S.B.T. 426

cowboy soul

the lasso is His will, the bronco is yours
if the two come together you have a fine horse

     

tom johnson's pigs

S.B.T. 425

Elliott Smith - 
I don't think I'm ever gonna figure it out 


   

S.B.T. 424

character study

he knows something. he went after the objective, completed the tests, got the papers and procured the credentials. then he taught in a handful of community colleges, all the while an outsider, someone who didn’t belong in that arena, by all ordinary accounts he should have been in a liberal left wing east coast high brow university. he was always challenging something, authority mainly, in all it’s endless forms conjured by thinkers over millennia, the field literally littered with ponderable points. it usually took less than a week each semester before he started getting the calls from the main office to appear before the board of directors, to answer charges on one or another kind of inappropriate speech action or appearance. he went willingly, stood before them unabashed, passionately arguing and presenting a line of logic they could not refute, and would walk away precariously victorious, until the next time.

so after a number of years of meaningfully toppling small town mentalities and upsetting status quo, he took a break - he put the doctoral degree in his back pocket, and spent a few seasons hiking the mountain trails with his trusty companions, a cockney-voiced jack russell named Obie, and Lily, the sweet young flower of his love.

who was coughing, and didn’t look right but who was awestruck just the same not having imagined the purple mountain majesties being so real, and inspired out of a long spell of inertia, started writing sci-fi poetry, and just having so much shit to attend to, kept busy. at times his vantage point was towering over her head but her small face looking up, asking him a wide-eyed question, he simply could not resist.

i hadn’t considered the relative depth of conviction each soul possesses when it comes to making life’s tricky decisions. those made on the spot when you don’t own any wisdom or have the benefit of any advance notice. a toss of the dice really made with outlandish faith and innocent ignorance. i give you this: that it is written. characters in a book no one owns up to authoring so it could be that life on earth is actually a pleiadian puppet show

in a velvet-curtained box theatre made of laminated stardust.

degrees do not make experts but they do make a point 

S.B.T. 423

here is what i do - think of things while doing other things. 

it is astonishing the things i think sometimes. 

like i am not really thinking but think i am thinking.

since i think so, so i know my thought.

at least i think i know

and since i think so, so it is.

or seems to be

maybe it isn’t so at all, 

maybe it is only

another thing i th.ought

‘k so

black drop pixel on screen

round dot scribery

for a moment - pause - exhale

S.B.T. 422

let me get right to the nitty gritty point.

here we have what would be
the finest of statesmen vying for the finest of leadership roles.

aside from the well-delivered families, cohorts, friends of the runners - are there any americans out there who actually feel any vitality in the election process and about the candidates?  it's like a notch, on the bed post. it's not about businessatizing america into the black, if it were, I'd want to elect Bill Gates. it's not about ground-breaking equality of gender representation. if that were the case, I'd want to elect Gloria or Oprah.

every election, the choices seem narrower and narrower. i thought it was bad last time, but this is over the top.

not that these are not fine individuals, experts in their lines of work. just that the field is too narrow, and to me, it looks like they do it on a dare. a victory of any sort is thrilling, that’s all. and then we can muse about helping people, international affairs, broad power, and the saddest factions crying for satisfactions. it’s almost embarrassing to realize that we are immediately going from one first kind of president to another first kind of president. whomever becomes president, will be a first kind again. first ever president with no political background, or first president of female gender.

whatever the outcome,  it will be a first. it looks like we are in the birth pangs of a disparate identity, a new “brand”.

“america, the medium way” 

observe the fluid rush of media and suggestion coming through the tube and airwaves and the images of these people speaking and lining up for the camera, and the commentaries and pictures and opinions following going on and on and on……..

but….....

i can’t get rid of this feeling that we are ridiculous. and then, that being ridiculous is one of the freedoms we do have. i feel grateful for that and may the best candidate win. but i don’t think i will bother to vote this time because it just is too impossible of a choice to make. so shoot me, that’s how it is.

