Fam & Friends:
As you know, my summer, filled with hospitalizations & surgeries, sucked... sucked hard. Still, as autumn begins and September gutters into its coda, the best of summer—flowering and fruiting plants and pollinators buzzing about—just doesn't seem to want to quit here in our neck of the woods. Enjoying the outdoors, listening to TREME soundtrack via extended WiFi, and gardening... because I can.
Love & Anarchy,
Fam & Friends:
I realize there is a widely held and generally accepted opinion that has, therefore, metamorphosized into cultural truth that anyone majoring in Business at university could never be cool—could never, say, discern quality hashish from crap, let alone score the smallest quantities of hashish regardless of its quality. And yet, decades ago, I sat thru accounting, econ, and finance lectures and argued that capitalism, whether good or bad, was easily arguable as an extension of imperialist or expansionist policy & activity inflicting cruelty on citizens both outside and within territorial borders. And I believed then, as I do now, that the human animal has not yet sufficiently mastered humanist skills & talents to adopt any idealistic libertarianism (lower case L, here, folks) and, therefore, if capital should be allowed to gather, form & accumulate then humans who need to support themselves and live in such a world must be afforded opportunities & venues to collectively gather (accumulate) & build strength and power¹.
Again, while I still hold the viewpoint that workers, human beings, possess a right to gather and accumulate, to unionize in response to the power capital wields, that doesn't mean I won't be designing & wearing a t-shirt that says:
Today's New Bargaining Agreement Here Will Be Tomorrow's Unacknowledged & Unspoken but Direct Cause for Suppression or Intervention or Both There to Maximize Riches (as long as impoverished values create metrics that guide dumbass behaviors)
Love & Anarchy,
Fam & Friends:
Over the past two days I received medical news and transitioned certain aspects of my care and regimen. Some of it good. Some of it meh. This morning, the meh encouraged me to read again the first Uber Berlin letter I sent home and that I posted to the site the other day especially for A. I laughed out loud when I got to the distrust comedians + donut / Berliner / Pfannkuchen bit. This section of the letter—after mentioning the risk of putting faith into a comedian and then incorrectly but confidently renaming the donut as a throw-away line subtly referring back to American cocksureness I briefly mention at the start of letter—always makes me laugh. I know this section of the letter makes A and several others of you who either lived in Germany, or elsewhere outside the U.S., or who appreciate Eddie Izzard laugh too.
The morning's laughter helped chase away the meh, but not far enough, not entirely. So, I am going to embrace Satan and ancient books of the occult now and watch THE NINTH GATE for at least the third time within the past six months.
I am sending you all wishes of Love & Anarchy — and hugging Satan too, but only encouragingly, in a friendly, supportive way that says You Can Absolutely Come Back from This, My Dude, and not at all in a suggestive manner; I don't want The Devil getting the wrong idea.
Fam & Friends:
First day of the fall season and my Autumnal Horniness Syndrome (that prematurely ejaculated on to the scene this year and began in June) shows no signs of weakening or waning. Work diversion by shifting from listening to goddesses of heavy metal to "Green Valley," a song I describe as the essence of a Cormac McCarthy story, only cemented in lyrics and music.
Love & Anarchy,
"Green Valley" by Puscifier
Fam & Friends:
Rach and I took advantage of last weekend's weather and my feeling stronger and we attended one of the free-to-the-public shows sponsored by the City of Lenexa Arts Council. The event was an outdoor concert by a brass band (Back Alley Brass Band) who kicked off the show with a number you may know, "Feel Like Funkin' It Up" by Rebirth Brass Band. Being outdoors, after being mostly indoors (at home or hospital, primarily) all summer and a large chunk of Spring, felt terrific!!
Also, a few posts below I confessed my Autumnal Horniness Syndrome (or my Ahs or the Ahs) had hit me several months early this year. With the autumnal equinox approaching I am curious to see if my 'syndrome' continues. I have a feeling it will last beyond the summer and continue into the traditional affliction season, that is to say autumn. Why am I so confident it will? Well, because it is me that I'm talking about here. For example, I am including in this post a photo of a sign located in a hospital that I took while walking the corridor for exercise or rehabilitation; my mind read the signage and immediately edited out certain words which I then ham-fistedly elided with photo editing software when I returned to my hospital room. (Rach had brought me a laptop—not that I used it for anything much save this rather useless but enjoyable exercise that distracted me.)
