Christmas, my friends. As a non-Christian in a house of non-Christians and as the youngest-now-former resident, somehow still less than thirty years old, Christmas was hardly even a token celebration. My mother did prepare stockings full of goodies and socks (understand, in Charlottesville I have only three pairs of socks). One such goody is a promise of a watch so I can spend less of my time getting to places too early. Christmas with the family did have its positive effects on my psyche. What, after all, would I have done in Charlottesville on Christmas except be depressed about my present miserable situation in relation to the better times of the even fairly recent past.
There are fences we can no longer climb
There are paths we may no longer walk.
Where once were pleasant fields
Full of flowers
Are the walls and borders
Of the settlers of the farmland
Of the thieves of the place I once had.
The toilet situation at my childhood home sucks. It always has. It constitutes a not inconsequential justification all by itself for living in Charlottesville. The damn thing doesn't flush effectively 80% of the time and sometimes apathy reigns regarding its state. Thus in horror today I found myself climbing the hill across the street with a shovel. I like contributing to the soil nutrients of the Temple Grounds of my ancient Temple of Laepohm, which I built in the early 80s. The flowers and trees I have planted there through the years have much to thank me for. I noticed with a little sadness that the largest Pitch Pine (Pinus resinosa) there had its top snapped off and was now in the process of dying.
Josh Furr again wanted me to come visit for the purpose of advancing music as it is now known. But he couldn't wait for my scheduled 2:30pm arrival and drove out to my place, bringing with him presents such as oranges and fudge. From Hoagie (my mother), my Dad had received a big folding hunting knife for Christmas, and she proudly showed it to him. Josh just assumed the knife was for dealing with human enemies, and he suggested a better defense would be pepper spray. It never crossed his mind that my Dad intends to use the knife to unearth tubers and root systems in the forest for the CAUSE OF SCIENCE. I rendezvoused with Josh at his place after first giving Hoagie a one-minute MS-DOS tutorial such that she can operate some primitive braille software.
Again we drank the Beast and smoked harsh and seedy blue-collar man's pot. We watched another Pantera video and then played for awhile. My ability to sing and play guitar simultaneously steadlily improves, though I notice I have difficulty coming up with spontaneous lyrics when I have to pay attention to what I'm doing on the guitar. It seems I need to have a few lyrics rehearsed or I'm more or less hopeless. About the only lyrics I know are little snatches of "I Think This Once" and some of the poetry paragrams for my paintings.
I returned to my house in time for the feast. It was now a little past 4pm. The food included such nice traditional things as green beans, dressing, cranberry sauce, corn muffins, baked potatos and dead chickens. After eating much of this, it was time for a nap.
As I slept I experienced a strange series of dreams. In one such dream, I was with my parents on the edge of a sandy river. For some reason a number of teenage girls were there, and for some reason I decided to sit next to one of the girls even though I didn't know her at all. I fell asleep there in the sand and the next thing I knew was the girl was kissing me in the shy and sloppy style of a twelve year old. My mother apparently saw this and was upset. She kept distracting me from the girl with only partially veiled references to the impropriety of what I was doing. By this point for some reason the girl's breasts were clearly exposed, though I wasn't responsible for that. Later in the dream I returned to the sandy river's edge and found cash (lots of one dollar bills) and marijuana in little transparent plastic envelopes. But a homeless lady had appeared upon the scene and demanded her cut. So I gave her $3. She was pleading for more as I took my leave.
I was awaken from my dreams by feast-induced thirst. Josh had been calling all evening with news that Timmy was at his house visiting and that Don and I should come over. Timmy is one of Josh's big heroes for some reason, though in truth he is a mildly retarded old-school bicycle geek and convicted child molestor. Normally Josh doesn't like Don to come over because he fears Don will let in all the bad guys he fears might turn up. But with Timmy there, Josh feels more secure. He feels Timmy would have enough sense not to let bad guys in. (I should note at this point that I have my doubts that Don could open Josh's outer doors even if he wanted to; they feature many redundant locks and latches and even crude bent-nail door catches.)
In the evening I listened to a tape made on October 23rd by Josh and me. Amidst his mostly chaotic and unhelpful drumming my guitar is actually pretty good, and in combination with my singing it seems to work for some stretches. It's very experimental and disorganized. But you must understand, with the exception of some practiced guitar parts, it was completely spontaneous. Now I find myself rewinding through it to hear it again and again. Either I'm shamelessly narcisistic (probably true) or there's a little good stuff to be had in that thicket.
The Freedom of Island Life
I once put in a window
To give something to find
I parted the curtains
Even raised up the blind
I once put in a window
Though she didn't beg me
But when I put in that window
She stood for hours to see
Is this art or opportunity
Advertisment or generocity?
In this world we are slaves
To the messages left on our graves
Once I had me a window
We had something to share
I had things to amaze her
And other things made to scare
One night she came through my window
In her big muddy boots
Destroyed my belongings
And laughed at my suits
Is this murder is this art
Is this destruction without heart?
In this world we expect
To not linger in neglect
Well I'm a person my thoughts are human
I'm no machine gun nor an alien
No neutered kitten once shy twice bitten
I have good reasons for my actions
So I walled up the window
And I hid well inside
I shoveled the shit
And I sat and I cried
Now you want a window
Where now there's a wall
Thirty feet wide
And twenty feet tall
Is freedom extinction too?
The bowl I dropped is mostly glue
In this place I pass the time
Patching leaks and drinking wine
If I gave you a window
I still wouldn't come out
I'd just peek through the keyhole
Amazed at your pout
I won't give you that window
But I may let you in
I'm watching you carefully
But I'm still drinking gin
Well I'm an animal my thoughts are criminal
I'm not confident but I'm no potted plant
I can rave and rant like a giant
I'm not buoyant, I'm noncompliant.