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Monday, March 31, 2003
Lately… don't know why… it's been things sticking out of walls. A paneling brad, shook loose by spooks. A slot wall prong, laden with blister-packed store products. A long, hinged towel rack. A coat hook. An inadequately bent-down nail, protruding through the obverse of a rustic door.
All of these and more, waiting to snag, tug and scrape at me and my garments as we hurry through the rooms and hallways of life. It feels as if they are saying, "hold on there, mister… not so fast!" But why? Why are my perambulations any of their beeswax? What is WITH these clutching corridors of enforced reflection? Like stationary skeeters a-pricking my conscience and a-pulling my cardigan, they relentlessly intrude upon my peace of mind.
Or am I the intruder? Does the convex catch ...bulging from the arm of yet another ruined waffle henley... whisper: "You heard the partition. G'wan… beat it… there's a world out there! Git!"
Dunno, friends.
But I do know this much:
3 "new" Berrie Jigglers are on the way:
"Sheba," a faux-Indian deity,
"Kilroy" ...the GI graffitto made manifest in rich, redolent, oily "Quiverall" with a schnozz like Mr. Natural,
and a nameless, running police officer.
Can't wait, and I'll suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous interseptal juttroddery if life will only keep these gelatinous joy-bringers a' coming.
All of these and more, waiting to snag, tug and scrape at me and my garments as we hurry through the rooms and hallways of life. It feels as if they are saying, "hold on there, mister… not so fast!" But why? Why are my perambulations any of their beeswax? What is WITH these clutching corridors of enforced reflection? Like stationary skeeters a-pricking my conscience and a-pulling my cardigan, they relentlessly intrude upon my peace of mind.
Or am I the intruder? Does the convex catch ...bulging from the arm of yet another ruined waffle henley... whisper: "You heard the partition. G'wan… beat it… there's a world out there! Git!"
Dunno, friends.
But I do know this much:
3 "new" Berrie Jigglers are on the way:
"Sheba," a faux-Indian deity,
"Kilroy" ...the GI graffitto made manifest in rich, redolent, oily "Quiverall" with a schnozz like Mr. Natural,
and a nameless, running police officer.
Can't wait, and I'll suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous interseptal juttroddery if life will only keep these gelatinous joy-bringers a' coming.
(Apropos of previous posting, my song: CACTUS BOY. Since the 5 people who ever listened to the song all the way through probably never listened twice, here's the lyric.)
Go on and mingle among 'em a little bit, go on, child.
What's that quizzical sniffle they greet you with? What's that, child?
That's just the way they know their own... it's a very special smell!
When you catch a whiff of it, run like hell.
A group's a gang's a mob's an army: itching to deploy.
"Noli Me Tangere."
You tell 'em.
You're "IT," Cactus Boy.
There's a whole buncha nothing a-crawling through the world, child.
When it eyeballs on Something, it wants to make it die.
One's a soul, and two's a love song. Yonder come a hoi polloi...
Wish 'em all out into the cornfield, Cactus Boy.
Everybody!
-Copyright 2000 Sport Murphy-
(Note: "cactus" as in: Arms up, spines out, alone in the wasteland. "Noli Me Tangere" is Latin for "Don't Touch Me" …it's also the name of a plant bearing spurs. Hoi Polloi is the masses. All groups are dangerous. Most individuals are, to some extent, worth knowing; they're "something." They gravitate to groups, though, becoming nothing in the process. This is my proudest recorded accomplishment. The "everybody" shout at the end is a joke on sing-alongs, as well as announcing who should be "wished out into the cornfield" …which is another Twilight Zone reference. The episode is "It's A Good Life," starring Billy Mumy. I imagined the song as a Broadway song, performed by a cast of one to an empty theater. Musically, it was an attempt to answer the age-old question "what if Henry Cowell wrote "One For My Baby?")
Go on and mingle among 'em a little bit, go on, child.
What's that quizzical sniffle they greet you with? What's that, child?
That's just the way they know their own... it's a very special smell!
When you catch a whiff of it, run like hell.
A group's a gang's a mob's an army: itching to deploy.
"Noli Me Tangere."
You tell 'em.
You're "IT," Cactus Boy.
There's a whole buncha nothing a-crawling through the world, child.
When it eyeballs on Something, it wants to make it die.
One's a soul, and two's a love song. Yonder come a hoi polloi...
Wish 'em all out into the cornfield, Cactus Boy.
Everybody!
-Copyright 2000 Sport Murphy-
(Note: "cactus" as in: Arms up, spines out, alone in the wasteland. "Noli Me Tangere" is Latin for "Don't Touch Me" …it's also the name of a plant bearing spurs. Hoi Polloi is the masses. All groups are dangerous. Most individuals are, to some extent, worth knowing; they're "something." They gravitate to groups, though, becoming nothing in the process. This is my proudest recorded accomplishment. The "everybody" shout at the end is a joke on sing-alongs, as well as announcing who should be "wished out into the cornfield" …which is another Twilight Zone reference. The episode is "It's A Good Life," starring Billy Mumy. I imagined the song as a Broadway song, performed by a cast of one to an empty theater. Musically, it was an attempt to answer the age-old question "what if Henry Cowell wrote "One For My Baby?")
Well, I never did get around to talking about seeing Laura, Ken, Kelly and Pavol at Mars (great friends and gangs o' fun) or meeting John Strausbaugh (a good egg), nor seeing Steve Espinola's set at sidewalk as well as Debby Schwartz's set (both splendid) nor getting well loaded as young David, Meredith and Bianca Bob sat by helplessly (a lovely hang). It was nice. But, while cleaning up my desktop clutter I found an immediately pre-war entry I decided not to post. I'll put it up in part, though. Mainly because all the schtick and sarcasm might give a wrong impression, even though I will mostly continue to avoid comment as this thing progresses, because what I think doesn't matter worth shit. Just seems like this thing comes up enough in conversation that some less flippant comment is probably worthwhile for blog balance. Anyway, here's some of that.
Well, geez... in spite of all the recent tomfoolery and wiseass provocations various, the day looms and a sober mood descends. Do we begin the war today or what? We'll see. I used to spend St Patrick's day with the clan, being Irish and looking to see if we could catch Pete marching in the parade. In even older days, it'd be the old man sharing some whiskey with us as we listened to the old songs and I'd slip on some Pogues to watch the old man roaring with laughter at Shane's vulgarities. Fado, fado; Pete's gone and the old man can't do the whiskey no more and I don't even know if we'll see the parade.
After the Afghanistan bombings began, one of Pete's in-laws forwarded around a picture of a bomb with "PETE VEGA FDNY LADDER 118" painted on it. Some of his Air Force brethren had done up a number of them like that. What was one supposed to think? Was I to feel ashamed of the partial vengeful bloodlust I felt? Was I supposed to be sickened by it as was that other, pacifist part of me? Well both, sort of. But neither, honestly. I truly couldn't find any satisfaction in the idea of bombs decimating people, especially bombs bearing the name of a guy I loved, who died saving lives from a hostile attack. I couldn't pretend there was something "wrong" in the action of those flyboys, trying to put a measure of direct, personal purpose into their duties.I just saw his name, finally, and remembered that this name was once attached to funny drawings doodled during perfectly banal afternoons and loving letters sent from overseas. The bombs had NOTHING to do with Pete. The picture became a blank thing to me: Just another totem of a world I refuse to try understanding.
Everything there is to understand is too small and ugly to warrant words. Too huge and grotesque to put a frame around. It's what humans do, that's all. I appreciate what motivates the teeming doves at their rallies (many of whom are my dear friends) and I appreciate what moves the resolute hawks (many of whom are my dear friends) to cheer this action. But what I think is absolutely meaningless, so I've chosen to simply make jokes when discussing it at all. My sense of country dictates that all first concerns are for our troops and our citizens, and if that isn't sufficiently "global" or humanist, then I'm a dick...we all knew that. It doesn't mean I want Iraqis to get snuffed, either. Who wants any of this? Still, here it comes. I don't get humans at all. Well, that's not true. I do get them. Way too clearly. My song Cactus Boy is what I think about it all, so that's enough.
Well, geez... in spite of all the recent tomfoolery and wiseass provocations various, the day looms and a sober mood descends. Do we begin the war today or what? We'll see. I used to spend St Patrick's day with the clan, being Irish and looking to see if we could catch Pete marching in the parade. In even older days, it'd be the old man sharing some whiskey with us as we listened to the old songs and I'd slip on some Pogues to watch the old man roaring with laughter at Shane's vulgarities. Fado, fado; Pete's gone and the old man can't do the whiskey no more and I don't even know if we'll see the parade.
After the Afghanistan bombings began, one of Pete's in-laws forwarded around a picture of a bomb with "PETE VEGA FDNY LADDER 118" painted on it. Some of his Air Force brethren had done up a number of them like that. What was one supposed to think? Was I to feel ashamed of the partial vengeful bloodlust I felt? Was I supposed to be sickened by it as was that other, pacifist part of me? Well both, sort of. But neither, honestly. I truly couldn't find any satisfaction in the idea of bombs decimating people, especially bombs bearing the name of a guy I loved, who died saving lives from a hostile attack. I couldn't pretend there was something "wrong" in the action of those flyboys, trying to put a measure of direct, personal purpose into their duties.I just saw his name, finally, and remembered that this name was once attached to funny drawings doodled during perfectly banal afternoons and loving letters sent from overseas. The bombs had NOTHING to do with Pete. The picture became a blank thing to me: Just another totem of a world I refuse to try understanding.
Everything there is to understand is too small and ugly to warrant words. Too huge and grotesque to put a frame around. It's what humans do, that's all. I appreciate what motivates the teeming doves at their rallies (many of whom are my dear friends) and I appreciate what moves the resolute hawks (many of whom are my dear friends) to cheer this action. But what I think is absolutely meaningless, so I've chosen to simply make jokes when discussing it at all. My sense of country dictates that all first concerns are for our troops and our citizens, and if that isn't sufficiently "global" or humanist, then I'm a dick...we all knew that. It doesn't mean I want Iraqis to get snuffed, either. Who wants any of this? Still, here it comes. I don't get humans at all. Well, that's not true. I do get them. Way too clearly. My song Cactus Boy is what I think about it all, so that's enough.