a dream. Mere moments from when it occurred, I could not remember the details, fading quickly away like invisible ink. My head was spinning, and I began to concentrate on my breathing. Feeling that I was coming back into myself, I made up some excuse about the time and that I had to leave. Madame Pinochet knew the truth, (how could I think I could fool her now?) and she gave me a terse nod of the head as if to say “go and deal with yourself, go...”

“I hope I am not leaving too soon?”

“You are already about to return.” She smiled and shut the door, leaving me alone in the back alley, listening to the captured wind whip some fallen leaves around me on the thin path.

I headed out to the main street, the smells and sounds washing over me in familiar waves, yet my mind seemed to connect to these senses differently now. I thought again on my time with the dear old Madame. A ominous feeling like I had just been with some prophetic teacher, my guru from afar, yet had forgotten to ask the nagging question I had come to them with in the first place. I sat at a favorite bench near the train tracks, dropped heavily onto it, the tears already fogging my glasses and running down my face. My thoughts and all structure in my psyche was collapsing, crumbling down around my shattered intellect, my demolished understanding and my razed sense of truth.

”What can we do? What will I cause or fail to stop? How much do we effect others actions through our own? How much are we blind to?” I didn't notice her sitting down next to me, the waitress from earlier. She must have finished her shift and seen me across the park, crying alone on a bench, pathetic as it was. I heard her foot slide over the pavement and looked up.

“I really hope you aren't crying because of that, back there.” I had barely remembered and then it clicked, that was my all-encompassing event only an hour ago.

“No, but yes, I am glad you came over. I am sorry the way that sounded. I didn't mean it like that.”

“Why not? Is there something wrong with me?” I couldn't believe she was doing this.

“No, I just... Well, I thought that...” She was staring at me so intently, no more of the feigned hurt or playful tease. Then she leaned over and hugged me. A deep human hug, one of compassion and care yet free of emotional weight or love. She held me as more tears just streamed down my face.

“I'm sure whatever is bothering you will be okay eventually. All things pass, ya know?”

“Why are you being so kind to an absolute stranger?” I leaned back and tried to regain some sense of composure.

“Sometimes we need to be the light for another, they don't know it but they might even require our light to survive, without knowing it. And maybe even the whole world would go on differently if I didn't hug you just now. All might have been lost forever.” This young girl transformed before my eyes, into the guru in my mind's eye, Buddha, Siddartha Guatama, Madame Pinochet, my mother, my first grade teacher, the daughter I never had, she became everything in the world in that moment, all the tangible pieces of what was right and true.

“Did you know there is always a bird in flight somewhere in the world?” Hearing these words again, I chuckled and tears filled my eyes again.

“Thank you, thank you for spreading your wings.”

Sitting there that day, chatting away into the evening with a new friend, I made some conclusions for myself, and the people I will come in contact with in my own life. No one is without their own actions. And what is right or wrong in the world is apart from us as well as within us. Our actions are our own, creating the world around us, one decision to the next. My mind came to grips with this searing truth, and it hurt but it also enlightened.

As the sun dipped behind the trees and the breeze developed a chill, I finally motivated to rise and begin my long walk home.

“Good bye, Sarah. I hope to do that picnic sometime. And I'm sure I'll see you again at the cafe.

“Didn't you know? You are already starting to return. No good-byes.” She skipped off across the tracks and into the park, stopping to smell the flowers, of course. I smiled and headed the other direction. Along the way, the Rue de Jin continued on its’ dreamy way, the congeniality of the people there just as evident as ever. The people were closing up shops and sweeping the walk one last time. I found myself looking back down the street before leaving the district, soaking in the last of what the day there had to offer. The sounds of the fairground continued into the night (were they always this loud before?) and I smiled at the sky and then left, but something stayed with me, the idea. And this idea never fades and this feeling never dies as things never do in dreamy places like La Rue de Jin.

