"This one goes in June. June comes before July, and after May. So anytime that you hear its June, just put this in the mail."

A little line from a new favorite movie of mine, Buffalo '66. A damn good flick if you ask me.

As you might gather by the already transparent tone of this blog, its going to be a puff piece. By that, of course, I mean full of bullshit, pointlessness, and triviality.

I mean, seriously, do I dare be so goddamn heavy all the time? What fun is that. The thing about things written, (and I read this in Cosmopolitan) is that something like 70 or 80% of the time the tone is misinterpreted, so suffice to say I am not always so fucked up, weird and deep. If you know the Chucker, (and some of you do) you know that I am a pretty easy-going motherfucker most of the time. Still, when it comes to writing I just can't get the feel for conversational-type writing. For some reason if its written its solid, to me. And solid is absolute, built, finished, and forever, or something like that. Seriously people, why the fuck do you read this shit anyways? I'm curious. You know what it feels like? It feels like I am in a room surrounded by two-way mirrors, and am told to think aloud, and nobody is to reply. Well, I want a bone, bitches. I want to hear you shout it, shout it, shout it out loud. You won't, little devils. You'll just sit there at your desks; before bed, on break, or in the morning sitting there all the while thinking how I've fallen off the porch of sanity and simply drowned myself in my own literary vomit from binge babbling. Fuckaduck.

... So I'm looking at my little cd tower right now in front of me. I think I'll share whats in it with you. Give you a little helping of Chucko's music tastes.

From top to bottom (for no particular reason, mind you)
-Bob Dylan: Blonde On Blonde
-The(International)Noise Conspiracy: Survival Sickness
-Ryan Adams: Heartbreaker
-Madonna: The Immaculate Collection (fuck you guys, really.)
-Sufjan Stevens: Illinois
-Doorstep Paradise: Canvas (St. Cloud, MN locals, and friends)
-Rufus Wainwright: Want One
-Gearge Thorogood: The Baddest Of...
-Isley Brothers: The Ultimate of...
-John Fahey: The Voice of The Turtle
-Nat King Cole: Sweet Lorraine
-Mark Mallman: Seven Years (Minneapolis local, and all around good fella)
-Miles Davis: Classic Ballads
-Eddie Cochran: C'Mon Everybody
-Seu Jorge: The Life Aquatic Studio Sessions
-Kermit Ruffins: Throwback
-Howlin' Wolf: The Back Door Wolf
-Jose Gonzalez: Stay In The Shade EP
-Joe Cocker: Greatest Hits
-AC/DC: Highway To Hell (cause it gots IF YOU WANT BLOOD (You've Got It) and I likes that song, ya'll)

That's about all in there for ya. Right now the Stones is playing. I believe its "Moonlight Mile." A good tune indeed.

Music, music, music. Could we honestly live without it? I think not. I hope not, for christs sake. I can't tell whether I like playing it or discovering it more. People are never satisfied, and dammit I'm no exception.

I don't want to talk to you people anymore, so I'm smoking, even if you don't approve.

-C

A Note To The Readers For Clarificational Purposes...

The Previous post is not some sort of religiously laced crack-attack telling you to quit the sinnin' and start the prayin'. relax, it really has nothing to do with the almighty, I'm a fucking humanist, you know?

