—WHAT THE HELL DO I KNOW? EVERY DAY, ALL I LEARN IS THAT I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING

 

 

…Happy Monday. Happy new week to you.

I hope you know that you are special, that people love you, that there’s no one in the universe like you.

 

,,,Here are some words to live by from my hero, A.B…

                   

…“Eat at a local restaurant tonight. Get the cream sauce. Have a cold pint at 4 o’clock in a mostly empty bar. Go somewhere you’ve never been. Listen to someone you think may have nothing in common with you. Order the steak rare. Eat an oyster. Have a Negroni. Have two. Be open to a world where you may not understand or agree with the person next to you, but have a drink with them anyway. Eat slowly. Tip your server. Check in on your friends. Check in on yourself. Enjoy the ride.” 

                                               --Anthony Bourdain

—YOU SAY GOODBYE, AND I SAY HELLO

 

 

BALLADZ   /    Sharon Olds 

 

  

What’s strange to me this morning, is I think that you still love me, even though I have written this.

 

Love is the love of who we are, it is a form of knowing.

 

How much difference is there, anymore, between me and a cadaver?

 

I’m not saying Go f. yourself. You have done that.

 

My equipment for staying alive is running out.

 

Of course I am a killer, I am human.

 

There was what they said, and what they meant, and what they did.

 

I chose ballet lessons because I loved dancing, and the feeling, like begging to be liked—a kind of sneaky labor.

 

I guess we all lose everyone always, until we are lost ourselves.

 

My passport has been the Chardonnay label on the bottle, its contents have been the loop-de-loop of my fun-fair ride.

 

I used to think I would never throw myself away.  

 

For a moment the core of my life was not desire, but the knowledge of my unearned luck.

 

From birth I was a storyteller, and a liar, addicted to narratives.

 

Who are You? Are you a Nobody too?

 

I’d accept the gift, I would love your fucking pity.

 

“And I think my dolls sort of like me,” I say.

 

How much longer can I live without touch?

 

From now on it couldn’t be my mother who was fearsome to me. It would have to be me.

 

Imagine being able to calm the one you love best, who loves you best. 

 

Someday I will run out of tears.

—FEELS LIKE IT’S ALMOST MY TURN TO BE THE ONE TO SAY, ‘FUCK YOU.’ 

 

 

august

 

again this morning my thoughts got dressed before I did in bespoke funereal clothes black-on-black draped over other assorted shades of lacquer-black like a field stuffed with murdered crows and I thought this is finally it thank God it’s about time it’s the right moment for sunsetting and cancelled debts an eternal rest but then the alarm screeched and I reached arose aroused all-muscle-memory laden working my way across slick tiles until the subsequent shower blast slashed way too torrid (we’re talking nails--on--skin piping hot) as the steam fogged the mirror then cleared itself like a memory an angel or a halo disappearing into the milky way the afterlife the infinite exit and on-ramp and I saw myself as I actually was for once boney bloated bogus but still breathing panting like a shaggy mutt in a musty august swell as if what I needed was something ungraspable something slightly out of reach but definitely worth it it being the thing the slave-owner most hoped I would wish for saying come here you stupid fuck suck this tit and wait for what else’s to come love painted across her breastplate in jagged red font

YOU ALWAYS SAID THAT I’D COME BACK TO YOU AGAIN, EVERYBODY NEEDS A FRIEND, AND I DO

 

Preening

 

Today the grand cedar is a stubborn cuss that won’t buckle in the wind and Lucy’s still gone and I’m alone in this stucco mansion with too many books and windows that make me want to leap and I’m well aware that my privilege is pitiful and my self-pity is too because here in my third-story office the fireplace is like a cat preening and licking itself while they’ve had no heat in half of Ukraine for months and then there’s the earthquake which crushed and killed 46,000 and I’d like to say I’m sorry or do something more than that but I’m a self-fixated white WASP who watches CNN so he can bitch about the world to his other WASPy white friends and while it so often feels like every poem wants me dead all I really want is to be in the company of someone who shakes the truth from my bones or finishes off the job my hackneyed poetry can’t ever seem to do

 —WHO SAID THAT EVERY WISH WOULD BE HEARD AND ANSWERED, AND WISHED ON THE MORNING STARS?