Love & Anarchy (and, of course, incorrigibly yours),
Fam & Friends:
All day long, I've chatted with Kropotkin. Well, not Kropotkin. But his ghost, who I found waiting for me at [the] bottom of the stairs while on my way to make coffee at 5AM on the morning after I'd again watched the film PRIDE (2014). Great film. I enjoy all the portrayals. Bill Nighy. Imelda Staunton. Dominic West. Andrew Scott. And more. PRIDE is likely in my top 20 film favorites now. Gays & lesbians [from London] coming to the aid of striking [Welsh] miners. A pleasant mix not of plot & themes but cords of available reality, if only consistently haled & held through slack & tension.
Anyway, ol' Kropotkin looks wan—even for a ghost. So, I am off to play host and make us tea and open a bag of these short, gourmet pretzel sticks—sent to me as a Get Well gift.
Love & Anarchy,
Fam & Friends.
An obviously unpleasant condition of undergoing multiple procedures & hospitalizations during this Spring & Summer is that there are moments when I feel as though I have aged 4yrs+ during the past 4 months.
An exhilarating result of this occasional sensation of premature aging is that the timing of my seasonal horniness affliction—what I refer to as Autumnal Horniness Syndrome or my Ahs or the Ahs—became all jacked up and began in late June 2023, at which point I started regularly listening to Sophie Lloyd Llyod, Within Temptation (Sharon den Adel) & Minniva.
It would seem my crushes take the shape of a governing trinity, not unlike how Kashmir is administered by three countries: India, Pakistan & China.
Yes. Admittedly, I am incorrigible. Ah!!
Love & Anarchy,
Fam & Friends:
Bald now...naked. Stitched together. Fingers and thoughts hover and glide, tracing wounds & scars, young and old.
Here's to embracing hopes & fears.
Here's to monsters.
This morning I came across a cover version of a favorite song. Thought I'd pop online quick-like and share.
Love & Anarchy,
Fam & Friends:
Six months ago, Rach & I had another sort of big year scheduled, with plans to complete several activities on our Life To-Do List.
Six months ago, we had no idea the need for multiple hospitalizations & procedures would require a 2023 rewrite.
Six months from now, we may be able to look back to this time and smile at having again crossed another (what y'all know we have been describing as) special event horizon.
But we may not.
Today, salt falls on lips, and windswept wrinkles carve the face of dunes as murmurs and songs launch from out of the estuary where the fresh water of that great & winding river crashes violently into that biggest of the Big Waters, dark & cold, and where, hidden under the swaying tops of bullrushes, Charon's skiff bobs and knocks against its stone pillar mooring-post inscribed with runes of a language so ancient even the oldest stars cannot decipher any message or meaning.
Today, I know of my love for Brian Patrick Carroll (aka Buckethead) and I thank the gods I was alive at a time when I could hear him fret tones ... be they amplified or not.
Fam & Friends:
I am breaking my online sabatical sabbatical for only the second time during the past 11 weeks to share this post of appreciation, delayed due to another round of health issues.
Want to say to The Gang how much I enjoyed seeing everyone at the Fourth of July picnic. It was good medicine. I also want to say to H that Rach & I are looking forward to seeing you + C soon. Finally, I extend much appreciation to the healthcare worker whose name & profession I know & respect but will intentionally omit to anonymize in this post—the intelligent, skilled, kind & beautiful person who Rach sincerely and without irony or malice refers to as my girlfriend: today's break in my commitment to remain offline is dedicated to you!!
P.S. All y'all need to read yourselves some Hilary Plum. She's the only writer I learned about during my autumn '22 deep dive into small press writers whom I continue to carry with me, hold in esteem and re-read as '23 marches onward. Go get ya some Plum!!
Angels & Demons gather at the supernatural strand of aether's expanse, abide slipstreaming sands, and patiently await Charon's delivery.
Fam & Friends:
I have been approaching the event horizon with a smile on my face and doing what I love doing: creating things. Writing a bit, here & there. Adjusting and building new gardens (for Rach) that are easier to manage. Jeep tops & doors are all off and the mellow yellow monster is ready for Rach to pilot this summer. Enjoying a lot of time outdoors, talking to the seedlings & plants and the bees, butterflies & birds, and listening to music... of course.
Fam & Friends:
I could tell you that something inside me was, or is, broken and that even during my teenage, hair-metal-bands-ONLY-goddammit days I secretly enjoyed & appreciated Gordon Lightfoot. All I know, or feel, is Gordon Lightfoot's talent; I see & hear his stories, descending and ascending, hanging from & climbing notes of music, the maths that are the language of the universe.
RIP Gordon¹ Lightfoot.
