White with little black letters
April 15, 2008
Looking at a blank page is like looking into the center of the universe and discovering that it is white. White is substantial, the basis of all color. Now that there are little black letters on this white page it is no longer itself. It has been assaulted. Sliced and pickled. This is when the artist feels most uncomfortable. How can we paint or write anything as beautiful as the white page or canvas, manifestations of the white center of the universe, where the unknown greatness floats? The eternal white and bright where the star dust of our ancestors and friends are silent, and remind me that the white page, the white sky, the white, see through, see nothing, wall of blank, pulpy flatness is a gift that cannot be unwrapped. The whiteness is an empty lap. I try writing my way toward it, to be encompassed, rocked, suckled, bounced on a knee, a child again in my mothers arms, but my mothers arms are star dust, and wordless.
Buddy Cianci radio show
April 9, 2008
Hadn’t seen Buddy since his escape from a political prison. Looks great. Harder around the edges though. Who wouldn’t be? 
His side-kick, Ron St. Pierre, is just the greatest, and together they are impossible to upstage. I tried, of course, but kept getting interrupted just before the delivery of a punch line. Read more
I can’t post anything anymore for some reason
April 8, 2008
Well, I can post this writing, but when I download a pix it doesnt tag into the article. I dont like this. It makes me log out and I don’t mean collect firewood.
Boy does the truth hurt
April 6, 2008
Sometimes I don’t think I can take it. The reality of agendas. It is the most heartbreaking phenomena in our lives. The mind games. The pussy-footing. The endearments without sentiment. Oh God, the romanticism without follow-up. You begin to question your sanity. Is it me? Is it something about me that encourages the shallow faithlessness? Can it all be as simple as the side-bars in People Magazine or on the New York Times editorial page? Are we still unable to control our behaviors and thoughts, after the psychoanalysis and post-graduate studies? Our evenings of insightful reflection or discussion? Are we still apes at heart and groin? Why am I stunned? Why can’t I accept the world as it operates? Why do I remain in a pink cloudy blockage? Am I too weak to bear the truth of ape-land? And if so, where can I go to escape it? Is solitude the answer? You are told you are loved and you are not loved. You are told you are hated and you are not hated. You are told the operation was a success and it was not. You are told this and that, promised this and that, and after the promises, the promiser fades away, sobers up, or moves away, and you are left with your notebook and property; resume and postcards, bills, notices, and much, much blame. Blame. The great advantage. You did it to yourself. I didn’t do anything to upset you. I am going to stop smoking and go to meditation class. The eyes of a lover suddenly rational. The warped memories of the past leave you helpless to defend yourself. These are the people you must stay away from, but you cannot. You crawl on your knees for their approval, and you will never get it. Your crawl is a time and energy waste, but you are fullfilled because you are one step closer to destiny. The destiny of death and the end of promises.
good friends
April 3, 2008
It was the opening in Newport at Sue’s Salvation Cafe for the new magazine, The Newpy News, editor, Michael Walsh, of Andy Walhol Factory fame, now living in Newport off and on to care for his sick mother. Here I am with Sue, who inspired me to start writing back in 1986. She is now, as well as restaurant owner, a documentary film maker, her most recent film being shown at the New Orleans Film Festival this month, addressing the hip-hop culture that has since been washing inland toward the no-soul areas of outer Louisiana. Sue and I discussed my recent visit to New Orleans and my gig at Snookers, and the empty streets resembling a hosed down Greenwich, Connecticut suburb, devoid of artists and musicians, and other advanced beings, the same old gray faced, paunch bellied southern saps with inherited money, busy renovating their mansions, two blocks from the bulldozers working over-time to flatten the poorer neighborhoods, and ready them for gated communities full of granite covered kitchen counters and reupholstered Victorian furniture. Gee, one thing was missing. Creative energy. New Orleans begins to bubble, despite the catatrophy, and the real estate pigs clawing up the damaged neighborhoods as fast as they can. Still, New Orleans is not so easy to deflate. Unlike New York City, which has now become the capital of mediocrity, made manifest by a club called The Dom Perignon Gals, who go out to a cafe and perform for each other in exchange for magnums of champagne. Champagne that can make the mediocre seem almost acceptable, being that drinking from the green Dom bottle erases from one;s memory the flat notes, and flat souls, the sagging necks of the monied women who can be, for a short time, a Barbara Cooke or Barbara Streisand. Ribbons and bows and low necked push up breastbones. The deep, heavy, breathless sighs as they miss a note by a mile. The champagne pours heavy, the cabaret room is dark, someone misplaces her mink, dull fingers dial their chauffeurs, A good time has been had by all. The buzz begins. People want to see the ladies, doused in Dior and linen, good champagne and love affairs gone wrong with dryness and demands. Weaving toward the bar for another glass before going home to husband, lover, dog, assistant. A full evening of evocative expression, sung full out flat, arms flapping with the drumbeat, breasts pressing again Be-Be blouses, a large and worthy freak show. The new attitude towards mediocrity, a reward for the attempt, without expectation of excellence, the new freedom. Expression is free and does not demand perfection. I honor the women who spit into the microphone, martini in hand, gray faces painting each color of the rainbow. Sparkles. Bleached smiles. Dreams fullfilled. I suppose the husbands supply the Don Perignon. I was told this story by a New York cabaret producer, who is horrified that these women, without talent, are soaking up the champagne and taking themselves to the top of their own particular talents. They are the Elaine Stricts, on the simple little stools, wrapping their still fine legs around each other. Talking, talking about the slimey top of the deep bottle of cream that the rest of us are struggling to swim thorough. People are very nervous now. It is a good time to stay home and read about the lives of the medieval pesants. who died long before they had time to dream. Who drank drank warm brew and scrapped together barley and wheat for bread. And lay down in the straw together for a simple, fast and slickly comfort. Sue was drunk when this picture was taken. She told me, in her state, that I was her hero, in that I did not compromise myself or my work. And that I was alone. And she did not see what she herself has done in that regard. I hope I do not disappoint her. But we all disappoint each other because we all need help getting where we must go. Go and help someone today, in any small way. Save someone that you love. They will soon be gone.
typing into a little box
April 1, 2008
Typing into a bigger box.
There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.