 

 

Dear Charley,

 

We don’t know each other yet, but here I am, already asking you for a favor, for some advice. (Warning: You’ll have to get used to that, or it’ll be a long haul for both of us.) The thing is, I can’t even explain myself to myself, so how am I supposed to be expected to explain myself to others? A doctor? A relative? A friend I’m only sort of close to? (Warning: You’re going to be the one I’m going to explain my shit to, over and over again, ad nauseam, and it’ll seem like I’m talking to my own nut job self, but I’ll be sharing it all with you, even my secrets, even though you won’t be able to answer back beyond gestures, ankle jumps and an occasional puke or pee on my office floor.)

The one thing you’ll never have to worry about (Pinkie Swear: You can just tap your puppy paw on my curled finger when you get here) is being ignored, unheard, unseen or unloved.

I’ve done a ton of studying about your breed and I know you get a lot of anxiety when you’re left alone, which I do, too. So, I’ll try to take you as many places as I can when I go out and I’ll do my best to not leave you for more than a couple of hours. It’ll be okay, I promise.

I love you, Charley, and I don’t know how it is for you, but to me it feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet you, so please hurry.

 

Yours,

 

Len

 

—I’M JUST SITTIN' AROUND HERE TRYING TO WRITE THIS BOOK

 

When & How & Now

 

This morning I regarded the mirror

took a crude examination

some shower beads still pearled on my shoulders 

head hair damp and fine, scraggly like weed grass

me naked as a pasta noodle and almost as thin 

as if smoke could have bones and dermis 

chest hairless now, dull as a crushed picnic plate

me somewhat astonished, wondering when and

how that had happened, how it all did, this sudden shift of age 

crosshatched creases everywhere 

each mole staring at me like potato eyes 

as if they know some un-sharable secret  

my penis doing nothing, just nodding and looking listless,

stomach breaching a rim, bloated again

the folly hitting me, then slowly, 

a swell of gratitude knocking me over next

which made me laugh like a drunk jackal, the ruckus 

waking up my dead dog, my host, neighbors, the pope 

as I told myself or that mirror man, “You’re a lucky bastard,”

my cackling drowned out by a fleet of sirens

screaming up the street, flashing, flailing, 

desperately wanting something from me  

  

 

—YOU THINK IT, BUT I’M NOT FAKING ANYTHING

 

 

 

I’m Right Here

 

 

Wait, Jesus, have you been crying?

 

(…)

 

It’s not even 7 a.m., for Christ’s sake.

 

(…)

 

You better not fucking kill yourself.

 

(…)

 

Look at me! If you love me, you won’t. Think of the kids. They care.

 

(…)

 

Why can’t you just talk to me about it?

 

(…)

 

Okay, so, I’m just going to say this out loud because, well, it’s been rolling around in my head. Have you ever thought you could be misremembering your whole childhood? That maybe it wasn’t actually that awful?

 

(…)

 

And even if it was, I mean, people have survived worse. The Holocaust. Slavery. 9/11.

 

(…)

 

You know what I think? I think you just like to wallow. Misery is, like, the cheap trick you never had, but paid too much for. 

 

(…)

 

Yeah, it’s pretty obvious now—torment is the whore you really want to fuck.

 

(…)

 

For Fuck’s sake, I can’t help you if all you do is sit there with cartoon balloon thoughts in your head, saying nothing.

 

(…)

 

You know what? Fuck you. You’re fucking selfish, you know that? You have no idea how much this rips me apart.

 

(…)

 

I’m done. I’m getting a hotel.  I’m not kidding this time.

 

(…)

 

What? You can’t even nod, or something?

 

(…)

 

Nothing? Really? Great. Just fucking  G  R  E  A   T. What a pity grab you are.

 

(…)

 

Okay, then…I’m going. 