¹ Of course, me being me, folks, I am now thinking of a character called Gorgon Lightfoot, a songster, who was, in fact, more like her siblings than the myths suggested and who, centuries earlier, had escaped the blade of Perseus, gifted by Hephaestus, and had since leveraged that broadly unknown immortality to travel thru time, honing bardic skills & evolving to alternate genders via the shedding of skin every eight decades, or so.
Rereading Hilary Plum after attending a reading she and Lucy Wainger gave this week for Black Lawrence Press. Next up... (again) spending the day outside, extending the garden while I can and watching the backyard bees & butterflies, which we've already seen-a-plenty (for this time of year).
Fam & Friends:
I'm in the process of obtaining a second opinion and have concluded it would be easier to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. It's not that expert (med) personnel do not exist, only that they are insufficient in number based upon similar replies made by their office staff: They (the Dr.) are booked until [X date]. (Where X date == too far into the future.) An absurd situation...albeit comical too, in a perverse sort of way. And to think, only a few weeks ago I successfully stuck the landing at the bottom of the SEPSIS SLIDE™. Now I'm roaming a surreal healthcare landscape, looking for the medical equivalent of a one-night stand (i.e., a brief consultation), and getting cockblocked. What do you think: Do I need to employ a wingman to help me score a second opinion, for fuck's sake?
Obviously, all this year's plans are on hold, with most near-term plans already cancelled. After this entry, I've no intention to update this website until I clear several hurdles.
Presently, I'm supplementing my time completing necessary (but not necessarily pleasant) tasks by chilling & grooving with Rach, avoiding all online spaces (except audio books & music/ tv/film streaming), volunteering, enjoying in-person moments (of now) with y'all, listening to great music, and creating goofball shit... like writing short fictions, including a horror + humor short wherein an AI serves as a positive force for good & facilitates change by commandeering social streams and sending torrents of "On this day" messages reminding millions of users of all the Bana Alabed QTs/RTs made by celebs & influencers & government spox¹, and also a humor short featuring a character who celebrated #420Day with one too many gummies and therefore had a helluva time assembling the brand-new, high-end, raised garden bed structures purchased from a posh online outfit specializing in gardening equipment & seedstock supplies.
Speaking of... happy belated #420Day to those who observe!!
Finally, here's a few shows we've recently seen & worth sharing:
Have a Good Trip: Adventures in Psychedelics
Daisy Jones & the Six
Maestro in Blue
>> 3(Sex), 1(Drugs), 2(Rock-n-Roll) -- and anyone who grooves on numerology knows, or is familiar with, the number(s). <<
So it goes...
¹ All of whom are members in the cult, Hedge Amon, referred to by some as Hedge(fund) Amon.
Recalling the first time I heard Michael Hedges. High school era. Great memory. And his [Hedges] takes on "All Along the Watchtower" by Bob Dylan & "Tomorrow Never Knows" by the Beatles, fucking grooving!!
Update, approx. 2pm: "Girls, Girls, Girls" (by Motley Crue) radio
This update is (primarily) for certain fam & friends; you'll know who you are by the end of it.
Just hit a retailer to buy another Jeepload of mulch and while I was loading up the mellow yellow monster (with backseat removed) a German sedan pulled up, a make & model that I happen to be looking at acquiring, now that Rach is warming more & more to the idea, by trading in our current sedan + the Prius + cash. A woman exited the sedan, and we exchanged brief, simple smiles acknowledging each other's presence. (The Jeep tops were off, the windows down, and the volume was cranked -- Iron Maiden/Dio/etc.) Not sure of her age -- fifties, likely. She was, maybe, 100lbs -- when soaking wet. And petite: 5'2", maybe no more than 5'. I mention these physical characteristics only because they are necessary to the story. The brand of mulch she had bought was stacked high & tightly wrapped in an unopened pallet. I had tossed a couple of bags of the different brand of mulch I bought into the Jeep before she'd busted through the shrink wrap that was of a thick mil. I asked if I could assist her and she happily said "yes" and, not knowing how many bags she purchased, I placed two bags down low where she could more easily pick 'em up and carry them to the trunk of that German sedan. Anyway, I finished loading the Jeep and inquired if it would help her out if I brought more bags of mulch down and if she'd be okay if I carried a couple bags to the car for her, adding "Not to imply you aren't capable of carrying these yourself." She looked at me, smiled again, and said "I am not one of those type bitches." I replied, "Alright then. Rock-n-Roll; my name's Geoff," adding "Nice to meet you." Then she and I loaded her car... and... well... there's one fewer stranger (to me) in the world.
Performed my work outdoors all day, except for running a couple errands.
