I'm in league with the queen of the meadow

I was reading an article about Mark Kozelek in which he stated his opinion in explicit terms that he thought the band Sigur Ros was no good. I think he questioned their honor as men and related the adverse reaction - sweats, tremors, and other disturbances within the human organism - their music provoked in him, physically speaking. But what about his everlasting soul? Did that, too, receive damaging blows? He didn't say. I don't know, I like Sigur Ros. They're like a dreamy transmission from some soft and remote place in the multiverse.

On Saturday, Spira and I took the train into Boston and visited the memorial for the victims of the bombings. We also visited each bomb site. It was a heavy experience. At the memorial, we stood before four crosses, each taped with a photograph of one of the victims. Fanning out before them rested cards, crucifixes, running shoes, candles, flowers (so many flowers), and banners from all over the world. The only sound to be heard was the click of pictures being taken. Heavy.

Whoever thought it would be a good idea to send a platoon of Golden Retriever therapy dogs to the memorial should have a ball thrown in his or her honor. After hugging and petting several of them, Spira and I felt as tranquil as morning dew. There were no Golden Retrievers at the bomb sites, though. At each location we absorbed the reality, the presence, of that terrible event. People had lost their lives and limbs right where we stood. Sobering. How could anyone wish to cause such devastation? It is beyond me.

--

I think it's time to wrap this up so I can go see what's happening in the Bigfoot community. There's a long con going on involving a proven hoaxer (Georgia bigfoot in a freezer ring a bell?). There's a three percent chance this guy has a body (he alleges he shot one dead). We'll see. Still reading Wizard and Glass as part of my Dark Tower re-read and Humboldt's Gift. Next up will either be Beloved, which I'm very eager to read, or the Flashman novel I got in the mail a few weeks ago. But I want to read some Vonnegut. And then there's the naughty Fifty Shades of Grey; I'm definitely looking forward to that. I read the young adult version, but it was lacking something.

See you later, sweet peas

Tell me again my only son

Heading into Boston today. I had envisioned a day of reading and writing and lounging about, but Spira called and said "Boston, let us go to there", so that is what is going to happen. It's a good idea; the weather is fine, the birds are hopping through the air and singing their hymns, and Boston deserves some love after the events of last week (though if I hear "Boston Strong" again I'm going to punch my fist into a side of beef or into your gut - I get it, it's about unity, but it's also about marketing and beating an idea far, far, into the ground) So I'll go. I'm loosey-goosey today, open to ideas. Later, I'll come home and read from Humboldt's Gift (Saul Bellow, you can write, son!), and see about some music and shit.

I stayed up real late last night talking with Evangeline. I enjoy our conversations, which cover a multitude of topics, but they generally run long. Last night's was almost two hours. I bet Billy wouldn't even give her the time of day. What an insecure asshole.

Just had deja vu but it's murky and I'm not going to attempt to articulate it. Something about death? Uh oh. Well, if I die today, you heard it here first. You'll be able to tell everyone how creepy (and ultra sexy) my sense of foreboding was. Well, it's clear I won't die today because I just reverse jinxed the deja vu by broadcasting it's potential meaning. BTW, I realize I've stretched the meaning of deja vu here but whatever - I do what I want, when I want.

Cheers, Hobbits!

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me maybe

That feeling of walking the plank rides me strong and I haven't been able to shake it. It just permeates everything. There is also the corollary, and much fainter, feeling of unfolding into something much better, golden. What will manifest? I can't say.

There are a couple of longer posts taking form in my skull, things I need to get off my chest. They will arrive soon. Be ready, o' wanderers of the cosmos.

What else can I say tonight? That I'm in a vaguely sad and forlorn and peaceful and content way? That lyrics need to be written? That God speaks in paradoxes? That for a spiritual person I'm much too petty and selfish and cynical? That my discovery of honey mustard wheat thins was a blessing and a curse? That when Amanda's boy, Teddy, hugged me I nearly teared up because it felt like it came directly from the Divine Mother? That I really enjoy playing my new songs? That my breath quickens every time I contemplate pressing play on my dad's mini tape recorder? That the grief is still sharp? That it's time to end this post?