 

(…)

 

There are meatballs in the fridge. Push the Heat Sensor button. 

 

(…)

 

You need to eat something. You look like a fucking scarecrow.

 

(…)

 

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck me! Fuck you!

 

(…)

 

I‘m going now. I mean it this time. 

 

(…)

 

GODDAMN YOU.

 

(…)

 

You used to love me. You used to make me laugh. Now all you do is make me miserable.

 

(…)

 

Oh, Fuck it all. Kiss me. Please? Just one kiss. Then I’m gone. 

 

(…)

 

Can you at least look at me? I’m right here. 

 

(…)

 

That’s better.

 

(…)

 

Babe, it’ll be okay. I promise.

 

(…)

 

It’ll be all right. It will.

 

 

  

 

 

—IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN, RIGHT?

 

 

 

If This is a Life-threatening Emergency Please Hang Up and Dial 911

 

Later you’ll say, Let’s pretend this never happened. But now you hoist the belt again. Buckle high and ripe. Swinging for the fences. For young skin. My step-sis. My step-brother. Splatter of blood like a shock of ladybugs dotting the side of the wall.  While I grab your leg, thick as a tree stump. Shouting for you to stop. Which you don’t. Sweat falling from your forehead to mine. A hot trickle of evil. And then there’s the cacophony of screams. Unhinged bedlam. Who knew children could shriek like that? Like monkeys run through a band saw. Children hanging onto the dark sheet of a new day. Children grown into adults. Trying to explain to a wife. A husband. A therapist. An empty bottle. Or needle. What those moments were like. And how we made it. Through. 

 

 

—AIN’T IT GOOD TO KNOW THAT YOU’VE GOT A FRIEND, WHEN PEOPLE CAN BE SO COLD?

  

…This morning, even before the crack of dawn shows her gooey-eyed pupils to the world, I’ll be on an airplane heading to see my best friend, who somehow, stops everything from shaking, saves me, again and again and again.

I hope you have someone like that in your life. 

Let the fun, and laughter, commence.

(Maybe I’ll even post a pic.) 

By all accounts, it should be epic, once more. I’m pretty damn excited and so, right now, I’ll leave you with some things I like, or have pondered over, so far this week…

 

…I have I ever mentioned here, how much I love hail? 

As I write this, it’s coming down so spectacularly hard, like poetry that’s driving a nail to the heart of things without even trying.

 

…“The cure for anything is salt water—sweat, tears, or the sea.”  Izak Dinesen, her non-de-plume

 

…“All water has perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.” Toni Morrison

 

…“What is writing, but the preservation of ghosts? Cameron Awkward-Rich

 

…At the end of the day… I kind of hate that expression, it seems very lax, yet, at the end of the day, all you can really do is love hard, pray strong, and try to be a better person.

 

…I woke up at 3 a.m. three times in the last 5 days, and on occasion  it was precisely 63 in my office, one degree, more or less precisely older than I am at this moment.

 

…How can you not see that this is a gift?

 

…“One must dare to be happy.” Gertrude Stein

 

…“Since we do float on an unknown sea, I think we should examine the other floating things that come our way carefully; who knows what may depend on it?” - Elizabeth Bishop

 

…“In a way, forgiving people is a pompous activity. But it’s also necessary, isn’t it?” Frank McCourt

 

…It’s always funny when my watch congratulates me on being “way ahead of my Move and Exercise rings for this time of day” when it’s only because I’ve been up since 3 a.m.

 

…Throwing up, then trying all day not to throw up buckets more, has to be one of the most awful things. (See: this Monday.)

 

…Wrapped in a sharp fit of fear, anyone will become gullible and act in a way they would not normally. It might seem so incredibly stupid afterward, but at the time, you were on the edge and you were scared.

I know that feeling firsthand, and it’s no fun at all.

 

...Wow, these tree branches outside my window have really been moving and shuddering this week. Looks like a Pixar film gone too far.

 

…It’s frustrating when you know you have a book somewhere on your shelves, but you can’t find it when you finally want to delve in, so you order it again and later find out you have three copies.

