Saturday, September 22, 2018

I had written some, and then I'd listened to some music, and then I grew bored.  Jeremy had texted me from work, so I got engaged with that, and yes, maybe let's meet for one at Du Coin.  I'm only going to have one or two, and after that, fine, I'll get back and cook the duck breast I'd bought earlier at the market.  I walk down the street, past a small party gathered outside, then down, past the Quaker Meeting House construction site, across the avenue at the crosswalk, then behind Du Coin then around and in through the front door, the bay cafe windows open to the street.  There's my friend, fellow barman, still young and youthful, lean and strong, handsome, seated with the proprietor at the usual round table.  The proprietor, Michel, is enjoying duck breast himself, crusted darkly on the outside, reddish pink evenly within, a bottle of Bobby Kacher imports Costieres de Nimes rosé before him on the table, and he takes a Leffe goblet glass and pours me some, and we sit for a good talk.  "Good cabbage," he says, "Excellent," lifting a fork, and I see it is cabbage, not turnip.  "Well, let's close the kitchen, eh," he says.  Soon he is smoking a narrow cigar.  Talk of Panama.  Stories about his first days as a waiter in New York, unfamiliar with martini terminology (coming from Switzerland, a place where martini means sweet vermouth), breaking a bottle of chardonnay in the ice bin after pouring a glass, old Tony the bartender, who eventually grew to like him.  Yup.  I remember dropping a plate of enchiladas on a guys back thirty years ago, who luckily was not burned.  Yup, that's how you start.  The manager gave him a complimentary tee shirt and bought their dinner.

I eye the man's dinner, the magret sliced thinly.  I've been low on funds lately, don't like to splurge.  The kitchen is about to close anyway, don't want to be that guy.

Then the Chef comes in, and let's go to Russian House, uh oh, okay...  And we all go.  The adventure of a Friday night, meeting a mutual friend at the bar there.  Baltica beer, no. 7, and then a round, shots of fig vodka...  Stories, how to season steak...

I tip the barman what I would have spent on a decent dinner at the bistrot.   He's a Ph.D, from Western Massachusetts.  I feel I know.  Nights like that.

When seasons change, there is a day you rest the entire day away.  Silence.  Peace.  This is something writers like to do, to lay quietly and think of nothing.  Meditating.  Focus on a chakra.  No wish even to read anything.  A day of quiet, as if to detox from all the experiences of the week.  Jesus going out into the desert to find the pure thoughts of literary critique.  This might sound as exaggeration, but there is the same thought to it, to eliminate all the distracting things from one's mind, and it is no surprise that Lucifer's serpent comes with promises, each of a different sort.  Hunger, fame, sex, power, money.  Ease in this life.  No need to have to cook for one's own self.

But we needed the stories from up at the bar.  We needed a tale to tell in order to tell the larger one, somehow.  We needed our little toy soldiers and our little imaginary game in order to absorb the truth of reality, which we can never know anyway.  The lesson of death.   The death of a man beyond a friend.  The death of a symbol.

I had thought earlier of just going out and playing guitar, my Irish songs, Pogues songs on a street corner...  But I don't get much of a chance to talk to Mr. Jeremy, and it is good to be in his presence.  He's logged a lot of trustworthy solid hours, and I have the sense he is going somewhere, native smarts and capable practicality to apply and learn.  He's been out on a farm lately, where the farming is real, as real as the culling of chickens and turkey.  He has a source of goat milk.  He and the chef enjoy talking things like this over, and would that I had better powers of concentration.

The death in the Dying Gaul family has been hard to come to terms with, as if our friend were about to reappear, coming up the stairs in a Polo shirt with his blazer and jeans, looking for a good dinner, first a glass of champagne and a seat at the bar.

It gets later and later, and when we get out of the old Russia House I think of going across the street to the Rite Aid for a frozen DiGiorno sausage pepperoni green pepper mushroom onion pizza, but am dissuaded and walk home, alone, back up the street, duck sausages to heat up, a dinner I should have eaten a while ago.

