Most excellent letter, Steve. Every note sounded to perfection, like a toot from Miles, not that I'm an expert in that school of riff. But I do think you are hooking into that mysterious circuit where the line meets its maker that puts both the author and the reader into the same zone. Thank you for noticing my lead. Am disturbing the peace, going down the up staircases and up the down staircases today. Want to put a day sleeper back into that rear middle floor corner where hangnail dust and flakes of tooth decay mostly reside now. One ficus tree has major bug infestation spreading a jelly substance up its leaves with a thimbleful smudging that far north window. The other one had the beginnings of that same rot on some newer sprigs nearer the trunk but I think by pruning them I might just have evicted those damned bugs. As far as my life goes I don't claim to be any great motivator. Well, maybe I do, I must, if I put my grievances on display so often, knowing full well what nastiness they reveal about me. But I am merely following up on what feels most natural to my birth certificate at any given moment, kicking with all I've got to recover the life I feel born to, entitled to, suited for, and inclined to push and pull for, but can't quite keep my own internal and eternal demons at bay long enough to set the table properly. But the psychological weight is still present. Just like yourself, Sue, Tim, and nearly every other grain of sand from here to eternity. I'm no hypocrite. I'm no saint. But I do exert my own strong personality when that's the only strategy that can reconcile the dull, tedious beat of no direction, no relief that passes for the day in and day out around here.
eRighteously in pursuit of a conscientious point of view, I was in persistent boil last night. Mostly over Shipwreck Tim, Yet Another Steve Taylor, and Busy Sue Hedrick in that order, debrewing & eschewing the screwy baseball game Sue had channeled onto both middlefloor TVs to greet my sour but rising delight by the time I returned from Hechinger's with bags of dirt and manure, a few more seeds, and a bulb to stick in a socket, easily recognizing a kissup she'd already denied, once, twice, three times a cock crow earlier that morning. I ranted. I puffed. I rolled over.
When I finally cave to that stroke or that brain seizure and am in a twinkling of a cobra’s eye made a green around the gills outright vegetable, the false friends crew will soon enough scatter after the scorn and the laughter has faded to yet another dull memory. They always do.
I got what I deserved. Every choice lends itself to the pride of the past and the fret of the future. Dodging the impure calculus of the rogue ego, I can feel blessed with ample knowledge and vision today despite an occasional swipe in knocking back a few oratories and cleaning off a dozen dirty windows just to SET things straight again. Stale agitation is a rule of thumb like skeletons in the closet and cobwebs and black cats in a Halloween House, as we both push back with both feet through the thin synthetic veil of liquid skulls, broken quills, and pocket nullifications of the hack writer and his lovely dullard, condemned to digest the latest bull edicts leftover from a forgotten question and a plate of do nothing fats clogging the Dollhouse system. Sure. Opened a few doors. Closed others. But you know how working from an even keel that when the broken rudder fails, Landry, whether in the best of times or the worst of times, your own experience with Jack has shown you a good sea captain is required to know the limits of his own ship.
Meaning I would then see these pesky guests on a need to know basis. And tell them to bug off when I’m just not in the mood for somebody else’s boy noise. Sue and I no longer one mind. Eghads! What would become of life? Sue would say we’ve never been of one mind, and I say that’s exactly how I solve the equation. Let’s face it, Nimrod’s spoken. I’ve already solved for X, and now when I must solve for Y, I don’t like answer unless it’s an imaginary number. A number that spells relief when the colony of two and three gathered over and over again spell relief, not the same awkward similarity, familiarity, bucket of pedestrian drivel. That stings even me, as originator of that thought. Maybe a bit harsh. Nah, it’s the bare naked truth. Here I am in my forties and going nowhere faster than those ghetto bullets I just mentioned.
So dearies, in bringing it all back home what I'm trying so diligently to say is I'm relocating my beastly snort to the middle floor with or without spousal consent in order to embrace my own loneliness, a routine I find comforting, and not at all demeaning to whatever manhood is supposed to be. Hope to get a day bed or something sane put back in that rather homely rear corner. Without benefit of a loft setting, I want to expand my person to all the Dollhouse, work it, maximize it, by making it suitable for the right number and right combination of people and work habits, you know, the imaginary band, the literary chips gang, the occasional groveling guest, the all night facetime with digital tools a roaring against the grains of ineptitude (certainly a complex carb I don't need), then just a quiet crawl into the unquestioning sack without waking anyone of importance. Layabout guests, or crash pad dummies would have no such privileges of privacy which as a strategy might make them less willing to embrace the nearby sofa or my snoring, et cetera, but I do smell a flaw in my plans that I'll refrain from airing just now. Still have this afternoon to finish the middlefloor rear window cleaning chore. Will shake up the mystery books as we know them, but I'll come out feeling swell, not better in ages. Secrets akimbo. May divorce Sue just for the hell of it, a statement not much different than the wedding blues, most likely will not, since I told her I'd never leave her, even if I had to stand and deliver the Gettysburg address in her general direction every time she came near me with that pathetic grip on nothing, which is precisely the force of habit (to get her to actually hear if not listen, identify, and intelligently construe the words I use, and not the ones she imagines or spins) that she doesn't like, but let me tell you guys one thing, it is easier for me to do soooooomething, then get loud about feeling nearly alone in my solo quest, than it is to convince others they should also pursue their own best interests in communicating well, and standing by that communication all in the name of inventing an original life.