A Dreamer Caught Adrift Inside The Boundries of Collective Conscience

By this low-light in the early evening reflection I sit upon my soul found pouring over inifinite wonders driven towards the destiny of my breaching age. I come upon repeated sectors of my heart long suffering since birth because of being born. I come upon a timeless presence in the everythings of anything reminiscent of conscious exhibit. From waters high to waters low; from banks of rivers to banks of tellers, telling me, all of them,(every last one of them) how secrets fly swifter on the shoulders of sisters holding hands and walking fast to help their mother. Secrets, shy, but eloquently calling to their keepers for a freeing; sweeter still is the whisper of such blessed wonders, left untold for all these years now, since it all began. How I wonder so the secrets of soft lips long since told and long since held, and held they were fast, from the rest of us for all the time the lungs allowed. Time would tell the tale of childhood long, and in the skies of recollection we are seen as tiny, dancing shadows on the hill away from the laps of mothers, free and laughing high above the murmur of earths low lull. Hymns and fables, all the while, told us what it is when childhood flees and fly's above to leave us feeling abandoned, somehow abandoned, and we are ever suffering henceforth for it.
How are we, glints in our fathers' eyes at one time, locked and interlocked and bade to unchain our worldly bonds for other fictions and forests of an Almightly remnance? I am but one sufferer among you, and yet I alone still struggle in subtle silence beneath these sprinkling slivers of light in space to try and explain my pilgrimage in a world long since dead of pilgrims. For they have left us, and leaving still, everyday that we disobey their proper principles and ways of life's little secrets. We are here and now forever. We are never in the echos of our fathers' pasts; never in the silent grace of our before, our once alive and beautiful histories. My man, fellow and fondly thought of, accepts my struggles with his own, and we live in parallels within this chaotic arrangement of misshapen madness seen on streets and televised productions. I say, too, that all of this monstrousity found on the glowing screens of every window is produced to keep us down; keep us off, and leave us emptier than before. There is no world that cannot be found inside the box. There is no honor that can't be exhumed through a little careful dialogue; and we suffer. Suffering souls can measure, if given time, the potent energies of hatred, loss, and lifelessness around them, but we must wake them up and let them speak to us. If you cannot hear at first, give time the chance to make a listener of you with its patience. If you do not hear it it is because you are not trying to incite the vision of your inside eyes. There are no pardons left to leave on the doorstep of our generation. No more apologies to execute that will forgive the lifeless mood so sweeping the minds of children sired in the time of our youth. Must you always turn yourselves away from this? This blessed thing, one simple thing that feels and feeds from good intentions, the riteous, and the honest?Let leave the chains of triviality and boredom for the fresh and wholesome measures of your fellow man.

By the sweet indispensible sounds of the morning you will wake and wonder. You will hold high your head this morning and see for the first time in so very long why the sunrise is so talked about, or how it at least once was. You will walk down your stairs slowly, feeling every bump and groove your feet can feel, and you will feel heavy from a burden without a name. Guilt will harbor your heart and soul but you won't let it. You change by the moment, and find again how moments are the difference in every solemn thing you do. Every moment being born makes way for revelation. So you take to your existence with a new light and a new measure. Your children will relenquish all that which you so choose to give them. So give them well, and give them much, and much of the stuff of ages; much of the goodness in your heart and in your mind. The things that promised you their secrets, and in turn that you promised never to tell. You may whisper them soon, and you will know when soon has come. You are generationally driven to reflect the coming of your time. You are one who has an idea stuck inside you. Let it leave and produce a seed of which you can accomplish a lifetime of happiness. Whatever venture you acquire, it makes no difference. Only that which you desire will ever be longed for with all your measure. Place yourself before the alter of fate and begin the means to an end.

A Call To Arms

All right, first things first. I would like you to please disregard the previous post on the basis of a momentary lapse of consciousness brought on my a wave of depression. Also known as Bullshit.

It is very, (and I mean very) nearly time for me to embark on that great and mysterious trip with my motorcycle and the open road. I have been summoned by my companion, and now I must answer the call. It is going to be very, very close too. I have notsomuch money saved, and notsomuch time to save the rest. Well, what I end up with is what I end up with, which will not deter me from going. I think I'm going to rob a bank, or something. As we speak I am looking about the room to see what I can sell and what will sell well enough for a few extra bucks. Now, if worst comes to worst, I may even sell my drums. That will be one motherfuckin' sad day. Lets hope and pray it doesn't come to that, shall we?

On a sidenote, I think I need me a woman. One helluva woman, too. A man just ain't a man without a good woman by his side. Sho nuff.

Feelings about the trip: Anxious, but definately a little bit scared shitless. Everytime I do one of these "big things" I can feel it in my stomach. Of course, its never so bad once I am in the middle of it, but that motherfuckin' anticipation gets you everytime. Really, I am only so much worried that I won't be very prepared. You know, bags, money; the necessities, and such.

Well, life won't wait, so "fucking A", as they say.

C.A.Dominick

Lost, Apart, and Sinking Slowly

I keep asking myself what it is I am suppose to be doing with my time these days. Part of me thinks, "Whatever you're doing, that is what you are suppose to do, and that is that." Sometimes I think I'm being setup, or something. As if all these things; events which are no great ordeal in the eyes of others, but of which are personally trying to my character, and my heart for that matter, are happening for some unforseen reason, and I am to build from them. I know that every experience is to be learned from, and all that other generic banter that grandfathers, fathers, and anyone of any more experience would say, but I think its something more.

I thought about Like. The Likes that affect you. Have you ever just "liked" something, for no real reason you could put your finger on? Sure you have, you little devils. Those are the best kind, in my opinion. You like them, and you could probably name a million reasons why, and yet it still wouldn't touch on the feeling received; it still wouldn't properly do justice. I would spend my life finding out why, if given the chance, I think. I'm not touching any further on that one, for now.