*********

S.B.T. 421

Stephen Foster was a composer whose songs I learned to play and sing as a child, and would never turn down a chance to hear. "Beautiful Dreamer" is featured in many different versions available online, and truly i like Roy Orbison’s version the most. Secondly, Rachel Fannan because well just because. And don't leave Marty Robbins out.
      Stephen Collins Foster (July 4, 1826 – January 13, 1864), was an American composer who wrote unforgettable tunes, songs you could feel swell in your mind, in your heart, burst through the veils of inner vision and the landscape of your soul - songs that drifted on a breeze, songs with ghost fingers, music like silk ribbons, like a rainbow twirling around your heart, showers of rain or daisies.
      SONGS THAT MAKE YOU STOP to listen. Songs you can not forget, songs so simple, elegant and lovely, they are sung on and on for hundreds of years. He lived a short thirty-seven years, but I would say his contribution is enormous.
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee,
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lulld by the moonlight have all passed away!
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody,
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie,
Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
Een as the morn on the streamlet and sea,
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!    

S.B.T. 420

woody for vp

no one really thinks hillary clinton will choose a female VP running mate, and i wouldn't either if i was she, and not because of some bizarre concept of catty competitiveness  between two politicians   just because they are women, or that Hillary couldn't stand another girl vying for the spotlight. only because i'd like to see a yin yang thing going on. then again, maybe we need some super yin?

but really, why not choose Woody Allen?

he would do it extremely well. perhaps he would grace the office with some humor even if he didn't want to do it to begin with. he's not the character in the movies y'know, he's much smoother with his woodwind instruments. i suppose there would be some legalities to clear up on paper before this can happen, but i trust we can pull it off. this team would win.
voters. an emmy. a popularity contest. they'd charm any dignitary, outwit any rival, and probably could get Melissa McCarthy to help. these are phenomenal people. bottom line they'd be great.

S.B.T. 419

blowing off a toad

i don't suppose i could have been clearer. i could have been nicer though. but it is done, i let the gut reaction out somewhat politely but with a tinge of anger/annoyance and a please don't ask again. business as usual, sigh

Wednesday, 1 June 2016 - Faith is to believe what you do not yet see; the reward for this faith is to see what you believe. - St. Augustine

it doesnt take very long to figure out if a person's listening to you. if not, cut time with them then cut them out entirely. that tactic would be the kind way of allowing the other the option to learn from you, while not spending your time unwisely. also it's cool, de rigeuer.

not being able to listen is a sure sign of systemic dppvc. Symptoms of dppvc include the making of plans for others based on personal needs, over-expression of the importance of something political and/or challenging to status quo somewhere, the instinctive use of NLP techniques in efforts to persuade others to do some bidding, a marked absence of consideration for those servants who do fall under, tendency to be adorably pushy, unconscious rationalization of ego motives disguised as worthy cause.

i know i know there is politic in everything so you may say smiling wisely, however there is a stream bubbling down through a valley right now contradicting that statement. you may say water follows the politic of nature- then, flow and fill up the empty spaces, find a way around the stones from the source to the sea.

S.B.T. 418

What kind of a hat would do that

The hat again. And the horn-like shape again, 

a flower in her hat,  a butterfly on her shoulder

or perhaps it is a man with an announcement, wearing a bank-teller’s hat,

haha, supermario hurrying along in a miner’s hat with lamp

with a mermaid attached to his arm, a tiny one- 

he is carrying a 2 by 4 in the other hand. 

Squanto the legendary looks on, feathered headdress 

A celebration, dancing! minimum 5 people happy

It looks like romance, lovers intertwined

The Main character is wearing a hat.

the Type of hat is the key to success...

walking forward in a white cape

light bathing her shoulders,

flowered bonnet collapsing shadows of the past:

1. he runs away, but not too far - baseball cap

2. he doesn’t look back, but bends over backwards - cap backwards

3. he is amorphous, then he evaporates - headband

4. he wore a leather vest, over a tshirt - stetson
on the bench playing guitar

head bowed singing

mom with crown chakra

"People are playing music live, acoustic fretless bass, dance performer"

man with a pony tail, porkpie hat, goatee and trombone

he lost a love from the sea an angel runs into 

a kneeling figure’s outstretched hands

halos rippling

Reading out loud

to a performance crowd
"Love, carry a heart over your head

be jo;;y"

black bowler hat, white collar, marked K, international youth

It’s about falling and rising and healing and celebrating

A German Shepherd, a rabbit and a rat wearing a top hat

the dog is brilliant

zOh the tales, testing a coffin w/a blue ribbon

draped at the head, 

she’s “hmm let’s see how that would be...”