Rolled into the parking lot of an automotive parts retailer and a guy that had been walking toward the front door & wearing a uniform stitched with a patch containing the retailer's logo came up to me as I exited the JEEP and in English spiced with a beautiful African accent (I admittedly can't identify) asked "Was that Peter Gabriel?" and I replied "Kind of, yes. Afro Celt Sound System. With Peter Gabriel. The song's When You're Falling." And he smiled and said "I like your truck. The color, yeah." And I thanked him, adding, "It is a color that transports me; that makes me think I am near water even when I am not. Perpetual island time, you know?" I opened the front door for him, and as we entered the store, I continued, "Like being in constant coastal spacetime." He said, "Let me put the rest of my lunch away and then I'll help you." I finished up in about five minutes but spent nearly 30 minutes in the store bullshitting with the dude in between his assisting other customers. Had a blast and left in high spirits... which was a good thing because had I been feeling more impish than angelic I'd've likely considered stealing the robust orange-colored '68 Camaro SS parked in the lot.
Still outdoors, in fact. With Rach, enjoying a simple dinner of samosas...a mix of chicken tikka & vegetarian. Watching the birds and the tulips & daffodils. Tapping away on the keyboard... a few words here... a few in that file... and that one.
Still thinking of that '68 SS.
I reckon I'm also still thinking about that superhot nurse from my recent stint in the hospital, too.
Enjoyed both THE LAST OF US¹ and TROUBLED BLOOD.
Also, "The Whole of the Moon" by The Waterboys == chef's kiss
1:30pm (approx.) update
I carved out time this week to complete various administrative-type tasks so Rach doesn't have to deal with 'em. You know, banal To-Dos dealing with this & that. Had not intended today's playlist to accompany today's activities but it meshes perfectly.
The Waterboys. Steve Earle. Hothouse Flowers. Justin Townes Earle. The Call. Big Country. Sinead O'Connor.
The tunes greasing the tracks of the mundane, perhaps unseemly & unpleasant, work of life; simply doing what only music—which is a special kind of maths, the soulful language of the universe—can do.
"Weee! Weee! Weee!!," said the little piggie all the way home, as brought to life in that GEICO commercial.
The insurance video's piglet perfectly illustrates my inner elated (emotional) state when meeting friends over the past few days. The experiences have been wonderful, and I am very much looking forward to the remaining breakfast and lunch and dinner gatherings throughout April, or what I am now referring to as the month of BIG flavors & scents.
The weather has been glorious, and I have been pretty much living outdoors the past couple days. B.G., I can hear your voice as you talk out loud while replying to a text that includes a picture of me that Rach has sent you: "How the hell is Geoff tan already?!"
Special note to H
I can't imagine my life without our meeting. You, an indigenous plainsman — literally Indigenous — and me, a Berkeley baby who found his way to Kansas after a brief stint in California wine & cattle country. Our differences & similarities, our shared & individual experiences woven together over decades, like a fucking safety rope. Cowboys & Indians. Sometimes we played our expected parts, other times we reversed roles. Sometimes we were broncs, kicking up dust & running wild; and other times we served as wranglers. All of it great. Speaking of broncos & wranglers: I've attached a few photos from our recent fast-food breakfast + fishing meetup for fam & friends to peruse. I admit, I envy that Area 51 color scheme...and that Sasquatch package is monstruous!!✌️
While in hospital Rach visited until dark one night and after leaving and knowing I wouldn't be sleeping she texted me moments after her arriving home.
Her text paraphrased: Here's some news that'll make you smile. I just saw one of the foxes a couple houses down from ours.
I hadn't seen any of the foxes since late January '23, maybe early February. Now, since Rachel's text, this song has repeatedly crept into my brain: shortly after shouting motherfucker that hurts!! after getting jabbed for the umpteenth time with replacement IV needles or while being attended to by a super-hot nurse¹ or when devouring a small order of fish 'n' chips after my being discharged, etc. The recent intrusions by Sweet's song "Fox On The Run" have had an additional side effect: the record agitates my mind and stirs up positive emotions & memories from April '20, during Covid lockdown: no traffic, near silence; a blue sky free of contrails, absent airline clutter; the neighborhood foxes confidently trotting down the middle of neighborhood and collector streets, free from the worry of harassment by human presence & invention. Fucking glorious.
Keeping to about 10min/day of internet time (excluding music streaming) since being discharged has been glorious, too. I assume the feeds are clogged with hubbub about Trump. Screw him. And screw the media bobble ((talking)) heads trying to make a name or bank or both off the frenzy.
Take care, kiddos... and watch out for the foxes and raccoons and opossum and similar.
Won't be driving for many months and so, although I could have gotten by & performed errands without the JEEP, I took the mellow yellow monster out today to enjoy pleasant weather while I can drive.