Like Water for Soul: Charting Nietzsche’s “Peace of Soul” using the analogy of rivers

    In 1888, Friedrich Nietzsche was a year away from becoming mentally ill due to syphilis, yet he wrote the bulk of his literary legacy that year, including Twilight of the Gods, from which the excerpt pertaining to the “peace of soul” concept is contained. It is an inquisitive look at a complex issue, one which confounds philosophers, zealots and laymen alike. Nietzsche explains that this sought after sense of being is “merely a misunderstanding-something else, which lacks only a more honest name.” An issue which when looked at closer, reveals the true colors of it’s nature, the follies and absurdities, it’s uselessness and  ugliness. Nietzsche expounds on ten examples of this misunderstanding, and these cover issues from feelings of laziness and weariness to fulfillment and dreadful certainty. Yet all of these are considered a false definition, a wrong answer. So what is the actual definition of “peace of soul?”  It seems that the idea of “peace of soul” falls by today’s standards to the idea of “peace of mind,” a comfortable, calming feeling brought about by pleasures of the body, the atmosphere and the environment one dwells in. This shift in title seems to come about through the slow habitation of logic and science to fill our heads rather than the ethereal, the godly, and the religious. This term covers the definitions referred to as “misunderstandings,” however it would appear that the real meaning is still unanswered. By navigating its’ ideas, a solid form may arise from the mists, giving a clear look at the mystery behind the hidden peace within us all. Nietzsche’s “peace of soul” is an undefined term, buried under mounds of misinterpretation, yet by using the analogy of rivers and their properties, a new definition can be exposed in order to see Nietzsches’  real intention.

O' man river,
Dat ol' man river,
He mus' know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin'
He jes' keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along. - (”Showboat” 1927)
    The power of the river has been sung about, written about and talked about for thousands of years, being the veins of the uncharted new world, allowing entry for the Vikings and Chinese sailors into the New World long before Columbus. These freshwater life-streams provided new fishing opportunities and the essential water needed to survive. Homes were built along them, eventually giving rise to many of our greatest cities: New York City, Boston, Virginia Beach, San Francisco, Seattle, and many more around the world, even including the first civilization at Mesopotamia. The mystique and grandeur of its life-giving properties are nestled in its’ alcoves, the creation of our culture embedded in its’ silt. It is simple to see the connection between a sense of peace and security in ones’ state of being with one of these gently rolling along.
    Rivers have many qualities and one of those is its’ use for transportation. Rivers have been sailed along since men figured to ride logs down them, getting free admission to the first flume ride in history. Through the use of this transportation, rivers can have a moving effect on the stirring movement within oneself, a intangible push towards continuing on all things in life, a private pep rally for the big game we all play. Although this might not seem like a peaceful setting, this feeling of continuation or moving forward, but it is within the certainty of its’ motion, its’ ceaselessness that brings comfort. It could be likened to the first experience with solar powered vehicles without gas, moving along endlessly with no

funds necessary to keep it intact. A constant output of clean, perfect energy, moving oneself closer to ones’ destination.
    Another quality which both seem to share are the hidden dangers they carry with them. Just as a false sense of peace can be obtained through ones’ vices, the calmness of the river can lull one out of safety and into harms’ way. Tragedy has befallen most of the main rivers of the world and countless other smaller ones. Drownings, attacks, disappearances as well as dastardly deeds have happened along their banks, giving them an air of mystery and danger. Animal attacks are especially high in these tight quarters due mainly to just that, territory. With less maneuverability and less area to cover, incidents of attack are always higher here rather than open water. “Or the senile weakness of our will, our cravings, our vices.” “Peace of soul” carries this air of danger, of becoming slovenly, of addiction to vices, of becoming blissfully ignorant. These dangers are just as tangible, forcing the path of righteousness and self-will to become a focus in order to traverse its’ course.
    Eddies and whirlpools are an insightful tidbit as well. For them to form, the currents must find hollows of stillness and stagnancy. The water almost seeks to slow and collect in calm pools. So it is with humans, enjoying the calm rather than the chaos. Life requires both, as the flow of fresh water oxygenates, and provides movement for animals, seed, and minerals, yet the stagnant pools create their own special pockets of life, teaming with bacteria, molds, and algae, the literal buffet along the highway. Humans tend toward stagnancy, as is seen over the expanse of our known existence. Scarcity of food, ice, bad weather and spiritual visions are the only thing that seems to move people around. Otherwise, with all the amenities intact, they will stay in one spot for their entire lifetime, if able. As like the river, “peace of soul,” or mind for that matter, lean towards the still rather than the flowing, yet the need for that movement, its’ existence, is essential to its’ survival.
   