Greener pastures? You betcha, maybe, absolutely not. Baby Sue's a keeper. She's a lovely generous loner just like me, and needs me more than the bottom of the wine glass she loves without friction. No upshot to leaving the only family I have left. But the advantages of shaking the tree of liberty, breaking off a twig or two, catching a pecan, a peach, a pelican or two is enough is disabuse me of those terrible thoughts. Rather, I'd work into oblivion. Stagger up the stairs. Tumble into bed. Nod off to sleep as my balls and chains drop to the floor. Hear the crosswinds and dead luck gunshots the hoodies deliver like pizza around the concrete jungle gems and sneaker slicks of Greater SE. No TV. Wouldn't that be nice to finally shut off that lying lost dog. Close enough to hear the back gate coerced, control its passion, its loss. Night watchman, part owner, 40 Dollars and twenty-two cents. All alone (dancing with words). Others have retired to germane quarters. Meaning I would then see these pesky guests on a need to know basis. And tell them to bug off when I'm just not in the mood for somebody else's boy noise. Sue and I no longer one mind. Eghads! What would become of life? Sue would say we've never been of one mind, and I say that's exactly how I solve the equation. Let's face it, Nimrod's spoken. I've already solved for X, and now when I must solve for Y, I don't like answer unless it's an imaginary number. A number that spells relief when the colony of two and three gathered over and over again spell relief, not the same awkward similarity, familiarity, bucket of pedestrian drivel. That stings even me, as originator of that thought. Maybe a bit harsh. Nah, it's the bare naked truth. Here I am in my forties and going nowhere faster than those ghetto bullets I just mentioned.
Life creeps like a three chord song into our souls. How do we handle this creeping sickness? We begin to crave active roles in which we can play the exemplar or the idiot. then tear through the awful script with a code that counterfeits the messy...
Despite the constant spilt milk mop up and flatline fatigue, Sue and I, forge ahead forever linked like Greyhound and Trailways buslines, realizing there is more of the same where that came from, but we keep up this shared struggle of brotherly and sisterly love for the Dollhouse's best interests. We should have tried to adopt a few years ago. I floated the ballon several times, but our finances have never really smiled in that direction, Sue was dead set against adoption, says she's too selfish. At least, she was honest about that much. But she's nothing but generous to me. Garbage in, garbage out. Looking for an angle, Steve? It's all right here. It's right here in me. I told Len Bracken that yesterday. Tom Tenderly the gleeful mooch knows I say it to mean it, Rounthwaite, Swartwout. Williams, they all knew it too. Am I great strikes? Not half the cup of coffee I started out to be, but I don't strike out when I keep my eye on the pitch a whole lot either.
My current unhappiness stems (uh, he said stims) from the slow pace at which I work. I stay busy all the time, but it never seems enough to do all that needs to be done. I love everything I am doing these days, even the gazing. My impatience with myself is exacerbated by the sandgnats of my generation buzzing all around my head and my toys, my time and my noise. But that's what in the end is called life. I just wish I had more privacy on the one hand, and a larger, more productive staff (or as they say in the rock and roll cruiser), the fab four or five, even six or seven motivated chaps righteous enough to launch this happening idea centered around the Dollhouse media center of course (well, the Stadium-Armory commercialization project would do wonders for these urges, but that's another archive my head keeps curling up in bed with better left to other paragraphs).
Bottom line, I'm ready for change. Watch the sailors sail. Tim without a job? Can't fathom his presence around here the same way he sees it. His intuitive lack of inspiration can also be painted as an intrinsic lack of discipline because nothing stands in the way of a Tim Shipman goodhour feasted with breaking soundbarriers and a loaf of goatsheadsoup with a chosen few gathered in His honor. I want to see Tim achieve whatever goals he wishes to set, but he ain't there yet as best I figger.
Guess I should toss this one up on the wires. I'm buzzing, rambling, not a single point to make. Dirty windows are calling. It all adds up, in the heart Tony left in San Francisco...
My own 24 hours a day, after weathering the Yellow Years of unrequited punk rock notoriety, are rather sacred to me, now, but I have given them freely much too frequently to events I chafe while performing, and isn't this the root of all evil, as both Tim and Len Bracken would have me believe. And too, you would have no intellectual recourse but to throw another log on that fire of poor response as well. You have been chafing and moaning for months now. Sue is the same way. Hey, it's most people's nature. Yet faulty reckoning folks every inch of the way have no choice but to HEAR and SEE me rebelling against nonsense while they cling to and celebrate their own while all I dare to do is EVERYTHING. I do not celebrate bullshit. When I finally cave to that stroke or that brain seizure and am in a twinkling of a cobra's eye made a green around the gills outright vegetable, the false friends will soon enough scatter after the scorn and the laughter has faded to yet another dull memory. They always do. I can make most of it happen already in a flash. Even as we all slurfishly wait for the big event to crush the emptiness and falsehoods of our lives.
Life creeps like a three chord song into our souls. How do we handle this creeping sickness? We begin to crave active roles in which we can play the exemplar or the idiot. then tear through the awful script with a code that counterfeits the messy, and can only transition AFTER (after the man with a thousand plans, sang Norko) the My will versus Thy will way of life can finally produce results of a particular maybe unique toil, especially now as we all begin to recognize ourselves as the double-edged sword that rips at amazing clockspeeds its up-to-the-minute reports into our handheld brains. And in that perfected time as always the scatterers will themselves be scattered.
Guess I should toss this one up on the wires. I'm buzzing, rambling, not a single point to make. Dirty windows are calling. It all adds up, in the all too common heart Tony left in San Francisco...