People occasionally stop in parking lots when I am in the JEEP. They seem to assume I'm going to be in a hurry or will attempt to muscle my BIG rig through the pedestrian lanes ASAP and not be patient.
People. People. People. It's not an SUV. I have nothing to prove. It's a JEEP. A vehicle intended to run the terrain of the San Bernadino Mountains and nearby foothills, to scout for some out of the way spot for outdoor coital activities. A vehicle for a casual coastline cruise—open top, doorless, starlight beaming into the cabin, a cooler stocked with cheese & wine and a couple blankets in the back. At worst a JEEP is a means to get to that backwoods cabin where the bodies are buried. And so... because of that... ya keep it chill in the city... don't draw any attention to yourself. A flip-flopped foot out the door. A sincere smile. An encouraging wave, promising strangers plenty of time to push their cart across pavement and into a grocery store.
It's Monday. As good a day as any to listen to a Greek psychedelic rock band.
Signed up to listen to a Hilary Plum reading. Stoked.
Only thing better than knowing Saturday Murder, She Wrote marathons exist is the knowledge that Sunday's host Columbo marathons.
For April, my spirit animal is an amalgamation, a Peter Falk + Hilary Plum homunculus, a diminutive golem departing the ever-shadowed realm of Purgatorio to stalk the material plane at twilight.
Over the weekend I watched The Ninth Gate again. My sixth or seventh viewing. Liquor. Cigarettes. Satan. Still holds up.
Looks like my upcoming trip to Czechia is going to be cancelled. This is like the third cancellation of this trip in 10mos; the past nine months has been an all kinds of weird (pro & con) series of doings, meanderings & plan & course changes.
Still... today... oh, today... what a day!!
Rach is wisely restricting my computer screentime to max recuperation & recovery. Today I am wasting 10min online, posting this. (Happiness is a well-used fountain pen.)
Just came back from a short JEEP drive that included checking on the hawk mating pair's nest. Sunny but cool. Wind has died down.
Last Saturday, while in a hospital bed, I learned there is a TV channel called Great American Family. I have no idea how this network is defining great, american or family. What I do know, now, is that Saturdays are Murder, She Wrote marathon days. I recall a couple years ago... the internet lost its ever-fucking-loving mind over Chris Evans in a cable knit sweater. Well, that's fine. Just fine, I reckon. However, Angela Lansbury holds her own vis-a-vis @CEvans while sporting those 80s knitwear vibes. Tangentially, I think perhaps no single American cultural artifact so cursed the collective social mind regarding what a writer does & how a writer spends their time as Murder, She Wrote. That said... Go, Jessica Fletcher! Go!! You have me for 1.5hrs, milady... and then I am making dinner... chicken spiedini for me and a steak for Rach. Recuperation through the practice of culinary art... Sicilian-style... amogio, kiddos!!
Fam & Friends:
Home now after—what?—five days in hospital. Thanks for reaching out and sending Get Well wishes, etc. I owe most of you details, I know. I didn't feel like communicating much during the last several days. I'll say Rachel was—as always, of course—the best partner someone could ask for in such circumstances. All y'all checking in on her, too, was a great medicine for me; a balm: the knowledge she is surrounded by so much tangible, action-orientated love & support¹ should she ever need & decide to call on it.
I have several comical stories about the whole affair. (Always try & spin gold where & when you can, folks.) One I'll share here: I logged to the internet once while in hospital and used that time to correct two typos on this website I found last Friday. Sad!!
You and I, by my count, we've danced closely four times now. One day your powers will charm me away from the crowds of revelers, lure me from the merriment, out of that metaphoric gymnasium and into the backseat of that black '78 Camaro waiting in an enshadowed netherworld high school parking lot where I'll then slip into oblivion. That may be tomorrow. Or next month, or a dozen years from now. It is, apparently, however, not today. ✌
¹ not just token gestures, more than simply writing or speaking the word(s)
Rarely do Rach & I watch a new film or tv show on or near its release date that captures the vocal but fleeting¹ attentions of self-proclaimed tastemakers and the Who's Who. Usually, Rach & I are a few weeks behind. Often longer. Sometimes much longer. Not so with THE MENU. We saw the movie soon after its release. I was not as enamored with the film as I thought I would be. Odd, because I regularly enjoy dark humor as means of exploration or instruction or both. (I am also a big fan² of Anya Taylor-Joy.) Over time I have come to appreciate THE MENU more & more after realizing the film's satire and commentary on class & taste easily extends beyond the setting of high-end dining, reaching towards & into the arts world more broadly.