    Baptism is a spiritual rebirth, an awakening of the deepest inner workings of the self, the soul for sure would be included, but also the affirmation of ones’ being, their confirmations rather than just the unknown. The cleansing of the body, the ridding of all sins of the past and arising reborn in the faith, first took place supposedly in the calm, still waters of the Jordan river. This symbol has withstood 2000 years of holy wars and reprinted text. The nature of water is this way, with childhood filled with soaked days and pruned fingers, while adulthood is mostly showers and occasional baths, the random jacuzzi or the YMCA for some strokes. The loss of an interest to dive to the bottom of a pool or roll out the slip-n-slide are among these characteristics, a lack of wallowing in all of its’ beauty, the familiar saying, “I don’t wanna get wet right now.” Somewhere along the line, it becomes an inconvenience.
    Giving up to to water’s natural power can be frightening, succumbing to its’ force without being in control a phobia to some. Most tend to enjoy it from the banks, watching them lazily drift along, yet this is a beautiful representation of “peace of soul.” In order to obtain it, one must follow it. Get in, without a boat or canoe, becoming one with it and drifting along. The lifestyle of the “at peace” person does not fit in with American society or its’ wishes, rather it slows a person down in many ways, allowing them to see more clearly. A worthy way to live, but this does not allow for the wife and kids, soccer practices and Tae-kwon-do, it requires a lifetime of dedication, time allotted in all ways imaginable. Searching for security in an insecure world forces us to face the here and now yet never being in the here and now, appreciating it for what it is at this moment in time. 
     The power of the water is part of us, an obvious fact that we are 75% of it, and this life blood is another misunderstanding of Nietzsches’, a cool glass of water on a hot day. In being so connected, the symbolism of its’ gestures, the sound of its’ motions, the dark bends and hollows it hides, all these mirror the ideas of peacefulness, and its’ idiosyncrasies. “Peace of soul” looks great from afar, a shining example

of life well lived. Yet the lifestyle it requires is painful, careful, and thorough, free of possession or attachment, containing ones’ love and bearing it for life. The river is the same, a beautiful view and a raise in market value, something one enjoys looking at, yet does not care to submerge in, drifting along, lazy like a leaf. Nietzsches’ closest example to real peace comes in the end of his statement, “Or the expression of maturity and mastery in the midst of doing, creating, working, and willing-calm breathing, attained “freedom of the will.”” The words sounds eerily like the chorus from “Ol’ man river,” a hidden tribute to Nietzsche calling out from the subtext.

Strokes (tribute to Cheever’s The Swimmer)

No Toes. Must Dive.

Submerged in quiet cool.

Purposeful pleasure.

Drowning Doubt, Washing away Sins.

All are equal in the Womb’s embrace.

The Calm Pool. 

Lapping against you. Lulling the senses. 

And they’re off!

Following Lucinda farther away. 

Cascading into overfilled eddies. 

Docking, Mooring, Anchors away.

The crowd’s anticipation

or maybe their apprehensiveness.

Thrown to the side like a towel or a drink

we swim on.

Hearing the Cheers, the Hurrahs, the Hoorays

yet also the Boos, the Hisses, the Catcalls.

Stroke on, Stroke on.

Aches and pains tear at the psyche.

The chill and the moon bring forth the fear.

Stroke on, Stroke on.

The Sadness above, The Silence below.

Stroke on, Stroke on.

The Finish Line. The Cacophony.

The actual sound which is leaves 

swimming across the garden table. 

  - CMB

The Ruinin' Ravers

        “The Englishman’s Journal”

Ravin mad... 

Such a nice term it is...

And me?  

Alone and frugal...Ha.  

Laugh off the day...dreary fuckin day..

   Bought some fat cans o lager..., ready for anything...   

My day? Nothing much really ‘ cept watchin’ some political bobbleheads choking on their own lies, runnin’ in circles like blind dogs, never really heard the true details of what that bill was about...

Parliament...

 Thinkin’ of women and my lack therof, I have much trouble sleepin’, instead washing down peanuts with beer and curses, the stale smoke from me Nat sherman’s enwrapping me like mum’s hand knitted shawls. Keepin’ me brain warm. This is me late nite and then its blitzkrieged by morons...