The End.

2 and 2 always makes a 5

Last week took its toll. Hopefully, this one will be absent any bombings, dismemberment, martial law, that sort of thing. It's an unsettling thought wondering what will happen if another teenager manages to evade virtually every single law enforcement agency this fine country has to offer. What if it's three or four teenagers? Shut it down! Shut it all down! Break out the tanks, the snipers, the helicopters, the SWAT teams, the Army, The Navy Seals, the cannons, the bayonets, the hand grenades, the French Foreign Legion, the slingshots. That's okay, we need to feel safe and sound, us babes in our swaddling clothes. Freedom comes with a cost, children. Oh, it does, it does, it does.


In the meantime, I forge ahead and try to shape a life tranquil, warm, and loving. Resplendent good cheer, love, laughter, thrills, excitation! Can it all manifest and be worn like a warm fuzzy vest? Why not, I say. Why not.

Been busy. In fact I'm booked for the next several days. It's alright, I'm looking forward to seeing some friends. Tomorrow it will be Amanda; the day after, Mara. Within the hour, I expect Craig to arrive like some terrible doom-laden wraith.  Somewhere amidst the socializing, I hope to accomplish some recording. We'll see, guppies.

We'll see.

Sitting out on your house watching hardcore UFOs

I've been absent. I've been either too busy or too comatose to devote the high golden amount of energy this hallowed ground I call a blog requires. Was it you who just said to yourself "You call it a blog, Kevin, but the rest of us call it an embarrassment, a shit show." If it was you, I'll accept your apology in the form of a kiss (firmly on the lips from the women and the sole of my shoe from the men). Look, I'm here now, so you can go gentle on the breeze and desist from projecting your bullshit onto me, one who was born from the bosom of the most golden of lights.

I have more to say on The Walking Dead, but, (no surprise) it'll have to wait for another post. This has become a running gag. Ah, I'll get there eventually and I assure you, you will be underwhelmed. I just don't have the energy to write this evening, but I did want to check in (lil' ego demands it). Sleepy. Maybe I have mono. I'm told they call it the kissing disease.

There are things to say about the Boston Marathon attack but that, too, will have to wait. Terrible terrible terrible. But true human spirit, the inherent oneness that resides ubiquitous and subterranean in our lives, shone through that day and that is reassuring.

I'll be back soon, vagrants. The weekend approaches. Evangeline will attempt to make a Dr. Who fan of me. Who knows (Ha! Get it?). I've been watching It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia. That one I like.

Sigh O'Nara

I'm a loser and I'm not what I appear to be

It's Saturday and a Mahler symphony leads the way. Fitting, I suppose, but I can't articulate why. And why would I need to articulate anything in a blog? The mind is sluggish and still meditates upon the dream I awoke from earlier this morning.

It was rich in symbolism and, don't fret, I won't go into depth about it (No one likes to hear about other people's dreams, which have meaning only for the dreamer - in most cases - and no matter how thrilling or sexy or comical, they don't often translate well). I will, however, provide a brief, and I use that word loosely, summation because there was a cool part (yes, you'll find it cool,too - I swear on a stack of kittens) I want to share.

Once upon a time....

There was a lot of activity in the house; people in and out, furniture being rearranged. Also, it was my birthday. Foley and a few of his friends entered the house and entered my room. He said hello to the woman-who's-identity-is-unclear that laid beside me in the bed. He didn't say much to me (old wounds?). I went downstairs and Matt was there. He was expected (as he is today for similar reasons); bill money was to be handed over and other odds and ends needed to be attended to. He had a posse with him, too - the house was quickly becoming crowded. I went back upstairs and Foley and his crew had moved aside a shelf and here, laid bare and freshly exposed, was a large dark patch, a festering fly-ridden wound, in the wall. Foley covered it and the space around it with sheets of his handwritten poetry.

I thought that last bit was pretty powerful. Not much more happened: Amanda had come by earlier while I was at work and replaced my closet door with one from a refrigerator; I thumb wrestled Evangeline (her thumb was so lighting quick it was barely perceptible); Foley, as he and his crew (all in academic overcoats) descended the stairs to leave, let me know he had sent me a letter that expressed some anger, hurt feelings,etc. I grumbled something about wanting people to leave me alone, noticed a hedgehog clinging to one of the railings on the stairs, and woke up. The end.

Okay, the summation wasn't brief, but you have to admit you appreciated the added details. I'll venture to say you were thrilled. Thrilled! Admit it. Just admit it. I bet you're secretly wishing I create a dream blog. Hmmmm....
--

The Walking Dead. The show was airing its second season when I came around to giving it a chance. I've never been a big fan of zombie movies. Zombies are stupid, slow, and easy to evade. Of course, when they appear in large numbers, evasion becomes trickier, but overall they've never frightened me much. There's a hefty subculture of zombie fans that would tell me I'm missing the point. Perhaps I am. I think much of the fascination has to do with people enjoying watching other people be blown away, dismembered, impaled, etc. but without the moral guilt of them being current people. The Walking Dead caters to this fascination sometimes ("Here you go, fanatics! This one is just for you, our bread and butter") I recall an episode from this past season in which the first twenty minutes or so were spent wiping out a mass of zombies video game style with barely contained glee. After a while, I wanted them to get on with it, but I understood they were catering to the purists and supported the action (bread and butter). The following day fans were online blasting OMG's!!!!  and spraying gallons of hot jizz all over their ceilings, laps, and walls. All those zombie take downs got them all aflutter and randy. Easy, geeks. Go gentle on the breeze.

Whoops, running out of time and need to go. I'll have to part two this post.

See ya, younglings!

Hold on John, John hold on, it's gonna be alright

The work week barrels along and Friday comes into view larger and larger. I've been feeling pretty good these days, by design and by circumstance. I'm taking care of myself as best I can and have been studying the habits of my mind and its incessant discordant warbles. The game is rigged; I see it but man it's a bitch to come up from under it. Ubiquitous, this culture of the mind that governs all. A chief reason we've made a mess of this planet.

I can't change the world but I can make myself a clear vessel for the Divine to speak through. That is the goal. Fractionally less important goals include getting laid a lot, money money money, and getting laid a lot. There are other goals, but I'll keep them under lock and key until they sprout.

Anyway, I'm trying to free my mind so my ass can follow.

I haven't made significant progress, but I've been working at lyrics every night. I  know that the more I exercise that muscle, the more successful I'll be. I'm in the business of letting ideas arise on their own accord, absent exertion but born from discipline. Too often, I'd find myself in cram mode regarding lyrics (usually when I'm playing out and insist on performing only new material) and while there are benefits to that approach, I feel it's not the way to go. You can't force a plant to grow or a hen to lay an egg. Gotta let these happen when they're ready. The lyrics will come - seven songs worth, that is the plan - and when it has all come together, I'll have before me several of the best songs I've ever written.

On that note, I should get to it. I keep putting off my thoughtful and comprehensive analysis of The Walking Dead. It's not even that I have a lot to say on the matter. Maybe that's what's stalling my efforts. Who knows, but I promise you from the bottom of my pure heart I will address the topic in my next post. In other words, I'll probably reduce the whole matter to a small paragraph. Don't get your hopes up, you fans of love and splendor. Or, I could surprise you with a thoughtful and comprehensive tour de force, which would make the angels sing!

Gather up, son, we ride.

As I sit and close my eyes, there's peace in my mind, and I'm hoping that you'll find it too

Sunday morning. Brian Eno's Music For Airports gently shimmers, the sun has finally mated with the warmth, the house is tranquil. I appreciate days like this. I hesitate to say they're few and far between, but they certainly are diamonds in the rough. Or whatever. I just enjoy them. Allow me some enjoyment, won't you please?

Evangeline has been fitting in well. What a difference this shift in dynamics has already made. I came home from work the other day and she was sitting on the couch watching something on her laptop. As I put away my groceries, I figured out what it was.

"Are you watching Game of Thrones?"