Imagine, if you will, scenes from a similarly styled film; one with some pretentious nitwit who, in the most affected & affective vocal tones & physical mannerisms your mind can conjure, launches themself out the front door of an indie bookstore and into the middle of a street. They hold a book above their head³ and begin to preach, shout to strangers: "This is the newest necessary book for our time. Radically transgressive. Both courageous & tender, this contemporary ta—" The speaker's sermon cut short as they are cut down by a speeding rubbish truck.
Make that movie, Hollywood. Take my money as the saying goes.
Update, 7:59am, approx
A day-old glazed donut just hits different.
Update, 9:29am, approx
What if I told you repeated use of language, over an extended period of time that's intended to manipulate, entice & manufacture demand, by cultural gatekeepers & would-be tastemakers in marketing art for public consumption—that becomes, therefore, rightly open to criticisms for not living up to the manufactured expectations (i.e., the post-experiential let down) of members existing in a mass consumption society—has played maybe not so small a part in the creation of social/cultural angst, and are easily identifiable bricks (& mortar) in the construct that is this present-day, oft-called, post-truth world?
Update, 10:46am, approx
My news portal aggregator is serving me Trump-related BS. Admittedly, I don't consider Trump a serious person. If he is a serious threat then it is because he tapped into something that exists outside himself and will, I have to say, continue existing once he is "gone." As a reminder, I created the following graphic as a cautionary signal in March 2016, at a time when a lot of "smart" people seemed to be misreading or ignoring the actuality & degree of dissatisfaction alive in the minds & hearts of many Americans. Whether 100% of that dissatisfaction is or isn't earned or valid does not seem to be as important as acknowledging it exists and that it will likely continue to exist whether Trump is or isn't an active political player. (Also important: developing policies & mechanisms addressing the valid concerns & issues likely hidden under the superficial rhetoric & rage easy to rally & that plays well in the media.) Anyway, some of these same smart people were also giving Trump a pass in March 2016. I devote miniscule amounts of my life thinking about Trump and I don't invest any more or less in considering these smart people. If they all fell off a cliff, I'd never notice.
Update, 3:18pm, approx
In a successful work of alchemy, the manufacturers and distributors and retailers of sinus rinse apparatuses have somehow managed to include in a product most often used when one is alone in a private space the tinge of shameful unease typically reserved for social embarrassments. It's devilry; dark magic guided by the hand of Satan, whose fingerprints I am certain could be lifted by a crime scene unit dusting that second saline packet one is desperate to believe they told themself to use under free will and not at all because of the subtle guidance of a goat daemon using telepathy.
¹ the current it thing... always transient... in our culture, always fleeting... the next it thing... trailing always... close behind the previous thing... so near to the end of a fiscal quarter.
² as much of a BIG fan I am able or allowed to be according to my nature & character; strangers reading this, please note:: I don't (can't?) do "fandom" the way it is regularly practiced today; there are/have been only a few exceptions (e.g., Buckethead, RUSH) over the decades I have lived.
Me, present age, listening to "Feeling That Way", thinking to myself:
Man, this would be a great song to be playing when Rach & I next visit Mělník, Czechia, viewing the few boats on the Elbe, or noting the state & condition of the vineyards below; or playing on the stereo in a passing automobile of someone who drove up while Rach & I rest on the big rock¹ & enjoy a picnic after hiking Cadillac Mountain during an extended stay in Bar Harbor/Acadia/MDI; or playing on an 80s era jambox a CA artist brought to the tented stall where they sketch tourists in Mendocino for twenty bucks a pop; or leaking through those three speakers clinging for dear life to the ceiling in that shop in Calistoga...
Me, as a teenager, having an hour ago convinced my friends to abandon D&D for Gamma World by volunteering to be GM/DM and "Feeling That Way" suddenly airs on the radio, saying to my friends:
OK; you enter the cantina of the Spacedock; it's Retro-night, and everyone in the bar is dressed in old Earth-era attire; a LIVE band is on a stage in the far corner, [points to mapped graph paper] here, and is playing this song ("Feeling That Way"); all human male characters temporarily roll at -4 points on their machismo-related rolls!!
Update, 10:33am, approx
I love how Ted Nugent's "Free-For-All' suddenly entered the chat that is today's playlist, like the gentle stream of lovemaking suddenly passing over submerged rocks creating the whitewater conditions of rapids shouting: Tenderness be still; enter thee, ye animal of passions; it's now time to fuck!!