standing there waiting i saw i could lift her up by her

elbow with my shoulder and left arm,  

visualize thick sole shoes dangling spy hat tumbling

shattered bottles spilled medicine
-  a witchy pointing finger

a handscribed letter “J” and all the other letters are

a bunch of wild animals, and one little ballerina
wearing a fedora smoking a bird-carved pipe

notice Lois Lane's cloche as she stands entranced by 

a happy excited Jimmy with his arms in the air, a worry-stricken grandma beside him

a cameraman taking it all down, 

the director waving his beret calls out "everybody

calm down. make a mouth-bow

little birds and love"

S.B.T. 417

I'm Gertrude but I don't sing

I was Gertrude Lawrence. I mean it, really. I saw her face in every mirror.
Her anxiously departed not-yet-done spirit swooped into my newborn body before I could blink. Early on I felt her pulse, as a child drawing haute-couture costumes, writing songs for stage drama on the piano, dancing and dreaming of ever-poofier glittering tutus, fondling stringed instruments, having a certain "oh don't I know you?" feeling with every blond big-beaked lady encountered.
I didn't know it at first, I thought I was a typically creative un-Jewish half Greek girl in a familiarly uncomfortable family. The novel will come out and be made into "My Skinny Little Not-Quite-Greek Wedding" in Hollywood.
And win awards and win again.

did i ever tell you my darkest secret? of course not. but i will tell you now:
i danced. yup. for the devil. during the please-allow-me-to-introduce-myself song with mick jagger. at first i thought it was cool, like bianca jagger throwing off her blouse at a luncheon party. but i did not know what was in store. i wont bother explaining it because apparent as it is, i am here. let me just say that the karmic debt for that was a few decades worth of compound interest on energy at 108%.

Gertrude was livid about it, she was shouting "You fool! You're wasting my time! Idiot!".  People have pointed out their observations of my flamy sudden eruptive temper and complained about it and made me feel awful about it but I tell you, now that I know it was Gertie and not me, it doesn't matter. She's right. She does have something to holler about.

"Sandbags" she says looking up from the chaise longue, "etherically hauling them around. sad, really...ahem..." she continues filing her nails "between the toes, sliding through your fingers, that's fine. But hanging bags over your backbone? Really!"

I know she's been waiting a long time for me to move on and let her be.
She's relaxed a bit over the years, but she keeps a steely finger on me and frequently calls in back-ups. Like yesterday when the kitchen sink ran over, she was like "Jesus! Help this pathetic creature, we have work to do!" 

I know she's pretty fed up with me right now, but I'm ready to give it over to her because I'm even more fed up which just goes to prove how ultimately piously the jew/greek bloodline values a defensive action. Gertie being there ready to pounce and all, but you know I think I'll hand it over to her and then take her to the beach for inspiration. 

S.B.T. 416

interlude 

i want to talk to you, he said, with a "we've-got-to-be-serious" expression beaming like oily light from his eyes
(i feel this urge to leave a legacy that he would one day wake up to: "she was way ahead of me, way ahead of us all." he smiles and shakes his head, grateful and amused. he remembers telling me how it bugged him if he couldn't figure out how someone ticked. i wondered why he cared so much. it had to be for some good reason, like control issues.) 

i saw it happening in a dramatic play. i want them to sally field really like me dontcha know? I smile a little perplexed and shake it off. He has become an old man sitting up to his nipples in a hot tub with a sad smile and his toes peeking out. His wife, sitting in the pool before him, opens her mouth to shout "hey hello" , and he vanishes in the glint of a toothy grin. The pool dissolves in blue bubbly water and the bubbles pop,  the scene concludes. with what little i can find, i tell the truth.

 

S.B.T. 415

i'm all alone here in this place

    the sun is hanging high 

if i look out beyond to space

    i see inside my eye 

i may or may not know what be

    ing is when searching such

thank the lucky stars that shine

   and thank them very much