Bollucks..

     Quiet... all... until the shriek of rubber on asphalt...

Then the screams...  

“ you f%&kin cunt!” 

“God ^*%$ %#$@%!”

 This is the exchange at this hour...Rather brawny.. Then I heard the engine rev on up to the highest RPM and then a sickening thud. I have heard this thud before. It pains the ears and rises bile to the throat. The kind of thud that actually involves velocity and the forcing of all air in ones being to be forced out into the night. 

“She’s gonna feel that tamarraw... heh heh...”

The backspin of tires, the pointless “ya’ll right there?”, the pointless “no...”

  During these quick and estranged moments I was force feeding the drinks, downing me cans and wipin me maw, preparing for my involvement. Now realize, she’s skidded in me yard!  Cops will think I know them, even maybe involved and that cannot happen to me, upstanding citizen like myself, not tonite. I began to listen to the languid babbling for signs of what I would be dealing with. I make out that its a birthday gone south.  All the boozing and pills have caught up with the two and when an attempted grope or the like went awry, the dame just dove out! 

I see the day-glo necklaces lying in the street, every second their color fades.  The electronic beat pulses from the auto.  The evening is losing its battle, dying with the creeping morn. I hear her now begging for help. Confused and disoriented, she has lost her phone and her inebriated partner is telling her to get back in the car which she is refusing.  Sobbing, screaming, kicking, lashing, the lover is now in a drug induced rage and tells her that she will never be with her again.  “F$%# You!” The driver revs the engine and peels out leaving the disoriented damsel crying in me lawn. This I cannot have. No stumbly disoriented ravers babbling and screaming at all hours of the night around my doorstep.  What will me neighbors think?   I stand in awe after a last swig of courage and realize I must intervene. And even though drug addled lesbians are a dangerous lot, I had to react.  I put on me robe, grabbed me 9mm and headed for the door.  Oh yes, can’t forget the flashlight after listening to her scream and go on and on about searching for that bloody phone. If it wasn’t for that I’m sure she would have been long gone by now. Anything to speed this up. As I’m about to reveal myself, a car tearing ass around the corner pulls in front of me house agin!  Bollucks... Hear we go with the bloody screamin’ agin... She slurs:

"I'm so out of it right now!  Where is it----Oh my god!!!---why did you do this to me?  Its my birthday!  ahhhh!!!” 

“Girl, get back in this car right now or I’m leaving you for good!  In!!”

“Nooo! My phoone!”

 Thats the main idea of the dialogue out me window in the wee hours of the morning.  Slurred and whiney as drug fueled emotions can only allow.  Crikey...I exit with some false bravado I found on the shelf and flash there dilated eyes like a cop... They silence and then the sobber  begins to sob...  hard... Some false confidence blooms, I got em now.  I can search this scene like the detective I am...  There must be a score around...  Something to make me nite better than cheap lager and Sherman’s. I seach the curb and grassy edge, looking for a baggy or a pill, whatever I can find and use to advance and then maybe even scare off the situation...  I find nothing along the road, yet they aren’t letting me get too close to the car. I still gots me hand on the gun...   So now they quiver... My quiet and sinister demeanor has gotten the best of the drug fueled lassies. I feel like Bronson...

"What chal lookin far?   

 "Phone....(sniff)"  

“Oh....Thats a tough find...”  

 "You got a light?"   

 "Yep...  Yes I do..." 

 "Can we use it"  

"I suppose..."  

 I keep my distance, ready for anything. I shine the light over that areas where the shadow is greatest and mosey down the street a bit.   Once we are away from me domecile, I feel the sense of me own nakedness in me jammies, even with the 9mm...   

I give up all at once after a side breeze exposes me for a moment. My winky caught a glimpse of them, I’m sure of it. 

"Alright, I’m done.  Im going back..." 

“Please help us!  (sobbing)”

“No thanks...that’s it...Please get out of here before the cops show...”

 On the way back, I see the black phone in me yard.  I toss it to the sobbing birthday girl and laugh...  

“What a world it is that you can come screaming down the way ravin' and jumpin’ out of cars in me yard and lose sometin’ that you need,  and I, awake in my haus, enjoyin’ my precious down time, end up helpin’ you find what you need to get on with your own shite.  Luck would have it. Happy birthday.”  