The next day, the Fall Equinox and sleep and rest, talking to my old mom twice on the phone when she calls.

What one does not like is hypocrisy.  And yet in this world we get messages, such as, "just trying to see if we can all get along," and then receiving the opposite.  I suppose I am fortunate not to be a New Yorker, as much as I would like to be one in an ideal world.

Over dinner, one talks privately of his opinion on the Me Too movement, the Call Out culture...

Jesus came back from the desert, back from his detox, back to Galilee, his hometown.  There in the synagogue, and he offers up a reading from Isaiah, with certain implications, prophecy fulfilled, and the locals who know him just so aren't ready for it.

Friday, September 21, 2018

"Tadzio, write about the street."  This was something the old Polish lady would often say to me.  "Write about the street."  There were cats, and former generals, and the perfect general's wife.  There was Jean at the corner with her yew bushes overgrown in a good way, her Persian cat, friendly at night, Popeye, and her Chow dogs, more mysterious as to their moods.  There were her memories, and I was building some myself, but it takes a long time.  It takes a life.

Write about the street.  One true sentence.  I do not literally write about the street, because I do not enough about it to say much intelligent or worthy, beyond the animal life, the feral cats, the mailman, the friendly UPS guy who once dropped off a package from Martin Guitars to me, saying this was a happy delivery.

I wrote what I could of the bar, the restaurant, but even then, even on that street there really was not enough to write about.

Write about work, Tadzio, she would also say, people are interested in that.

The picaresque, the road of life, for the wanderer, the spiritual seeker.

Uli is gone now.  Still impossible to believe that all our communing are history now.  We had always seen something in each other, a friendliness, a kind person, a stand up guy (on his part.)  A true soul.

The saint is gone, and leaves the rest of us behind, to deal.

My friend Kirsten, bound for mission in Liberia, amongst the poorest of the world's poor, brings by a handsome Irish woman, who once was put in the trust of Shane MacGowan, back in 1993, for her interview at Oxford, in London.

The guitar, with some encouragement, finally comes out, after all have left but one couple, sweet people, she a professor from Georgetown who will give a lecture on Gandhi, he a big guy who flies C130s, I kid him he looks like Randy Quaid.  I sense kind people intuitively now.  As if being able to tell a robin from a red squirrel.  I see it.  And if people are kind, it's a fun thing, and the business of life and money will be kept a bit separate from such interactions.

So I pour a little bit more Viré, white Burgundy, for my friends at the table after their dinner, and myself a little more Beaujolais to channel the music of Shane MacGowan.

The guitar is out, and the ladies have sweet talking voices, one German, and one with her Irish lilt.  She lives in Argentina now, with her German husband.  Kirsten and Emily.  Kirsten, a regular, along with her economist husband, from Portugal, come in quite often with the Kapers, elderly Dutch, a prominent the environment and global climate change, global warming.

It takes me a little time to switch modes.  The first song effort will be a dud.  I softly riff the opening chords of Lullaby of London, finally take up taking up the first lines of lyric.  "As I walked down by the riverside, one evening in the Spring..."

Later on, she joins me singing Rainy Night in Soho...

Direct flights to Ireland, go to a musical festival, she tells me.

Uli, his last night alive, I wonder if he went to Du Coin.  He mentioned something about it, the last night I saw him, the eve of Labor Day.  I took a long pointless walk, got some groceries at Glen's I probably didn't even cook...  Just to save money, feeling broke...
Our own chef's best friend, a chef owner himself, shoots me a text, he's over at the bar.  I was going to stay in, but my friend Jeremy is behind the bar, and there's still time to get dinner.

Talk of how to properly do a Partanegra ham.  The story of Les Trois Canard, D"Artagnan, her comeback after a recall... Chefs know a tremendous amount.   One needs a desiccator, but actually you need two to make it profitable.

I've always respected that.

