It Was The Worst Of Times

It Was The Worst Of Times

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair..."

This sentence famously opened Charles Dickens' epic novel of the French Revolution, THE TALE OF TWO CITIES. The end of the 18th Century. The Terror in France. Heads lopped off by the guilotine. Royal heasds, aristocratic heads, few if any priests, beaucoup des citoyens. And there was more to come, as the king and emperors and all royalty from the ancien regime sought to overthrow the Republic, then came Napoleon. Victories, victories, adventure. An emperor. And then defeat. An exile.

We the world presently live in a time of chaos birthed by Donald Trump and every morning and afternoon and even before I go to bed I read about the evil of this man and ask, "Does he ever sleep?"

I've come to understand that 47 has been on drugs to keep Him going, but even He has to crash, the valium made that fast, then His AI persona takes the reins, driving his message from His CHAPgbt clone to complete a 24/7/365. There is no rest for the wicked. 47 eternal for this moment and the next and the next, but one day we will wake and say good riddance. And I thought to paraphrase THE TALE OF TWO CITIES.

"It was the worst of times with even worstest to come. It was an age of ignorance and religious fanatics. People believed what they had been told to believe and some believed in the beauty of nothingness. In the beginning there was the horseshoe crab.

And of course the words of Sydney Carton ascending the stairs to La Veuve or The Widow.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known." One of the greatest fare-wells from a ne'er-do-well ever, but we all not ready to go. Never without a fight.

Communality of Minds

There is no problem that doesn't have a solution. Most people are fighting to make enough money to provide for themselves and their family. They have a thirty second window to get the message and sometimes even that is too long.

Between work and home their heads are bowed to the phone. I walk without the phone in my hand. I see instead of look. I hear instead of listen. I smell instead of breathe. I feel when I touch. As for eating, I taste.

In live in Brooklyn I speak with people on the streets and avenues. I am trapped here for medical reasons, but I make the effort to be human. I say hello. Maybe the next time we speak. Never if 'they' are on a phone.

I don't talk to people about quantum physics, but do tell them about eternity. About the color of the sky. The breeze on my face. To create a communality to bridge the gap. We exchange names. I ask if they want to hear a poem.

For the most part and surprisingly they say yes. And they enjoy interaction with someone who isn't trying to sell them something. As for my friends. My smart friends. Their minds are also closed to ideas by the day to day worries.

"So what about you?"

Everyone's minds think all the time. Usually a looping of worries regrets and hopes and dreams and a slice of pizza too in NYC. With pepperoni. AS for intellectualism. I prefer Communality. 137 is just a number. A prime number. 1/137 is something altogether different and is the answer to nothingness. 137 is the odds that an electron will absorb a single photon.

Gimme Shelter

Listen to it loud

Foto Angkor Wat 1999 PNS

Dark Thoughts

A friend has been in distress. Overwhelmed by the darkness. I have called without his answering the phone. I understand the need to not need to speak with anyone as well as the darkness. Earlier this month I had mentioned to my therapist that I had been experiencing dark thoughts.

"Not overwhelming dark thoughts. Just recurrent. They come and they go. They don't stay and I'm free of them for extended periods of time."

To most mental aid worers 'dark thoughts' mean one of two things. Suicided or harming other. I was more of the former.

"Do you want to see a psychiatrist?"

I understood the question. Psychiatrist are doctors. They will interview patients and prescribed appropriate drugs to deal with the specific mental condition. I hadn't seen one since my admission to the hospital for cancer four years ago. Prior to my illness I had self-medicated myself with alcohol. It had been a near-fatal cure and no longer viable post-transplant.

"Sure, I'll see a psychiatrist," I sadi, resisting the urge to call them a shrink.

Two days later I had a Zoom meeting with a woman doctor. I prefer a women. Male doctors tend to think that no one is their equal. We spoke for an hour. We covered all the bases. Thoughts of hurting myself. Thought of hurting others. I spoke. She lsitened and asked questions. I answer as truthfully as possible. Her assessment was that I was not in neeed of drugs to to continue with my group meetings for my alcoholism and speakining with my therapist every two weeks. I was in accord with her suggestions and wished her the best.

Thedark thoughts. They are still there. Lurking. I am better armed with tools to fight off depression. I have weathered the storms of the last years. Recreating this me from the ashes of the previous mes knowing I'm not not and never will be a me to satisfy the others. That's okay. The Mes and me know how to deal with that now.

I wrote to my friend.

It's not easy to go it alone when you think you are all alone and the fears prevent you seeing a path out of the wilderness. Why fucking bother? Day by day by day and then fuck it I can't stay here in a room no matter where I go. I'm in a room in Brooklym overlooking the backyards of Clinton Hill. All bearing the scars of a long winter. In the small room most of the time. I don't even know the names of the walls. Escape, a breakout, caught in the wires, breaking not free, but dragging away the fears like the piano in Bunuel's Le Chien Andalou. Always good to have Bunuel as not a friend, but a guide not telling you where to go, but just that there is a path out just like there was a path in.

Alone In My Bed

I wake on this gray morning
Alone in my bed
The sky outside
A light gray
Not cold outside
Winter no more
No need to get of bed__
Pull up the duvet
Not for warmth
But comfort
I feel the urge
To look at the news on my cell
To see the horror of this world
Not a first hand witness or bystander__
Everything bad
Distant
Far from my bed
And its warmth__
At one point
I will break out this cocoon of comfort
Knowing what to expect
America joining the genocide
No longer just arming Zion
Dropping bombs
Everywhere
Killing Iran's leaders and people
Tens and thousands to appease Zion's blood lust
To divert any need to answer
Questions about pedophilia
To protect a corrupt president
And his pedophile clan__
I would rather lie in bed
Hoping it and they all went away
But not today and not tomorrow
But one the sun will shine again
And 'they' will be gone
Dead in prison or in exile
Good riddance__
Time to rise
The revolution does sleep
It does so awake
Dreaming the dream
Of freedom__

Unnative Son

Barack Obama was attacked by birthers claiming the President had been born in Africa or Indonesia. Even after he provided his birth documents from the state of Hawaii, the GOP accused Obama of forging his papers. This campaign of defamation never ceased with President-elect Trump leading the charge, however recent reports from the Sub-continent have spread rumors of Trump's birth to Nazi exiles in Pakistan and his adoption by a KKK sympathizer from New York.

The likeness of the young boy is uncanny.

Another alien at the helm.

A third generation Nazi at the helm of America.

Hitler's greatest triumph.

May 24, 1978 - Kiev Diner - Journal

Alice woke up screaming. She had been dreaming a horrifying remake of THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE. Awake she shuddered in my arms. Poor darling.

THE KIEV DINER

A Ukrainian diner
Sitting with Clover
A blonde runaway
Only sixteen
A little more than a friend.
4:28 AM
The after-hours crowd from CBGBs
Mindless
No one caring about the mindlessness
Rejects from destiny
Cups of coffee In their pale hands
Not wanting to be junkie zombies
But Vampires
To live forever
All victims exiled to the suburbs.
Rock and roll, sex, drugs.
Trapped by the will be
That never will be.
And living in the dreams of 1978.
Free stoned and punks.
Especially Clover
Sixteen
Free
From nothing and everything.

Jamais Seule Avec Angus

Sur l'Ile Saint-Louis
Sous la gris pluie
Seule,
Mais pas 100%

J'ai mon chien
Angus
Avec moi__
Sur le Rue des Deux-Ponts
Sans toi,
Notre menage a trois
Deux__
Il y a une semaine
Tu a me dire
« Adieu »
Non à bientôt
Simplement adieu __
Aujourd'hui, avec Angus
Sous la gris pluie
La Seine gris
Paris gris
Et Angus noir
Comme mon couer__
Il y a une semaine
Angus et moi te suivre
Sans espoir
A le Pont Louis-Phillipe
Toi a volte a face
Cinq mots tes tout derniers mots :
"Tu peux garder le chien."__
Mantenant
Sur le Pont Louis-Phillipe
Paris et le Seine si gris
Nous sommes deux
Angus et moi
"Angus, viens, on va prendre un verre.
"A le Louis 9."
Comme moi, Angue n'est pas seule__

In English although somehow I wrote the French version first thanks to my French lovers or 'les dictionaires couchant'. Thanks to those and alos the subtitles in the French cinemas. If it weren't for them I would have never leasrned 'quelgues-choses' meant something.

NEVER ALONE en Snglais

Beneath the gray rain
Alone,
But not entirely—
I have my dog,
Angus,
With me__
On the Rue des Deux-Ponts
Without you,
Our 'ménage à trois'
Now just a menage a two___
A week ago,
You said to me,
"Goodbye."
Not "See you soon,"
Simply, "Goodbye"—
Today, with Angus,
Beneath the gray rain—
The Seine gray,
Paris so gray,
And Angus is black—
Like my heart—
A week ago,
Angus and I followed you—
Hopelessly—
To the Pont Louis-Philippe.
You turned to face us—
Five words—your very last words:
"You can keep the dog."—
Now,
On the Pont Louis-Philippe,
With Paris and the Seine so gray,
There are just two of us—
Angus and me.
"Angus, come on, let's go get a drink."
"At the Louis IX."
Like me, Angus isn't alone—

ps this poem was recorded for a scene in Jack Haven's WAITING FOR BROOKIE in which I have a role. Mina Walker engineered the track for background music for a early scene with Alex McVickers in Paris. Only my voice as James Steele, French Pop Star

I'll add the song at a later date

Angus et moi - Rue de Basfroi chez Alan Vaughan - Paris 1984