It Has Been A While...

Since last it was that I addressed the little sector of my personal universe. The world is ever-expanding, ladies and gentlemen. The green stuff grows, the big sky goes blue and gray, the sun beats down and the moons sleeps late. The cars go on puttering through the fabricated surface; the people scratch their heads and wonder. I am that scratcher on the side of the road, forgetting every five minutes where it was he need to kill his extra time away.

I found a glint, of a sliver of silver light sparkling through a crack in the social system reflective of my existence. I found a gem. A wonderous creature, clad in sadness mixed with truth. Good, wholesome, delicate, formative, life-long truths, and I feel purged with every word transversed. I'll stay ten paces away, for now. I'll let the bullet get comfy in the barrel, I'll let the breach be stopped and waiting; I'll let the sights be seen and surrendering before I take the leap.

I felt my soul awake again. I felt the feet of a man fond of walking wish to walk, and love the walk, and need the walk, and take the walk. I go walking after midnight in my thoughts to thoughts of Someone, searching out the reaches.

Yes,
I realize this is all so damn abstract and impersonal. I realize I've gone and done it again, makin no sense and gettin' ya'll confused. Well sorry, chaps. It's what I do. You've known for a while, you should know by now sometimes I have to act this way.

-C.A.D.ominick

poem

Here is now, but now's still waiting...
By the by, I am contemplating;
Somewhere in there
I sat and stared deep into you.

A penny in the pocket,
Kept too long because it was the year of my birth.
And spent and spending still,
It goes away from me,
She goes away from me;
To better company,
While my breath,
Heart,
And butterflies
Are slavery.

Well I confess,
It's not the best way to progress.
Now I'll digress,
And say you make me want to be
A better man.

Wisdom found inside a shell,
A youthful shade,
A patch of grass
I softly want to lay upon
And pray to not move on
From for a very long time.

Intertwined,
We might just have
A lovely time.
Well here is now, but now's not waiting anymore.
And out the door,
You go,
And soon the night, it tells me no,
It lets you go and tells me no.

"You're on the sidelines, will you play, or sit it out another day?"

I am just a mess. I get myself into these predicaments and later I stop and look back and say, "what the fuck?" Well, here's the goddamn truth, since no one asked and I had to tell myself of my own accord.

I'm sick and tired of being so safe, especially with people. I say things, that comfort me, and I say them to others, and I front something I'm not, and then the light I leave to be seen of me is false. No specifics, no, no, you silly bastards. You're not getting that juicy bit of information. Nonetheless, here I am, all tangled and trapped, by the cage that was my own design, and I need to get free. This means some tough talks, and some realization turned action, and some owning up to the person I should be. "Well darling, I care for you much, but you and I aren't going to be that bit that make it. Far away is not the reach my arms can acquire." "And you, fair lady, what do you see in me?' 'Is this just some silly dance, an attractive tease, a ridiculous pasttime for when we are down, and happen to be around?"

Chuck's goin off the deep end, folks. I swear if I don't crack by morning its coming after coffee for sure.

-C

Coffee And Cigarettes

Coffee, coffee, coffee,
Cigs, ciggy-cig cigs.

No particular reference to the movie, by the way, which I have never even seen.

Oh, what abstractions I've been feeling as the days roll by...

*I don't know you well, but I am always wondering about you some, and then some more...

**I don't know what it is you feel, or expect to happen, and I can't promise that it won't hurt a little bit more before it is over.

***I am finding in me something for you that I haven't found for a while, but did you notice, or am I out of place again?

Trials and trouble at every corner. My own fear dragging me down to these ridiculous abstractions for fear of discovery. Discovery! The chief potential nature of man.

How I long sometimes to really free me of these open wounds I won't let heal.

Silly me, I guess. Cigarettes are my best friends. They are there, all the time, no reason, no rhyme. I am sad, but then the cigarette holds my lips together, and keeps them from the quiver and shiver of the cold, capsuled creatures that press me down and wear me out and stare and stare.

Hey coffee, you old sonofabitch, wake me up, get me there... You do, you really, really do.

O, here we go; the sedatives are setting themselves in my stomach again, and my eyes are first to notice. Heavy and hungry, and ready to drowsily drip away into the night. Well 1984 is next to my bed, and that will surely press the pillow to the back of my head, and fractions of Winston will lure me into a paranoia-panic, and my dreams will be manic with naked limbs, and summer sun, and no one around, and death and decay, and gray gray skies that glaze over my eyes, as I lay awake and wonder when it is I'll be alive without the burden of being alive.