Thinking about Maine earlier reminded me how Covid-19 robbed us of a shared memory-making event by forcing the cancellation of the Boothbay summer house reservation Rach & I made to share with friends. To those who were part of the troupe: we need to reschedule this, we know; we want to show y'all Maine as we've come to know it over the years as regularly visiting outsiders. In the meantime, continue gifting appropriately to ensure you remain on the list.² ;-)
¹ there are many large rocks at the summit of Cadillac Mountain; Rach and I have one we specifically seek out
² I am refining my skills in the more gentile³ tit-for-tat acts of milking & bleeding, the subtle & polished grifts of the sophisticated upper-class. I mean, you never know, right? I may serve as a foreign service officer one day; or, who knows, perhaps a traveling necromancer raises my father from the dead and the media coverage allows him to sweep the elections on a bipartisan basis, propelling him into the White House as the first (officially recognized) undead POTUS, and I'll be in position to trade promises of access & influence for participation in schemes of self-enrichment. Sidenote: Dear H: understand there's no way in Hell I'm not now going to write up this idea in story form; maybe pepper it with coded references to some of our childhood adventures; thinking maybe I've your next birthday present!!
³ gentile, not a typo
Excerpt (from BADGE by Geoffrey Allison)
Update, 9:31am, approx
Have to check out of playful (CREATIVE-analytical) work mode and enter serious (creative-ANALYTICAL) work mode. Participating in my first telemedicine session & guiding someone through a surgery. Should go fine (assuming the patient doesn't look too closely at my certificate of license to practice medicine that I bought from an organization running art therapy sessions where media & entertainment industry-types suffering from TDS make various artworks using crayons held between their toes). Wish me luck.¹✌️
Update, 11:29am, approx
A self-describing shaman—owning a craft booth that's been placed among the lunch hour food trucks located in the parking lot of an office park—trying desperately to sell me patchouli incense because they recall a statement² I made when they were last here: You know senses play off each other; the sense of smell being extremely potent. Me, interrupting the shaman's pitch because my nearly lifelong indigenous American (Apache, mostly) friend is here today with his street taco truck: Yeah, I know... anytime I hear the song "Hymn 43" by Jethro Tull I smell weed.
Update, 3:16pm, approx
Client canceled the late afternoon meeting session due to a sick child. Noble, the putting of family first. I, of course, acted less nobly and kept my sudden availability from my spouse and took advantage of overcast skies and made my way to the shoreline of a local fishing lake where, as luck would have it, I caught no fish but found another Limp Dickinson Epistle.
Update, 5:48pm, approx
Preparing dinner for Tuesday's standing meal with The Moms™ and filling a bit of idle time by combining the title of a book I've read within the past few months with current news / astronomical events³ -- Coronal Hole Studies.
¹ the above update is obviously untrue; don't try this shit at home, kiddos; or, at a minimum, at least ask your parents first!! the content is however sufficient for cobbling together one, two, even three, terror story bits
² ya hear me, bro? patchouli is, like, my kryptonite, yo!
Update, 8:45am, approx
Enter the Haggis is so fun to listen to. (Updated Poem or Prose page, relatedly)
Rach and I have noticed several migratory birds in the backyard over the past few days. They are hungry and we are burning through birdseed like a porn film crew burns through condoms.¹✌️
Update, 11:13am, approx
"Long Strange Golden Road" by The Waterboys is so damn delightful!!
Artwork for Ghoultown's Life After Sundown album is wicked²
Update, 11:47am, approx
I love chthonic material; wrap me in a darkness of the Underworld (& Heaven's light, too, at times, obviously), in the gothic, with cemetery as setting, occult objects & experiences leading souls astray, down spirit-damning alleyways; it is all good... usually. But, fam, "Don't Pay the Ferryman" by Chris de Burgh just started playing and the tonal difference between it and other offerings from the day's playlist literally made me, like, LOL-WTF!?
Update, 1:49pm, approx
Hitting the books, refreshing (attempting to, at least) what little German I once knew. It's for a story & not in preparation of an upcoming biz trip that I am sure at least two of you from the Guys Night Out group will allege.
Danke. Ich hatte eine schöne Zeit.
Fam & friends, going to catch you up on a few random activities of my temporary bachelorhood.
It is March. That means Blind Box BBQ honors the month cradling St. Patrick's Day by serving its smoked corned beef reuben daily as opposed to only on the 17th.
I enjoyed one yesterday. Tender. Flavorful. Near incomparable.
How great is this sandwich?
Let me put it to you this way: If I were a beautiful & talented poet and the smoked corn beef reuben sandwich a lamb chop, then I'd acknowledge its tasteful, delicious magnificence by nodding my head at it.
Fam & friends, I admit that may read like an odd way to describe a sublime culinary experience; however, a few people understand the honesty the imagery contains; so, please don't think the description snide or sarcastic in any way.