I shook me head all the way back to me haus and sat back down.  I exhale as I let the 9mm fall to the table, slowly leaking its contents out the side.  I chuckle and  lean back after savoring a hit of the grey goose....  Fuckin ravers... I look at the clock, and smiling realize that now I don't even care. Realizing that I too have a place on this late night and I ponder that till morning, sweeping the sweat from me brow, a fat can of lager in hand. 

My viewpoint on the Power of Art

As I look back on the history of the world, typically I see an array of images. Sometimes these involve wars, plague, hunger and general pain. Other times, I see dancing, hope and a generally growing world community, filled with strength, integrity and exploration. But when I see this in my minds eye, I cannot help but realize that I am looking at the history of our planet through images of Art. Artists have captured these emotions and harnessed the power of these motives in their work for centuries creating a view-finder for the mind to colorfully explore this vast expanse of history. As I see it, Art is what forms us. It is a guiding light for others to follow, while being a beacon and a candle in the dark to the artists who create it. Since the Dawn of Time, Homo Sapiens have used their artistic ability to express ideas through crude pictures or body language and used these techniques to pass on the ability to work together, to bring down big game or build tools or huts or fire and essentially, survive. Cave drawings illustrated the right plants to eat and how to build a stronger domicile during rough winter months or sometimes the cycle of seasons or tribal rituals. As civilization grew and began to form into the style of the “modern” society, and cultures around the world began to form, we can see that this was entirely not possible without the usage of art to understand where they came from and were inevitably allowed to go. So as I see it, in all shapes and sizes, Art has radicalized our existence and allowed for our social and personal evolution. 

On another interesting point, I would like to mention Einstein’s E = mc2 theory, as it will come into play later as well. An important scientific work of Art, it allowed the scientific world to understand the massive power harnessed within all objects, and therefore as I see it, in people as well. 

As previously stated it was a teaching tool, but as we move past the Renaissance, we begin to see that artists began seeing numerous possibilities in their art forms as the world view was allowing for it. The doors of the mind must be first realized before they can be knocked upon and surely before they will open and grant us access to their treasures. “I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” (Robert Frost)  Frost’s famous words coming to us from a male schoolteacher going against the grain of a primarily female teaching society, these words have now become a living testament to the artist and the dreamer. I first heard this in a gifted class when I was seven and the movement it inspired in me then is still alive and well today. A notion that all must find their path in life, no matter how many thorns and brambles we encounter. Understanding this notion to explore the unknown, create expressions of new proportions, and push the mental stratus of mankind, is key to realizing the reasons for the next several styles of Art. 

As the world moved into the twentieth century, we see a blossoming of rampant new styles. Modernism as it would be known, showed itself in every form of expression, Literature, Art, Architecture, Music and Dance all coupled with the scientific world guiding its new logic or the absence thereof. Meanwhile, Freud and several other deep thinkers were plotting the other misty, dank and recessed worlds - the channels of the mind. We see art styles move one into the next from Impressionism from Monet, Expressionism from the dark depths of Edward Munch, Cubism from Picasso, Abstraction in the naturally coexisting or minimalistic buildings of Frank lloyd Wright and Le Corbusier, and Surrealism from the strange likes of Salvador Dali and Renee Magritte. All of these forms seemed to play leap frog with the next, a playground mentality of seeing where the next will go. It is a stated fact from many of the great artists of the past that they were doing just that. Studying others work, and letting the mind expound on the reactions to new work and how to bring it about in new and self-rewarding ways. 

Once the maps of the mind were finally written and the scientists had quietly proven the non-existence of God, their was another tidal wave which breeched society, that of the the free thinkers. These brave individuals were finally wrapping their brains around the deeper issues of being, true existence, self actualization, free intelligence versus ignorance and finding meaning in a meaningless world. “If God didn’t exist, then all things are possible.” (Dostoevsky) The thought process of the existentialist was not released on the mainstream as its depth seemed not able to be reached by many. And in the long run, if we let everyone think that deeply about themselves, nothing will get done and no one would do the remedial tasks of a working society. But in this form of thought, we must create, for that is all there is. No longer are we making beautiful art to appease a god, but now creating art to explain our place and situation herein without. And so this need to create, this desire to leave something behind becomes all encompassing within an artists life, sometimes to the point of an early, premature death or a body of work so large it cannot be fathomed all at once. We also begin to see this shift in Art by the creation of real subtext in artists work. No longer would a piece of art only mean one thing. From now on, art would have to encompass several and sometimes massive issues, albeit quietly, in order to truly be considered art. This is brought on by a more complex and multi-dimensional society at work. So through the combination of the underlying truths now found in art with this new need to create and expound, we begin to now see a bigger shift towards the need for change. And as I have said, this change couldn’t be understood until we as a people had expressed the desire for it. 