"Yes! Are you a fan?"

This set off a two hour conversation that began with Game of Thrones, the books and the show, and undulated through alleys of literature (Evangeline was an English major in college), the paranormal (g-g-ghosts!!), and other things equally sexy.

So far, so good.

I haven't spoken with my mother since Easter. I keep coming close to writing her an email, but every time I beg off. I don't enjoy being at odds with her, particularly since this has already been a difficult time for our family, but something - my gut, perhaps - advises I wait, that some space between us will be beneficial. We'll see.

Roger Ebert's passing has saddened me. I've been going to him for film advice for as long as I can remember and his blog was one of the best I've ever read. He died with a smile on his face. He was ready. You are missed, Roger. The balcony is closed.

Ok, so Game of Thrones is fucking amazing. I'm talking the show. When it first aired, I enjoyed it, but I was too close to the books and found myself being a bit nit-pickey."What? King Robert is a stocky short man now? In the books he was a giant! Wait a minute - this never happened! Why is Ser Loras going down on Renly? Who's that person?"

There was nitpicking to be sure, but it wasn't much and, as I said, I enjoyed the show. Of course I did. Some of my favorite books of all time made into a series on HBO, the high watermark of quality television? Yes, please! So I dug the first season but only watched a few episodes of the second. My attention went to other shows like The Walking Dead (just watched the last episode) and Boardwalk Empire, and Breaking Bad. It wasn't until recently that my interest in Game of Thrones was revivified.

I suppose it had to do with the new season and the hype surrounding it, but it was Craig's enthusiasm for the show that revved the engine. So I purchased season one on DVD and came to the conclusion early on that the show was quite brilliant. Having some distance from the books enabled me to enjoy the show on its own merits. You've done it again, HBO. On to season 2.

Playing a lot of music lately and have been cycling through seven unfinished songs. They are as complete as they're going to be and only need lyrics to seal the deal. I'm getting there. I don't exercise my lyric-writing muscles as much and it would serve me well to take more time with them. That is what I'll do. Don't try to stop me, you rapscallions!

Other than that, it's been yoga and meditation. It's been Humboldt's Gift and Wizard and Glass. There has been good conversations, kinship. There hasn't been lovemaking, but the Universe is going to make that happen in the coming days because I told it to. Gently, of course, but it was a direct order. Send me a woman!

Hope you're feeling stout and creative and blissed out on the notion that you were never born and you will never die.

Peace always

My husband has no courage in him

I awoke from a dream in which Mandy, the dog of my youth, was still alive but old and brittle. Joy at seeing her after so many years coalesced with the immediate sadness of her frailty, her aged frame. As always (this has been a recurring dream) I knew my time with her was short and I embraced her gently with love. Missy D. was there, too. At one point, she merged with Mandy and faded before my eyes. Everything is temporary. Everything. Before I woke, a voice, disembodied, called  out "Kev". It was my dad. His tone wasn't plaintive or desperate or anything sharp with emotion. He may as well been calling me down for supper.

That was how my day began yesterday. I tried to cling to the residue of the dream, but it was vapor. I got on with my day; what else could I do? The dream didn't leave me curled up in the corner sobbing, it didn't settle over me like moor mist, but I would have preferred a different sort of wake up call. It is a heavy and aching thing, my grief. I think about my father every day and when I do the tears come, the heart swells, the breath picks up steam. Still, I'm navigating my way through it with the understanding that I'm evolving as I do. Having a direct experience with death forces one to look eventuality right in its gaping, infinite eye. It's not such a terrible thing. There have been moments of grace, beauty, and clarity. An unveiling, a peek beyond the stars. Not so terrible, but damn, dad, how I miss you. I say it again and again, over and over.

But look, I'm not here to call forth an army of tears. No, my children, I am of a mind (and of a heart and of a soul) to shift focus to the Truth (not Paul Pierce, though I wouldn't mind riffing about him because he is one of the greatest basket ball players of all time). There is meditation, there is yoga, there is Game of Thrones, there is my family, my friends, my fellow man. There is wonder, there is love, there is gratitude. Allies abound. No fucking army of tears here.