O fractions, O fractions,
O you useless distractions,
How I long and I long
To just let it go by.
Still the night is often somber,
And the music's made for winter,
And I never resume to bother
How seldom this makes sense
When it never gets any better.

"And so they will turn from sleep and search the darkness, seeking the love their fathers have forgotten. And they will dream of her, who have not known her, and ache and ache for that lost limb forever."
-Carolyn Kizer



...who fucking cares.

-C

Attempt At Death Portrayal

When day has reached its final day,
And Breath has blown its final breath
I will not close my eyes before
The mystery that is my death.

Teathered neath an outward star
The wind below still coldly sways.
Well I am thinking death is due
When I am living old and gray.

Old and gray, and full from life;
Much time long passed, in child and wife.
But if death dare to take me young
Then all my days I shall forever run.

When freedom falls, when terror dawns,
When men beseige their worldly bonds;
Upon the hill of death's delay
Is where I spend my dying day.

Fair Death does not discriminate.
It's wicked ways will cause you pain.
So seek revenge if Death should find you;
For when you die, do not die in vain.

Well we will run as we see fit,
In fight or flight, great Death still wins.
The deep, distant ocean may well swallow me whole,
But in Deaths final blow he takes all but my soul.


*I wrote it on Benadryl, so excuse the inattention to quality. Or perhaps I'm just horrible about writing about death. Death is real; the realest thing there could be, next to life, I suppose. But I don't know what death is like. I imagine what I think it could be. Death is an action. An action self-inflicted, acted upon someone/something else, or witnessed. How many times in the depths of nights cloak have you wondered what death becomes? As for me, O so many at time do I dare question the only immortal entity that exists in existence. Death is Omniscient, if be there no God to take such a role. It need only know one thing: all shall die. I didn't fall of the rocker ladies and gents; today was strange. I ran over my own cat today, to be blunt about stating such a fact. I didn't see her sleeping in the grass, but as I reversed the truck to move some wood I felt and heard her all at once from beneath the truck and I knew... It was like a wave of shock, as much as she felt in that fatal moment, transpired into me, and my heart sank beneath my chest. She did not die immediately, and that is the horrible part. I must have hit her in such a way as the incapacitate her by breaking her spine, for she could not control her back legs. The pain was self-evident by the look on her face; in her eyes. This cat, that I picked out from the litter age two, this cat's life ended my the same hands that gave to her this life, today. I tried to reach the vet in time to see if the wounds were fatal. She died shortly before I reached the pet hospital. I drove slowly home and held my hand on her side as she sat silent and still in the passenger seat next to me. I asked God to forgive me for what I had done, even though I am not religious; even though it was unintentional; even though it was only a cat. This cat was twenty years old, and in one brief moment I reversed every year she ever lived. The toughest cat I had ever known; surviving nearly all of her offspring. A sprite, carefree, hunting, loving, loyal creature who only asked for love anytime we were near her. I will never see her again. That is death.
I buried her earlier today next to a cat that died a few years ago. The only thing I can think about is how it wasn't supposed to be today; like this. She would have outlived my dog, for christs sake. But she is gone, by my hands. I gave her no tears. I have no tears. Because everytime I see death I am caught in a dream-like separation from the waking and painful reality before me. I apologize for thoroughly depressing you with this, it was not my intention either. Now go and fucking give your cats some loving, and always, ALWAYS make sure the path is clear before you reverse.

Fuck.

-C

If The Forecast Calls For More Of This I'll Be Spending My Summer Drunk And Pissed...

I am momentarily trying to collect my thoughts, so bear with me for these first few lines...


It seems like the days run together like runny eggs and I can't really separate anything anymore. Stimulation; the kind that's good for you, anyways, has been scarce, to say the least. The only light from being here thus far is from one or two good souls who have rejuvinated my love and need and affirmated faith in the need and want of music.

I am trying to rectify myself. I am trying to lick the self-inflicted wounds of the werewolf-like murdering bad atitude towards myself and my surroundings. I am trying to inflict some change. It's hard, you know. And then, even then I wonder if I'm just being selfish with all the "me's" and "I's" and what not. I mean, it is my blog, but who who want to read MY take on MY feelings and MY opinions of MYSELF? "What a narcissistic prick," you would say. I don't blame you. Whatever little readers I once had in the beginning have probably faded to the two or three I began with. I guess that's not what is important, really. This is, in base and simple form, another way of journaling, in a different form. Still, you have to cater to the idea of an outside audience. So I am at a stop, folks. The curtains aren't opening, and they're not closing either, because the stagehand is out back having a cigarette and the crowd has long since silenced, awaiting the next act, but I'm still and silent.

Back to good music. For instance, I'm listening to Ray LaMontagne right now, the current song being "Hannah." What a glorious name, don't you think? Two h's, two a's, and two n's. It's genious, really. Or Anna. Same thing minus those lovely h's. Nothing really profound, just one of those things; the little extras that make life a little more worth living, for reasons on their own. I have bought six cd's so far this week. The formentioned Ray LaMontagne, two Howlin Wolf cds, (fucking incredible blues, I highly recommend them), a Sly and The Family Stone that was slytly disappointing, and two Bob Dylan cd's that were necessary to my being. To quote a friend, in reference to Bob Dylan, "that man is playing for the right team." I highly agree. I think that still so far my favorite song by Mr. Dylan has got to be "I Want You" off Blonde On Blonde. It's just so damn right. Up next to purchase: The James Gang, Greatest Hits. I have a dear friend that is dead set against the whole "greatest hits" business, but the way I see it, unless they came out with ridiculous amounts of music that lasted through the decades with real style and, say, pinasch, I might as well get the goddamn greatest hits and save myself some bucks for the sake of having the majority of good ones in one sitting. I'm not a collector, and cd's mean shit to collect. Hell, in five or ten more years I'm sure they'll be as obsolete and even less popular than the late, great, cassette tape. At least with that when you make a mix you must make it with the mindset that it will be listened to start to finish. But we are lazy these days, aren't we? Everything has to be quick and simple.

Which gets me thinking... Today I was working in the yard with my father, and we were putting benches around our pond. No ordinary benches, mind you, but solid limestone, heavier-than-your-car benches. We took these old limestone steps from a former property of ours, of which were the only bit left, (after some asshole decided to torch the place for a gas) and moved them to our house. We had to use an engine lift just to raise them high enough to put on their simple foundations and vertical pillar placements. I'm sure by now you're bored with this bit, but the point is soon to surface, so stay with me. At any rate, after all the grunting and moving and lifting and straightening, we had two large, park-style, solid limestone benches, probably weighing close to two-thousand pounds each. I, being a lazy shit in the morning, grumbled something like, "thank god that's over, I fucking hate moving this shit around." Then my father looked at me and he said, "no, you're missing the point.' 'A hundred years from now people are going to see these things and think, "how cool," because they will last that long, and they'll wonder how we did it, and you know." I love my father. He is, blow for blow, the wisest and most admirable man I know. I know it may not seem so sometimes, but that is how it is. He is my rock. The man who raised me. I am proud to say that I am the son of Michael James.

What I miss now is my counter-heart, and my counter-mind. Those two great people still reside in the northland. I have my counter-musicmen down here, but without those others I run at half-speed. Apparently this journey I have beset myself to endure has begun already and won't be stopping when I turn the key arriving home. Infact, it is seemingly more of a vacation from this life that scares me more deeply. Deep like the currents of a blue and lonely ocean that I dream about in dreams so sired by my heart that aches and wakes without me anymore. You see, these days I live internally. I never let anyone else in, really, and so I am always a mystery, but nobody asks why, because why would they? So I find myself alone in more ways than one, day by day. Of course, now its spring and love is sprung and I am done for to watch all my dear friends converge and share that sacred, lovely thing that's always worth living for, while I drive my car away into the backroads of my heart. I would almost have to stumble over Her to find Her now.

But love is ever-fleeting, such as life; such as change. We are born and we start dying and the time between is that bit of time we try to take and rearrange our thoughts and lives into something worthy of dying for. Well, if nothing else, I think I'll just die because I was born. That seems to be the simplest way to end the Day that eventually turns. Roll away, as they say.

I share with you the echoing fractions of my heart because I feel it must be so. You never ask for it, and I never ask you to read it. If you've come this far you'll come a little further. Certain things remind us we are alive, as you may know. I have been absent of those things for a time, and it hurts me and it scares me to think it might never be back, though I won't believe that that is so. If you find those things, please stick to them, with life and limb, and remember why they above all else matter; why they precede any expectation to anyone or anything.

I resign myself to sleep.

-The son of Michael James

Good Morning Mr. Edmontan, Good Morning To You...

Well, well, well; 10:19 in the am here and I am just getting around. Normally I'm up by eight 'o' clock, but it was raining, and in my job that means sleep in and take it easy... oh yeah, I did.

Well, by the calendars, summer has almost slammed down upon us all, and Spring Fever is lessening and lessening by the day. The loved ones are locked together for summers activities, the single ones are pressed and rushing to get that second partner for the sake of enjoying their carefree season, and the there's the rest of us; married, child-ridden, old, or adolescent vagabonds. I think I'm one of those single ones, in a stupor of unrelaxed flaunting, or something. Sure, sure, I don't care if I meet someone, or someone new, I guess. I always seem to set myself up to be too busy anyways.

Ahh, shit. The less I use my rational, everyday train of thinking, the less I CAN untilize it when I want or need to. I think I'll just drink a lot more coffee and get all cracked out on caffeine and nicotine, as is the daily custom.

On the up and up, I am working on three music projects, currently. The first is a band, garage style, very fun, very good, and lots of head bobbing is always in order. The second is a country-style group, but I have yet to really hear how that will come out, and have also yet to play, but the prospect seems quite promising. The third is with a good friend of mine, Mr. Jason A. He is moving back to Colorado soon and want to get ten of his songs done before he takes off, to have somthing laid down with him wherever he goes. Lest to say, he called the most promiscuous drummer there is in town, and I jumped at the opportunity accordingly. I will give you updates as they form, and links and such to the music when it is up.

Adios for now, I need me a cigarette.

-C

2:35

Feelings... I have caught myself in a corner, very tight,very transparent, so that you all will see me from any and every angle. Well, with a scoff I disincline the offer to abide the open-hearted suggestive type-tones I have once endured; subject-heavy, subject-studied, but no longer will my subjects procure such personale inceptions.

Go, or go ahead. That's what I hear. Along with spiders crawling up my leg and on the back of my neck. I wisk then away, but the feeling always stays. One bottle of rum, one bottle of vodka, one bottle of wine. You would think by now that I'm into a fine time. Still I seek the sleep that my body can't keep.

In the night, do You dream of those who are like You? Disturbed a little, dreaming and needing and loving of things quaint and quiet? Or do You need that balance? That one and only other to couter-attack your gains and losses? For me I do not know, but the likeness I want so.

I don't really care anymore that this is nothingness about no one. I really don't need to be constructive for my audience. I am constructive all day long. Let me be abstract and unchanged by the outside efforts to cool me out and thin me out and deny me and extract me and contract me and dilute me and every other separation from the whole.

Advice:
Read books.
Listen to good music.
Go about some free labor once in awhile.
Take a long look at nature, within it.
Dedicate a day to your thoughts alone.
Love rightly, and fully, and wholly.
Grieve well, and let it go.
Sing your own song, and no one else's.

Stop reading this blog unless you gain from it something other than what I've been doing with my time. No value, no use.





Go To Sleep.

I Am.

Goodnight.

-C.A.D.ominick

Five Minute Prose (Nothing To Do With Anything)

Battering rams of plight and plunder upon the night asunder into scapes and shapes of a dreary dream-flight. I cast my spectacled whims of peering spears into the omniscience of consequence, and lo and behold what an atrocity I see before me in the dim-lit grim sight of the city.

Or wake, or dream, or patches of green, green grass ever-enfold me for the prosperity of pleasure through the slivers of periphery. O, I am not a lark and you are not a liar to deprive me of my sun when you would stay while I can run. It's no so diffident as the cataclysmic conscience of our common, fellow free-bred wonder brothers and sisters.

A child of the stars, ever-moving with the systematic bars of brighter glowing Mars. How are we to be so solipcistic in the wake of our emotions? How are we so full of life and still so drawn by death?

I bend, twist, and burn the sinews of my being for the freedom of the flowing of my atoms, limbs, and blood-worn, scattered heart. I see you now, lone upon the hill, I see you you. Bright as the moon and distant as the ants upon the tall, tall trees. I mean you no burdens, I mean you no fears. For only death can bring such enigmatic praise to the character of a black heart procession. It is my duty, as I will say, to deliver to you the most whimsical of days, so that in the purging surge that meets you mind you find the words you meant to find, and leave behind the ones that take away immortality today.

We are forever.
Nothing in this world is so easy to discover.
Yet I burn, and pace, and lost beneath the
Shade trees I discover how you had hoped
To find things feeling better.
Superfluous flowing arms that deck the
Grass covered in dew discover other
Arms unfolding for the grasp of simple,
Easy,
Let loose and freeing,
Caring,
Needing,
Self-empowered, love exhuming,
Grasps of pure significance.

There will always be you.
Timeless, frightened as a child
In the clattering midst of a thunderstorm;
Free and easy You, whose apparitions
Asail and ascend into the depths
And whispering corners of my soul.

You are here and now.
I am with you always.
So much so that even
When I close my eyes
I find your face
Resounding woes, and
Wearing straight through to my existence.


-C.A.Dominick