In fact, y'all better get comfortable with the description because it will likely serve as my signature phrase to describe delightful culinary experiences going forward.
Yes, gentlemen of my Guys Night Out group, whenever we visit a bar or restaurant, and you turn and ask Geoff, how's that pork tenderloin? or How's that gin & tonic or (rye) manhattan (or both)? be prepared for me to respond with nodding, then saying: "Couldn't be better if I was a beautiful & talented poet and it was a lamb chop."
I rewatched The Witches of Eastwick and realized that, for whatever reason, after a period of time passes, not sure how long, my mind misremembers the location of the scene with Susan Sarandon and Jack Nicholson and the cello (that eventually smokes). Apparently, I forget the location and eventually place that scene not in the New England saltbox house but as action happening in a church hall or school auditorium.
Let's see... what else...
This morning, a friend sent me a link to a podcast episode containing discussions about Roald Dahl with an attached note I'll paraphrase as "Aren't they essentially saying what you were saying back in December ['22]?"
Umm, I think so, yes.
Fam & friends, you may recall our '22 holiday parties and certain comments I made about the silliness & ridiculous irony in the reactions & responses by certain members of the literary scene to an essay I had read. If all y'all want or need, please see 08-Dec-22 entry on the Really‽ webpage containing my initial thoughts & observations, made when I was at the gym no less, that served as the foundation for what I shared as we drank and ate and celebrated the holiday season.
Thank you to [name redacted] for sharing the link & note with me. The whole thing made me laugh. A better description would be: Listening to the discussion was sufficiently gaseous that I floated, like a naughty boy who had nicked & drank a fizzy lift beverage, toward blades of irony forcing me to burp mirthful laughs that returned me safely to ground.
Anyway, Knausgård has his life... his struggles. We all do, I guess. Stay metal (music fans), my friends.
P.S. Until further notice, avoid that sweet baby Jesus; there's a rumor going 'round; apparently, he's selling bunk K-weed as a cover while serving as informant.✌🏼
This morning I made the mistake of checking the IG account for the podcast. After entering search mode, I was served many posts instructing viewers like me how to properly perform certain kettlebell exercises.
It's too early.
The ancients never had to contend with such things.
Aside: The Bjarke Ingels episode of Abstract: The Art of Design is good.
If the entirety of the world perceptually shrinks because the population mushrooms or if livable space actually shrinks due to a significant ecological or environmental circumstance necessitating the cloistering of humanity, I can envision a world, a narrative, where industrial designers & architects serve the species in ways many people believe poets do today.
Trying now to discern if the above thought wants freedom or to be drunk up by the REGNUM OF COLLAPSE story project I have been working on, here & there, and that has thus far, like my CLUB HUMANITIES story project, desired to grow in a pinocytosis-like manner.
Inspired after attending yesterday's HEALTHY YARD community event and so getting a jumpstart on a favorite hobby
Morning's background music while nurturing the initial stages of the growing season and tending to the garden in pre-Spring weather. Appropriately dressed for temperatures, which coincidentally terrifies. Why? Because I realize I've inadvertently channeled a little of my paternal grandfather by wearing what, from a distance, could be considered 'good clothes.' In my case corduroy slacks and a button-down collar shirt under a Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater of a purple color embracing & celebrating Easter... but with several small holes making it awkward to wear in public.
Sorry gramps, I am not yet at your level of eagerness where I head outside to pop brave, early-season dandelions from soft soil using the proper tool but wearing a suit and so therefore soon to be reprimanded by spouse in a mix of Croatian + English:
Isus sa Draga!! Papa, that's your church suit. You change out of your good clothes, or we'll go around the mulberry bush!!
C, E & C:
¹ A typo; found more than 24hrs after initial posting. FFS!!
Friends ('cause fam already knows, duh):
Several weeks ago, I again made one of my guitar instrumentals, "Bored Room Blues," available and shared various links to it via my Campsite.bio & in the appropriate section of the Graffiti by Geoffrey page of this website. Now I am sharing a playlist based on a song from a soon-to-be released album from a band whose membership includes one of my brothers-in-law, the one married to my "singer-actress-model-dancer" sister²—if that helps y'all to orientate.
I always enjoy the frisson when first viewing & listening to a playlist created by Spotify's algo based on a seedstock selection.
Take a listen to "Indigo" by Telefone and the rest of the playlist.
¹ Unthinking, I initially (mis-)corrected & edited to Telephone; lmfao; ffs; smdh!!
² Quotes intentional because when chatting with my sister I jokingly said "OK; I'll share, but only if you let me reference you as the sister who is the singer-actress-model-dancer."