Gratitude. Let's begin there. Sure, it's not all gravy (Easter, for one thing, wasn't a ball - my mother and I continue to experience a strained relationship....oh, but I love her and she loves me) but I have things to be grateful for. Rather than focus on what's not working in my life, I'm going to pay homage to a few friends, family, really, without whom I'd probably be a flea-ridden, paint-huffing street hooker lurking the night gutters of the worst city's underbelly.

JANELLE

In this blog, not so long ago, I made the bold claim that Janelle is one of the greatest people I've ever met (or something like that). Guess what? I wasn't kidding, son! She is one of the most compassionate people I know, for starters. Yeah, look, she's a human being and has a shit ton of flaws (I'm talking a shit ton!). Sometimes she behaves so ridiculously and irresponsibly I just want to throttle and slap her raw...Oh, wait, I'm veering off track. Back to the good stuff; there is plenty and I'll only skim the surface here.

Compassionate, to be sure. I've lived with her; I've seen how caring and understanding and selfless she can be. The ways in which she gives of herself is something to behold.  When my father died, she kept me afloat (as did the two blokes that will follow). I remember one day, this was maybe a day or two after, when I lost my shit completely. It was perhaps the worst I've ever felt. I called Janelle at work and could barely talk, so deep in the maw of agony I was. She saved me that day, she eased me into a calmer, more focused state. If I recall correctly, all of this took place during their Christmas party. Not that she made mention of it, but let's face it, I wasn't exactly exuding holiday cheer that day and was what you would call a bummer. 

And what else? Oh, let's see: 1. She's a talented artist who just so happens to be in a band, which is a pretty cool thing, don't you think? 2. She has a super and often comical relationship with none other than The Baby Boy Z, the poochiest of pooches. 3. She's one of my favorite people to have conversations with. Go ahead, talk to her some time, she'll go as deep as you like. Just don't look her in the eye. She does not like that.

 I guess that's it. Oh, she likes shoes.

I love you Janelle.

CRAIG

I've known Craig since high school. Every time I tell him he's a man of character, he scoffs. But it's true. I've never seen him act condescending with anyone and he's frank and affable and has a booming laugh and likes U2 and plays guitar and bass and eats oven burgers.He's a solid, caring, honest guy. Yes, he has character.

I've always found him to be somewhat fascinating. He does things I've never considered, like call into radio stations or audition for The Real World. He has a crash test dummy fetish, too. Well, maybe not, but I wouldn't put it past him. He likes his Judge Napalitano (sp?), his Red Sox, his U2 (this cannot be stressed enough).

All of our friends find him just as fascinating as I do. It's true. He's so good natured, even when he's not. If he left our group of friends for some reason (French Foreign Legion bound, perhaps?) we'd all feel pretty lousy. You want this guy around.

I love you  Craig.


SPIRA

She is a fiery little shit, a mixer, a P&V. She is Spira. When I met her the first time, I had a strong feeling, one I haven't had since with anyone else, that I already knew her and that she'd play an important role in my life. She has, she has, she has. I love being with her, not always, but almost always. Several years ago, when she left for Vegas, I felt such loss that I wept like a child. I felt ripped apart. "How did that little shit do this to me?", I thought. But she did. I can't explain it, we're just like peas and carrots (thanks for the line, Forrest).

I'm so proud of her. She has accomplished so much and has gone deeper into her spiritual practice. She wears joy on her face almost every time I see her. It's a pleasant sight. And let's not forget she's the parent of the sweetest pup you're going to encounter, none other than Missy D.

I love you Spira.

And what about the rest of my friends, my family? Well, I'm a lucky guy and have them in abundance. And such fine people. I'm a lucky man. There is much to be grateful for.

Like ending this post. That is something to be grateful for. My thoughtful and comprehensive analysis of The Walking Dead will be forthcoming; I want to watch the season finale before I tally my thoughts about it.

Evangeline is almost all moved in. Matt didn't leave very gracefully, but he left. I'll have to elaborate in another post.

G'night, you delicate swans.