I know, I know…privilege, and first world problems.

But there was a time, quite a stretch, where the only books I read were borrowed or stolen.

 

…“I don’t know who else needs to hear this, but living your life to the fullest does not have to involve hiking.” Belinda Subraman

 

…Maybe today’s the day, after all of these years.

 

…Really? Nothing more? Okay then. So be it.

 

…Red, in pre-edit, means a probable mistake. Red, can symbolize love, embarrassment, anger, ego, shame, raw, rare, love-blush, lack of communication or cooperation, murder or blood.

Red, I couldn’t get you when I should have, and I still can’t now.

Every color, every word, can mean so many different things, and that’s why communication is so important.

Put down that stupid fucking gun, and let’s have a talk about it.

 

“Luck is something we created to make sense of the things we can’t change.” Charlie, Poker Face

 

…Spent the whole day in my head, do a little spring cleaning, I’m always too busy dreaming.

 

…“I had to blow the candles out for her, my daughter, but I didn’t make a wish because it had already come true.” Jodi Miller

 

…“Nothing changes, really, about love.” Alice Munro

 

…“If there is any magic in the world, it must be an attempt at understanding someone.” Richard Linklater

 

…Top Three Things I’ve Learned About Doing the Work 

1. We are all works in progress. 

2. The work is never done (because no one can ever be perfect). 

3. The work looks different for everyone. 

--Susan Colasanti

 

…Well, maybe I should wake up instead, a lot of things I regret, but I just say I forget.

 

…“Just because you’re wearing your underwear inside-out doesn’t mean they’re clean.” Charlie, Poker Face

 

…Oh, I hate the feeling, when you’re high, but you’re underneath the ceiling. 

 

…“Cartoonist found dead in home. Details are sketchy.” Randall Brown

  

 

—I’LL TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT WHEN I SEE YOU AGAIN IN HEAVEN

     

  

...I had something else planned to post today, but this speech by Kevin Costner, about Clive Davis, at the pre-Grammy Awards really moved me, gave me pause, as there is so much life-wisdom in it. 

I was just going to splice out a few bits, but the whole thing is remarkable, for so many reasons.

To be a person, who can have that impact on others, it’s a big-ass Wow.

(Sorry for the weird underscore and boxes, but techy-challenged Me can’t figure out how to get rid of them)

he first time I was ever in this room, I was in a rented tuxedo and watched Gregory Peck receive a lifetime achievement award. I was in awe. Honesty, I remember walking the red carpet that night, and saw the blinding lights of cameras going off. They were all focused on him — Atticus Finch — I’d never seen anything like it. I don’t think a single person took my picture as I passed the same spot.

I’ve been here many times since and I don’t think I ever felt that way again — until tonight, looking out at everyone, understanding we’ve all had our journeys. And somehow ,I find myself standing here at the party of parties, uncertain and unsure, if I’m worthy of introducing Clive and honoring him.

These stages we aspire to, this room, where so much and so many have been celebrate can be one of the loneliest places in the world. And sometimes, the only way we can find ourselves stepping out on them, is if someone other than ourselves believes, imbues us with magical thinking that we belong: some greater faith in ourselves that we can’t muster alone. That’s Clive.

Nobody wants to put your life in reverse when you’ve been a successful as Clive. All the world sees is this. But somehow, this guy who has meant so much to so many in this room, had to find a way to move forward…. When he found himself alone too early in his young life, he had to find a way to replace the loss, the hurt. He needed to find a way to recover from that blow. No one was betting on Clive Davis except Clive. And somehow through it all he stumbled into a dream that became his yellow brick road. You should be celebrated Clive, as a man who played fair in the lives and careers he promised to build…. You never pretended that you were them. It’s that understanding, that behavior, that care and attention to details, that allowed the artists around you to flourish. That awesome promise to protect, that manifests itself in this army of music seated here tonight.  