Yannis, a strong well built man, very generous of spirit, from Valence originally, came of age in the old days of New York restaurants, working 'til 3 AM, back at 7 AM.  He has the confidence of a man who came once to a country whose language was foreign.  He's here with his nephew.  He asks me to pick a good wine.  We open a simple Beaujolais.  This is good.  Put it on my check, please, he tells Jeremy.  I wasn't quite feeling up for it, hadn't even showered, but it's good to be in good company.

And today is the first day, a chance to get caught up.  I take my medication and various health tonics, and proceed to take care of the backlog in the kitchen.  Tea cups in the rubber made tub in the sink.  The last of the fruit flies have grown fat and not so crafty.

One true sentence...

It has not yet arrived.  Perhaps I would prefer to do some organizing.

Monday, September 10, 2018

Just want to be normal...  Keep work separate from social life...

One true sentence.

It was raining hard.  Sunday afternoon, heading back to work for the first time since hearing the news of the sudden passing of my friend, the regular customer, Sunday evening being a weekly ritual.  The creek was high up to the green banks, a pipe was blasting water upward into the stream.  I walked with my college umbrella, golf-sized, purple and white, my heavier Brooks Gore-Tex running shoes.  Down into the woods, the path up ahead a channel of sitting water, then down across the bridge over the stream and up the long steep paved road.  My trudge to work, my warm-up for the lugging and the set-up.  The message on my phone, call me when you can, his ex wife, mother of his son, a familiar face.  I call her back.  He did not suffer, the paramedics said.  It happened suddenly, the hand brake on the car going as he took out the trash.  I explain when I last saw him, that Sunday night, before Labor Day.  She had gone up to where the son was a freshman, giving the news to him with the Dean and the Chaplain...

I walked onto work, changing out of my clothes, even my underwear.  Soaked through.  The kitchen folks are solicitous, sorry about your friend, and yeah, he'd been coming here a long time.

I'm a bit off.  A handsome couple comes, as predicted in the reservations to sit by the window.  Easy.  Order of escargot to share, then the kidneys in mustard sauce.  Tracking down hot bread from the busser.  Two glasses of Bordeaux.  Dinner followed by one creme brûlée and then another one.  Amicable.  The regular guy arrives as I begin with fumbles, mumbling the specials.  Chatting at the end of the bar.  Hold on a second.  It's taking my brain a bit to open the Bordeaux bottle and pour out two glasses.  Maybe it's the ragweed.

Then another arrival, newly habituated to the Gaul, then his date, they sit at a table.

(Beethoven piano concerto number five, the Emperor...  )

Another couple, a regular, coming up the stairs, as three ladies sit down, and which is the driest wine, so, tastes of Sancerre and Muscadet, sitting at the bar, as I fumble to make cocktails for the arrivals next to Mr. Chatty.  Old Fashioned, Manhattan... is the order.  What should I make it out of?  You pick, as if I might have an opinion, I go with rye, and again my brain struggles, to muddle, orange peel, breaking a glass on the first effort, and the mood feels kind of dreary to me.   A food order as I struggle to put together whiskey cocktails...  conversation...  Talk of Hemingway. .  what's your favorite...   Uhm... early short stories...  Big Two Hearted River, I guess...

Oh, we're out of salmon tartar, as the busboy comes over to help me cut bread.  The dishwasher is full of clean glassware, still warm from the cycle, and it would be nice to get some help with that rather than bread cutting...

Then an order for whiskey couple...  Okay okay...

Then the arrival of a Trans.  Who also is a talker, so you've got two conversation efforts going at two different ends of the bar...

When entertaining it is hard to do it without effort, without trying to do well.  I try to pull back, but that is not easy.

The departed, he always came on the late side, and often we'd been keeping the kitchen open just for his order, the last order, appetizer, entree...

My mother tells me, he must have needed to talk to you, she says when I call her.  You're doing a good job with all this...

And I'm there late, having an educational chat with the trans woman who is a lawyer, a year into her transition into womanhood.  It is the being penetrated that is the source of her pleasure.  She'll be having another operation soon.  She wants to be married to a man who treats her as a woman.

I'm there, late again.  But not too late, and an Uber driver, a guy from Lahore who understands the economic predicaments of service jobs and aging, gives me a ride home, pleasantly, and I go straight to bed without even looking at my phone.  No Thai lady boys, instead, Philip Larkin, gems like High Windows, and The Whitsun Weddings....

And in the morning, when I wake, I say to myself, you know, it would be nice to live a normal life.  Go to work, function as an economic unit doing his job, make money for the house, go home, and perhaps not even bother to write anymore.  Just have somewhere to go everyday, to not go crazy, to not encourage the late stayers..., to get home early, and rise and live another day, enjoying being alive as best as one can.

Sunday, September 9, 2018

Mom calls, quite frustrated with her loneliness.  Who cares, she asks, almost hanging up on me, after I encourage her with the thought that her errand in the car is doable, despite her fears of traffic and misdirection.

Later, after returning, with wine, she is feeling better.  A different person.  My angst settles back down to manageable levels.  One wishes he had help in such things.  She wishes the same for herself.

Not a good way to start the day writing.  A wasted hour and a half, as if time were wasted, not our karma....

After Jay's call, from Colorado, at the end of his shift, at two in the morning, waking up again, I tell him what's happened to our friend.  He's working at two restaurants now, since he moved to Denver.  He's planning another trek.  People still ask about you, Jay.

"I'm sorry, man.  I know he was your friend."

Later on, still awake, I have a bit of wine.   Boys from places far away, Buddhist countries, pretending to be girls, to fill up the time before falling back to sleep.

A zoned-out kind of a day, cooking shows, America's Test Kitchen on in the background.  Overcast, drizzling after the monsoon rains the night before.  I clean out the green tall kitchen wastebasket with Lysol spray and then soapy water.  The fruit flies that had found the contents of the trash bag depart into the cool dank air out on the back porch.  Laundry to do.  No work tonight.  Too much ragweed pollen yesterday, in the woods.  Walking along the path, I was probably covered from head to toe.

Death makes one more of a Buddhist.  The only way to deal with things.

The hard days of writing...  Days of pretending.

Tonight I'm drinking a Bouchard Ainé et Fils $11.99 Pinot Noir, Pays D'Oc.  I had some earlier out on the patio of Glen's Garden Market after my groceries for the workweek.  My experiment with black-eyed peas had familiar results.  It was good to take a break from animal protein, but...  I made sure I found some flax seed at the store, for additional fiber.

The man moved his hand down, to the right of his father's brown chair to the pine wine box that he had taken from work to be a sort of book stand or book shelf or side table.  Chateaux Gontey, 2010.   Nails in it.   Perfectly made.  Like a Japanese Zen temple.  A coffin for all the greats, Mastroianni, preferable to the ornate Christian metal caskets sold at funeral homes, why?  A pine box.  He liked the feel of it.  Wine should be enjoyed out of a tumbler.  Served cool,  and sometimes with a lime in it. Maybe a dash of bitters.  But the lime went well with the tannins.  Bourdain, shaman of the night, friend of Dostoesky, and Hemingway.

There is nothing wrong with a little wine, once you are a writer.  And I have no problem with the night.

I found a little tree to look at, sipping my wine, as a way of remembering my friend.  Bats wheeled in the hurricane remnant sky above apartment buildings, moving with the airs, reminding me of summer carnival rides that spin people around.  My friend.  Few people out on the patio.  I stare down at my iPhone and scroll through my blog.

I will go back to work tomorrow night.  One of the night's he would, by tradition, if in  town, not traveling in Africa, Cabo Verde, the Gambia, Burkina Faso, Rwanda, always come.  The other staff would ask, if things were slowing down, if he was coming.  Perhaps they could close the kitchen at 9 rather than 9:30, to start cleaning up, save on labor costs.

It is the provenance of great men that they come to know pain.  And I'm sure, we all do, in the final analysis.  We might smile and joke, but deep down we know pain, and while it's good to get out into the town and see other human beings of our own species, to reflect upon more than to necessarily interact with, it's also necessary to maintain a private sphere, a protective shell to keep around our thoughts so that we might harvest them and their fruits--a very serious business--and preserve them somehow.  Workers in the vineyard.  Protective of the fruit, so that when the vineyard's owner shall return we have done our jobs and not been wicked and wasteful.  We all know, wine is good, and it's nice not to run out of it.  A grand ennobling thing.

Mom has always been a pain in the ass.  Excitable, emotional, high strung.  Lincoln was born, grew up a bit, lived a bit, had a girlfriend or two, one of whom dying of the milk sickness, and then he met Mary.  She was bright and charming, a political asset.  As a teen, she was the precocious friend of Henry Clay.  Before she became Mary Lincoln and the whole town of Springfield knew of Mary Lincoln and her suffering husband.  Karma.  No wonder I never got married.

The arguments she'd start in cars on long trips, emotional operas of unhappiness.  The way she'd yell at my father, you're a failure, you're a failure.   Or when we were out in the car, a fire whistle going off, it's our house, our house that's burning.  Jesus Christ.  That's how I grew up.

Leaving me, like Ted Hughes, susceptible to craziness in mate and match.

And it's not her fault.  Now she calls herself a failure, because she cannot find the key to the mailbox, lets the bills pile up, expirations, cannot get her cable television back on-line.

I look down at the hairs of my arm.  A kind of fur.    The knob of bone on the outside of the wrist, where arm meets hand.  My arms are more tanned than my legs.   My hands are paws, but I can do things with them.  Type, play guitar, operate a knife, fold tee-shirts and old beat-up Brooks Brothers work shirts that let the evening light cover for their stains and inkspots, frayed thread.

I am broke again.

I remember that cold old chapel, with its window panes, stone stairs, old Yankee ironwork and Wyeth lines, Johnson Chapel up at Amherst on the hill, the little vulnerable college, an honest place, a separate place.   That was a start for me...

Why, one must ask himself, do we have connections to other men.  How do we feel them in our bones?  Why are we able to enter into their molecular chemistry, as if their ghosts sit kindly over us, protective, guiding.  As if to smile, as if to say, you got the point I was making, not in the details, but in the overview, because you, kid, are a good student, a good thinker.

I wonder, Lincoln...  ahead of his time.  He would not have minded a sorrowful song.  He would not have minded watching Ken Burns, and the old mellow bluegrass songs.  All that would have been in keeping...  That's life, he would have said.   Song of the Mountains, on PBS.  And if he were here today, the idiots on Fox would say, imagine, the man is supposed to help the free world and there he is listening to bluegrass on public television at 4:22 in the morning...  It is the unaffected, who make good music.  Bluegrass gospel singer Judy Marshall sings a song that goes with all the Civil War waters around these parts and that long drive up through Frederick and Harrisburg and Gettysburg, in order to get away from here...  the Northerner in Southern parts...

I often tell people, tourists at the bar, when they ask about the town, Washington, D.C., right down the road, Lincoln, the fucker would go to the cemetery just down the street, to view Willie's body in the middle of the night.

The connectedness.  That's the thing.  The thing for a writer.  Connecting things is not entirely the work of the conscious mind.  This is the reflection of a well-written piece, and I think something not entirely well understood, not about writing, not about my book, not even about known works such as Moby Dick.   The connectedness.  The melding in of a book with the logic of the Universe....

Friday, September 7, 2018

For awhile I stare at the Weather Channel, tea cooling in a mug, a hurricane shown in red, eggplant shaped, brewing south of Bermuda, another toddler in a car death, moderate weed pollen, flooding in the Midwest, wildfires in California, air quality okay.  What to make of my day.  Yesterday not incredibly productive, but nor was it anti productive, absorbing strange sudden incomprehensible news, the passing of a friend from up at the bar... a guy I know, knew, who got me, an older brother manqué, to the extent such things are possible.

The television cannot show the holes left in life, nor the old towns one once lived in, now largely memory, no place to stay.  To stay.