The Trip. *Sigh... I will most likely have the money, and even if I don't have it all I'll still make a run for as long as I can. Fuck it. I need to go. My partner in crime is pressing me hard, with, I suppose, good reason, but I almost feel as if this trip is altered so much now that neither one of us is going for the same reasons. I think we'll both get out there and see some things and then reflect long and hard about our lives otherwise until we both know exactly what we are missing or not missing and run back home the long way. Sure, thats me being a shit and a pessimist, so I'll shut the fuck up now. Really, I don't necessarily think that, but I do wonder of it sometimes. I guess I still just can't picture myself out there before the road, at the mercy of my means. Maybe I'll stop somewhere and just stay. Forget about everything and everyone for however long I feel like and live for myself. You know, I haven't been going at it very long yet, but I generally feel like I am failing at this whole "Life" thing. I feel like a fucking dropout who has too much pride or too many excuses to admit when he's failed. Nothing ever seems to go quite how I wish it would. Man, tonight I guess I'm just full of bitching. Well, I'm sorry, dear readers. I just got turned down by this great girl. She wants the ex back, and I wish I never would have felt the way I feel. Everytime we see each other in the future now I will always feel like I wasn't good enough. At least I gave it one last good effort on my part. I know that it shouldn't be so bad, but I suppose I'm just now starting to learn that when you meet people you feel you have connected with it is best to keep them around and not fuck things up. This was not fucked up, but once not too long ago it was, and that one was because of me. I will only feel the deep, persistent pangs of regret in my heart at each thought of that person, and to see them would only cause me to feel like I were a rock, or a piece of ice, cold and cut off. Well, if you look at it that way, Karma is a real bitch. I try not to be such a shitty person, and then things as that happen and it only reaffirms my belief that I am failing this whole LIFE business. No real ambition, since I'm alone, I guess. This is a bit of a dark joke, so feel free not to laugh, but I don't even think under the worst circumstances that I would have the ambition enough to kill myself. Yikes, that's not like me at all, making grim and gravely remarks. "What happened to the Old Charlie, the one that used to be funny and stupid and have fun all the time??" Go fuck yourself. I hate when people say that shit. It's like I was their favorite sitcom, or something. Yeah, its great, cause my life's so fucked up and humorous that it makes you feel better. That's what I've been shooting at all along.
I'm tired, and even more tired of being tired from not sleeping when I should because I feel inspired to write shit like this down and pathetically hope for minds to change and say hello to me through my various outlets on the world-wide-fucking-web. Suffice to say, I now go to bed.

Relax. It's probably not really this bad, just momentarily unbearable. Maybe I'll feel better in the morning. I doubt it, but at least I'll have my stupid work to keep me preoccupied.

Fuck.

-C

Back To Square One

That is exactly where I am. From the time I moved back everything has been fast, and different; now I have broken or been broken of most all the ties that bind me here, save a few necessaries, and one luxury in particular. I still play in the band I am playing in, but it is not a priority and I can't honestly say that I will come back to it after my trip. Square one is the trip. It always should have been. But, like all time between things planned, the unexpected can and does occur. A littl heartbreak, both my doing and done to me took hold. A little carelessness, booze, spendy days, and wasted nights where sleep was never wanted, but always needed. Now I have to forget this town and everyone in it. I have to remember my aim, my goal, and my drive away. This place will suck you in, like all hometowns and their histories. No more of this stupid drama and unnecessary expiation. It holds me and folds me but I won't have it. I should just leave now. I should just take my remaining few jobs and paychecks and go. Maybe I will. Probably I won't. Guess what stops me? Money. Don't you just hate it sometimes.

On lighter notes, I acquired some fabulous reading material and a monstrous green thesaurus by Rogets that can consume small children if need be, of course.

Where is the reality I seek? That one always stumps me. I'm looking very hard these days, and I feel as if it is concurrently furthering itself from my eyes; my perception. Perhaps it is because I am here, in my historical state of preserved misery. Perhaps if I were to leave, I must not stop. It may be no wise way to live a life, but if you can really show me an alternative worth the time instead then I'm listening.

I see it all the time. People everywhere around me, searching for the big truth, or the big change, or the big anything that is their big. Action is the first step. Risk is important. I am learning that more and more as time passes. People may think me foolish and irresponsible for doing the things I do, but they may say what they wish for I am never envious of their mediocrities. I am not insulting to them, either. Each man or woman may only push themselves as far as they can. Each person has only so much capacity for change. I am running at half speed right now, but we'll just see if I can't step it up a bit. No more wasting time on gainless ventures. Just a little bit more of that smoke, booze, and soul.