Because of our new found technology and the realization of the human universe, we also see dictators attempting to control more than is feasible in a modern world and we see two wars which ravage our planet, decimate our world population and threaten to throw us all back to the Stone Age. Artists caught in these struggles showed incredible fortitude and bravery for not following the mainstream or ever getting caught up in the hype. When I heard a Holocaust survivor speak when I was eleven, I was incredibly moved when he told us that “myself and several survivors no longer eat bread, as that was our only survival in the camps. I haven’t eaten a bite of bread since my release 50 years ago.” This quiet sacrifice to all those who never had enough. Also seeing Picasso’s Guernica seems to conjure up images in my mind’s eye of the ridiculousness of such an event. Picasso’s characters therein play interesting parts in that image, acting out the drama with awkward expressions and a cry for a release from reality. 

We also see artists begin to react to the crushing forces of the modern world by forgetting any and all original methods of art and reacting entirely on emotion. Here we receive Jackson Polluck’s paint swathed canvases and can feel the emotion pulsing into us when standing next to these modern day monoliths. Their range of emotions only prove the necessity for such work and the power within that it truly allows to shine.

So, with the loss of inhibition coupled with the need to create came the explosion that is modern media. It is at this point we begin to see our social outpourings as a veritable sea of consciousness, consuming us under its deluge and giving us our only rest from the storm when we are sleeping and then even there our image databank is crammed with the thoughts and ideas of others. “The Information Age is essentially image oriented.” (Fiero) and this is largely due to Television and Cinema. Take the award-winning series on TV  “Breaking Bad," where a chemistry teacher secretly becomes a PCP chemist in order to pay for his bills and family after he is told he has terminal cancer. The nickname he takes on is Heisenberg. I was amazed to see such subtext go into a new TV Drama. Named for Werner Heisenberg, creator of the Principle of Uncertainty, it is a perfect foreshadow to the style of writing used in the script. There is no way of telling what could happen next as there are too many variables and when one thinks deeply on a possible outcome, they make sure to throw in a detour and lead the characters far from the normal. Sometimes using a quick death, happening where you don’t expect it at all (think back seat in “Pulp Fiction”) or a plane crash or explosive tortoise (really, watch the show...) you never have a chance of predicting it. Like life, like art now too. 

The aftermath of this increasingly amazing world is an overwhelming sense of desensitization. This of course had led a large percent of our society to lethargy and apathy. So sad when considering all they are given being alive right now, all the knowledge so many others have begged for or just barely broke the surface on before their deaths, right there at their fingertips. This is where I see E=mc2 making the most sense. This incredible formula has yes, created the atom bomb but that is because that is what it was applied too. Imagine applying this formula for good intentions. A small amount of matter can release a large amount of energy. So there we are, small amounts of matter containing energy and waiting to go off like explosives, destroying the face of all that is around us, ripping the flesh of conformism off the shoulders of the people next door, and covering the land in a shock wave of brutal truth. As stated in the film “Waking life” , we can sit and face ourselves off with either fear or laziness, or we can break the cycle and show a different way. Attempt your own “Theory of Everything” much as Deepak Chopra did, or spend time attempting to free your own self from the confines of your being, anyway will do. But we must as Nike says “Just Do It.” (Nike) For our own sake, because if not, we give up on all there is, life as we know it. 

So yes, Art changes us, it taught us, melded us and showed us that it is all we are, and so in knowing this we can see that it will be Art that also either saves us, showing us the new and right way to exist in this modern world we have created, or our downfall, leading us far astray, fragmenting into too many newly created ways, until the "road less traveled by" becomes impassible, clogged with brambles, concealing which path was the right one to take in the first place.

     - CMB