It’s important that he hears the love coming his way. It’s not so important he finds the next single tonight. No demo’s in your pocket please. There’s no single here, Clive. There’s no hook for the moment. Let this just be about you for a couple more minutes.

It might be a surprise, but I don’t know Clive as well as most of you in this room. On the surface, we didn’t have much in common at all. We certainly shared a few things without knowing it. We both loved music. I can’t dance very well and he can’t dance at all. And we were both struck by Whitney the first time we saw her. Our journey towards each other started the day Lawrence Kasdan gave me the script of ‘The Bodyguard’ and the day Clive signed Whitney Houston. Whitney would be our common ground. And from that moment, the elements were in play that would one day come together like a force of nature so powerful, that the entire world, for one period of time it seemed, was focused on this little country song.

How do any three people find each other in this world in this business? It really doesn’t matter who we are or where we begin. It’s only about the intersection, how we come together, and what we make of that fateful union. Whitney had become the most celebrated singer of her generation. But she was also an untrained actress and it was unclear if this was something that she should aspire to, or even something that was good for her career.

All three of us would take a huge leap of faith — maybe the biggest, the hardest, was for Clive. I needed to believe that I could make the movie that I was imagining. Whitney saw it as a chance to reinvent herself. But for Clive, it was a career move that had a recipe for disaster written all over it. I needed Clive. I needed his trust and his blessing. And I needed the one thing that he wasn’t use to giving up — control. All the things he’s known for, all the things he’s done for so many in this room, all the things that make him great –that would not be the ground he was standing. 

We were set up to be mortal enemies if you think about it. This could only go one way and if it didn’t go right I would have never been invited. For Clive, ‘The Bodyguard’ will always be about the singer. It would be about Whitney. And that was alright with me. My mother had her own view of it, but I asked her to stay out of it. But in this instance, Clive was right. If Whitney didn’t work, the movie doesn’t.

That clarity, that single mindedness, is what I love about Clive. It’s a language I understand when it’s thoughtful and smart. It’s what we all wanted out here in this unforgiving town: someone who could see us as we are, someone who was willing to put us first. I felt that from Clive when he threw his soul into a song he was unsure of at first. His belief in me and what he heard overruled any pettiness a normal executive might have had. A lesser man would have dismissed or picked another single. But not Clive. He refused to let his ego stand in the way of his artists opportunity and single-handedly drove that song that helped carry the movie to success.

‘I Will Always Love You’ was number one in the world before the movie even came out. And thanks to the musical guidance of David Foster and the voice that came out of that little body that night in the studio, we have a performance of a lifetime. We’re all chasing dreams here, rarely crossing paths. But sometimes we do, through fate or destiny.

When we met Clive, it altered our lives for the better and, in some cases, forever. Clive’s not just a man of his time, but, maybe more importantly, a man who changed the times he lived in. He did it by listening. He did by believing in himself and never believing he was you. He believed in the special gifts his artists blessed with.

The only thing better than being one of his artists is maybe being his friend. We are an odd couple for sure, but we share an innate trust in each other. We kept our unspoken promise to each other when so much was at stake.

And now I say something I’ve never said to you before. Maybe this isn’t the room, but I don’t want to miss the moment and it’s  from the heart.

Neither one of us in the end could protect your beloved Whitney, but your fingerprints on her life are clean my friend. You were a miracle in her life. Thank you for being her bodyguard, Clive. And for every person in this room you have stood behind and stood for. Everyone in this business has a mom, but not everyone gets a Clive. You need to come out here. This is your stage.

 

 

—COME ON, BABY, THIS LAUGH’S ON ME

 

 

https://fictivedream.com/2023/02/02/solstice-twisting/

 

 

This is exquisite. A song with all the right notes. Love, love, love this, Len.

 

Beautiful.

 

Brilliant, as always, Len.

 

Loved reading this glorious naked trip!

 

Brilliant story!

 

I love this one!

 

Gorgeous imagery.

 

Some of these lines cut—they are so sharp.

 

Loved it over on Twitter. Loving it here some more!

 

Love the metaphors!

Beautifully poetic.