C.A.Dominick

The Trip

I've been asked where I'm going; now that is somewhat of a loaded question. Where I am going physically/geographically/travel-wise is not completely decided. I think the plan is to go first to Colorado, then down south towards the desert, perhaps Arizona. After, we head towards California in the San Diego region, then hopefully loop all the way back up towards Montana, The Dakota's, and end in Minnesota. Really, its all guesswork at this point.

I've been working on going on this trip for several months now, and it has become some sort of symbol, full of symbolism. It is more than a vacation; more than a trip. It is a searching, a longing, a journey. When I leave, I leave everyone and everything behind for however long it takes. I need to be engulfed by my actions. I need to forget my world for the bigger, broader, more immense world of which I will surrender myself to.

Things in my life are losing their worth. People are losing their appeal. I am less enthused, day to day. Rejuvination is sought for, not guaranteed. I need to rejuvinate and venerate my soul. I need to find something; I need to know that all of that in me that once shone brighter and hotter and fueled me further is still capable of combustion. I won't dare assume that this will be my solution, but it will give me a start. I don't think people ever fully realize what else is out there for them to obtain. There are millions of other people, thousands upon thousands of miles of land that have not been seen firsthand, nor experienced. Television gives us the illusion that we have seen many distant lands and so we can say, "Africa is beautiful, I've seen it." It is a common fallacy. You will never know what a place is to you until you have invested physical presence in it. You must taste and feel the air. Smell the wild and unchecked scents that flow into your lungs . You must feel the earth or water beneath you. Touch things, see things that see you back. Cameras capture the images of the world for our viewing but they are never quite so truthful as with the photographer. Everyone else must sit through the story behind the image, but the photographer, the capturer, need only remember. He holds the story, and that is perhaps the most important of facts. So I am going off on a whim of panic to hold onto what I feel is the most important feature about myself, my heart of creation, to take pictures; to make a story of a few months otherwise found to be of the everyday, ordinary kind. I cannot say that this event will forever change my life. it is very well possible that events before or after this excursion are the life-changing kind, and that this is only going to be the wheel turning to the next stop. I don't want to think about it like that, either. It will be the absorption of everything I see, smell, hear, feel, taste, and touch. I will open the gates of consciousness and take it in and in and in until I can no longer stand it. Then I will return home and try and piece it all back together. That is the trip, to me. Where I go means nothing. What I do, and what happens are everything.

-C.A. Dominick

Oh How I Long For That Great Exaltation of My Soul

Well I can't quite put my finger on it, but this or that keeps slipping between me and some forward-thinking; however do I wish this all to just dissipate into clear pictures.

I'm sure you have no idea what I'm talking out. Nonetheless... I will as you this: You ever just feel like you have to stop and ask yourself, "What the fuck?" EVERY. FUCKING. DAY. No doubt there are a few of you out there happy to hear me say that. Fine, fine, fine.
What the fuck... have I gotten myself into now? What the fuck does this mean, does that mean, does he mean, does she mean? Then you get so fed up with the lack of answers that you turn the phrase from "what the fuck" to "Fuck it." You say, "fuck it" and then you do something. Something, something, somethings all the time that do or don't fuck up your day. Your day; every dog has his day. When was mine? I don't care. I'm not pissed, necessarily. I'm not sad, nor happy, nor even resentful. I'm just saying, "what the fuck" because everything in my life has been turned upside down these past few months and I am realizing what it is beginning to mean for me in the future.

Hollow, baby. I'm an old tree long since dead. Little creatures (emotions, assuming this is a metaphoric of sorts) crawl around and rearrange me however they want, and I let them. No more green, just a soggy trunk to keep me up in the rain. Whatever.

I suppose this isn't my usual brand of writing. Very big deal. I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore. Nothing has come my way that means any bit of ease or relaxation. I mean, I know life is supposed to be hard, but what the fuck, man? Everytime it seems like one or two things are in order or damn sure on the way to being so, I realize something I've forgotten or someone I didn't consider and then the shit hits the fan. It hits the fan, and then everybody knows. Well, my opinion, as of late, is to say fuck everybody. We are all out for ourselves, above all else, right? Why squander away good youthful years on pain-in-the-ass endevours that end up beating you anyways? For love of the game, you say? Idiot.

Then again... I don't really know who this guy is that keeps typing these words that you have been reading. I don't really know if he's just tired and down or beaten and broken, or if he's a little jaded and a little afraid to let life take its part within his. Who could know, if not me? He's right here, and yet he feels a million miles away. Maybe it's only 700. Or maybe it's two feet from the bed behind him; a place where he can get a little rest with a little sanity coming back when he gets up in the morning.