Late summer.  Humid.  Not quite as hot as days before, earlier this week.  Overcast.  Showers and thunderstorms expected. To the kitchen, back, peering again at the television, as if something is about to happen.  A fruit fly flits past the screen of my laptop, which is getting hot already.  Tropical downpours over the weekend.  I am off today.  I fill the Pur water filter pitcher with tap water after topping off the Britta filter from the Pur pitcher, running the garbage disposal with hot water after washing yesterday's few dishes, a pot, two mugs, water glasses.  The little pouch of turmeric is right in front of me, finally, after looking for it.  I stir some into the hot water mug with lime.  None of this is usable prose.

Lucia called me from the restaurant around 9 last night.  They had heard the news.  Perhaps tomorrow night, we will gather, toward the end of the night, to remember our friend.

Who knows what we will come up with today, Kurt Vonnegut...  In light of events, life now, at this age, is all about correcting, about living a simple healthy life.  I take my Lexapro tablet, and then the Propranalol.  Get those down while I drink my tea and hot water, before I eat, so I don't get the shits, liquid coming out at the far end of my guts.  Yoga on the forecast today, the body having recovered from the wear and tear of non stop Jazz and non stop Wine Tasting, both nights with fourteen tops in the back room, a special menu, wine to pour, water glasses, plates to lug away back, around the bar, into the bar, down on the milk crates after swiping them off into the garbage, silverware into the plastic quart containers in the bins below the sinks with the ice and the wine.  The same bus tub model as when I first came to town thirty years ago.  Still, this is progress.

And how many men in the America, Mr. Jack Kerouac, are trying to take their eyes off the pretty Weather Channel lady's abundance in red dress...  And maybe, somehow, she senses this aspect of the show, as intelligent, as capable, as perfectly professional as she is, the selling of weather with a little sexy sexy.  Attractiveness, they call it, which is itself a great illusion, finally.

The world is full of conflicting things, the great mix of science and commercialism and the unavoidable sex drive of the creature, and by being there and lasting it out and growing and becoming a part of the culture, The Weather Channel, with its pioneering Local On The Eights has won.  And so, for now at least, has Trump.  And Twitter, and Facebook.  And we are addicted.

Writing is about transition.  The necessary transitions that keep with the evolution of the human being and the capacity to be a spiritual creature.

And then my thoughts are disrupted.  My old longtime friend passed away not for any health-related thing, as I might have expected, but because of a tragic accident.  Naturally, thoughts go out.  It is all I can do to go take a long walk down into the woods and by the stream, calling my mom from the sandy bank with the plane trees level above the creek...

Later on, a pouring rain comes.  Added to the news of death.

And yet, quietly within, there is some kind of acceptance.  That's all you can do.

"The readiness is all," it's said, in Shakespeare, somewhere toward the last act of Hamlet.  Readiness means connectedness, the facility to connect ourselves with other human beings, make friends out of them, even in their craziness, even as we pass through the gritty jumbled chaotic Penn Stations of life, feeling like Ellis Island immigrants.

Thursday, September 6, 2018

I felt proud of my job, somehow, walking slowly to it, on a hot day, enjoying the cool of the woods, then past the brick walls of Dumbarton Oaks...  turning right, passed the cool glass of Philip Johnson museum of round pods, the shade of the spruce, the old brick house with the gate, walking along the fence the forest below, then past the cottage, then the final stand of larches before the parking lot and the avenue.

"What do you hope to achieve...  Expecting a different outcome..." was my therapist's reaction to my joining twitter, and finding a follower.. skeptical as I told her, following an old acquaintance perceived as a friend, her following me back.  Oh, it's no big deal.  We share the same politics, I said, shrugging it off.  Pro-environment.  Anti-Trump.  She looked at me.  We were near the end of the session.  I'd done what I could at that point.  I wrote a check and slipped out the door.

Every day the worker must go to work.  For the writer, no different.

People have been doing physical work since Adam's time, and so too have they been playing with words.  I found my own life and my jobs no different.  There was an accepting pride in it, at a molecular level, and endeavored always to do it as best I could.  I wasn't above manual labor.  I like working with my hands.  Opening wine bottles, keeping a bar tidy.   I might have felt sad I wasn't, say, teaching, inspiring young minds, but for me, that's where writing came in.  Writing is as important as the physical work.  I get paid for the work at the bar.  The writing has a pay-off all its own.

There are brighter minds out there.  Sophisticated, good on the important issues of the day.  Sometimes, I check in on them.  And then will I go back into my own seeming childish way of viewing the world, having imagined myself as a sort of simpleton, village idiot.  Not willing to be part of the great argument, the great political culture wars of the day which have grown very dire and loud and polarized in singularly depressing ways, having created one of the most divided and unhappiest of times.

To my tastes, as much as the sophisticate might take on an issue, eloquently state a position, have the right things in mind as far as equality, be quite clever and a wordsmith, yet somewhere lurking within eventually emerges a hypocrisy.  The deeply embedded hypocrisy is perhaps no one's immediate fault, but rather a measure of what can only be corrected with the proper thought, proper speech, proper action, proper occupation, proper vocation, such as the Buddha observed two thousand five hundred years before us.  Behaving properly, with proper conduct, we would refrain first from the behavior, say, being outspoken of opinion, offering a judgement, quickly and with such a confidence...

Indeed, before observing the beam, the dust, in the eyes of another, first take it out of your own.

I went to work feeling liberated, later that day.  I'd had a bike ride to start the day, thirty five minutes, a good sweat, I did some yoga, very satisfactorily.  And then, as I walked to work, a hot day, but not bad for the humidity, only around fifty percent, I felt a whole genre of illusions being dispelled.  At first I felt sad, as if I'd hoped that a conversation with an old friend could be pursued in the spirit of friendship and good humor.  After the initial social media acceptance, I had, upon getting up finally, found myself blocked.  I felt stung.  There I go again, being a creep, being taken as a creep.  Oh, well.

And this is about writing, even in social media form;  this is where I live.  Rejection of politely meant efforts hurts.

But with the yoga and the meditations and the Buddha in place, I felt good enough, healthy enough to shrug on my way to work.  I had created it all, in my mind, and now, feeling decently and in good health, I found a new power, and one aimed at dispelling it all.

It was still, in some world of communications that never happen, necessary to apologize for my blundering foolishness, offering up a silly poem regarding my old friend's quip about her hair color.  It had, apparently, not being well-received, imagine that.  It was not intended to be trolling, nor to be offensive, nor to make something out of nothing.

Attempts to address such awkwardness with humor are in untouchable arena.  Fault has an all-reaching abundance.  The innocent is proven guilty.  And too often the ostensibly proper will jump on the bandwagon of accusal.

At a stage in life, one begins to wonder.  Why should I need the approval of any external influence?  And one largely created in my own mind, anyway.  How silly the whole thing!  And why should I need to look toward anyone for approval,  or to continue on with my diminishment of self.  Why should I look badly upon my efforts of hardwork and making a room full of people and wine bar regulars feel welcome, content, accepted.  Why have I become the wrong-doer?

Only in the eye of the artist, forward thinking, not bound so to the law and order of cop mentality, will the offender be seen as the innocent one, the good and decent man.

Indeed, because of the strive for sophistication, some people end up standing for the very opposite thing you do.  And what can you do but continue to accept yourself and your efforts as valid and self-driven.

And why get worked up about anything related to social media anyway...

Judge not, lest ye be judged.

And yet judgment is emphasized.

It had been ordained, as if a long long long time ago, at the very creation of things in the great burst, that I would live such a life and ultimately become.  I don't know exactly what, but something along the lines of a Buddhist, a Christian, a thinker of Theosophical tradition...

It was not an easy night.  Georgetown University, a fourteen top in the back room.  A jazz trio, singer, keyboard, bass...  Temperature at the wine bar around 79 degrees.

But yeah, I get it...  Who wants to be involved with other people... when lives are full of the tragic and complexities...  Who necessarily wants people cast off in the past back in their minds again...  Knowing people hurts.