By the way, did I tell you I am soon to leave for my trip? It is tentatively within the next two months before I go. I am never more ready than right now. I just need to get back to myself; back to him, and look ahead a little, and look behind a little softer.

Since I've nearly passed out atop my desk, I see myself fit for sleeping now. You didn't need to know that, but Jesus and everyone loves those who are curious and giving. I give you these ridiculous words, and you give yourselves the comfort of knowing that whatever is bothering you is almost never as bad as what I've been saying as of late.

T
I
R
E
D




...Dig it?

C.A. Dominick

Taking A Poll...

This is directly for you, dear readers, "so jump on in shout it out!" Or some other stupid enthusiastic phrase of the sorts.

What do you read or enjoy more: the poetry, the journals, or the music? Let me know. If you don't know how, I'll let you in on a little secret: there's a comment icon at the bottom of this entry, with your name on it, I swear. I apologize for being an arshole; it happens. Come on... Who are you St. Louis? Which is it in ol' St. Cloud? Even here in heavenly Joplin? Tell me hello. Tell me whats going on. Tell me I suck, for christs sake. Although... it is rather entertaining pretending that my words simply fly off into cyberspace and random people can read them, but I should never know. Well folks, I cheated the system for I have known the entire time. There's no getting around it, you have to comment.

There may be a time for lethargy, but it is not here, my friends. This is the Mother of Invention; a phrase completely contradictory to inaction.

Seriously, I love you guys and gals. Thanks for reading, for whatever reason. Special thanks to those that keep coming back, even if it is only to reaffirm your beliefs of my being certifiably insane.

-C

Thoughts and Rockets That Blow Outside/Inside Me

I only have ten minutes for you, here's my best:

Living here, being subdued to my old routine, with new realizations, is a suffrage. I have hurt some, and hurt someone(s), and the pain illudes me all the day until I finally lay my head down and the ghost of the year past lashes out at my heart before I feel the sleep compression. So many things have happened, and so much of it I can barely catch up to.

Everybody is so fucked up and lost and I'm no goddamn exception. But I am not a phony. I may be a coward in some regards, but I am not a liar and I am not intentionally driven to cause someone wrong. If I had to say it everyday I would say I'm sorry, but alas I no longer have that opportunity. This is my last time writing about it and so I'll make the rest quick and simple. I wanted my friend. I wanted you to be as we were before all this got spun out of hand, because I couldn't handle added pressure. If that makes me a coward, then I am. We are both guilty I suppose, but I won't defend myself because I was wrong in conduct and judgement. THAT is all I have, and that is all I will for the time between here and my leaving. I surely won't find myself out there in the vast unknown, but I will have time to sort things out for myself. I only wish we could all do that. I only wish for the best for everyone, for christ's sake. I feel like I've been so lost for so long now that anything i say or do is just wasting someone else's time or my own and causing someone some burden along the way. Well if that is how it is, then that is how it is.

My apologies for the rant; I have been bottling up this shit for a while. There's an A-game version of the story that I won't be telling you, because I would rather just plain get out of the habit of feeling sorry for myself if that's alright.

*Only those who are envolved with said subject(s) will understand this message. If you have no idea what I'm talking about you would do just as well to read another entry, as this is just a bitching fit.*

-C

new poem

In the belly of the beast
Before the shepherd's mighty shield,
Mysterious shapes and fractions form
That only God can yield.

Underneath the ominous light,
Between two lips so perched in love
A tender whisper takes the heart
And the Everlasting smiles above.

Just below the atmosphere
Devils and Angels pull at our limbs.
When our eyes meet and are quietly longing
Our bodies give way to the praise or the sin.

The wilderness, the beasts that roam.
The gentle breeze, the sea, the soil.
Birthing life and housing death;
The Father Farmer's reverant spoils.

And spoil we all, expiring fast.
Seams are torn and bridges burned.
When chaos reigns the world is shifted
And creative spirits resume the turn.

When sleep or death preludes the hour,
When hearts are cleansed with love remaining
Constant seekers seek the cosmics
And sinners purge and begin their praying.

Life is frail when hearts are young.
Worlds of words are pillaged in haste.
Yet nothing so sweet has ever touched
As the righteous recognition in the child's first taste.

If death is won
And we are taken from the earth
Our bodies buried, (cleansed by tears)
Particulate and give new birth.

I write to you, beyond my death,
If beyond the grave I'm bade to say
What I could not in my living day.

C.A.Dominick


Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick