If It’s Not Broken…It will be.
May 19, 2008
If everything breaks, and we have alot of everything, there’s a good chance that something will be broken every day of your life. Like the child’s game of “hit the popping head” - you hit one head, another one pops up, guaranteed. I find this very stressful. Now that I am older, my body is another “thing” that breaks, a tooth cracks, I have it cemented, a mole changes shape, I have it removed…..ingrown toenails, poison ivy, stomach flu, pink eye, insomnia, car accidents. The upside? I am not living in Burma. I have health insurance, but my computer doesn’t, nor my toaster, phone, tires, lawn, mattress, reading glasses, hamburger patties. A statute of limitations on everything, the clock is ticking. It will stop ticking, but time, which supposedly does not exist, continues to bite at our heels. It seems that being alive is an exception to every universal principal. Most everyone is dead or haven’t been born yet and never will. Only a few of us, 6 billion or so, are actually breathing in and out and only temporarily. If this is so, why do we dread our extinction? It is such a natural progression of events. We should look forward to it. I walk the dog through cemetaries often. They comfort me. Everybody looks fine. They don’t have ingrown toenails or credit card debt. Sure, they can’t eat or have sex, but that’s a small price to pay for an eternal, ETERNAL, ETERNITY of freedom. I like being alive but I look forward to death because it’s something I can count on. Death won’t be taken away from me once I’m dead. The finality of death is our guarantee that we won’t have to put up with ingrown toenails forever. Or the thought that someone somewhere is torturing an animal. Someday I will not have to go to the dentist, or overhear a news broadcast. I will be dust, happy dust, drifting. I will not have to turn down invitations to play tennis, golf, pee-knuckle. I will not have to save receipts or canceled checks, fill out warranty cards. I will not have to dream. Acknowledging the temporary nature of existence jolts my priorities and concerns into clear focus. My To-Do list shrinks, my frustrations, resentments and worries evaporate. I am left with this moment only, and when my mind is clear, it is more than enough. In fact, I couldn’t take much more.
Road trips are History
April 24, 2008
We ruined the planet but we had alot of fun didn’t we? Just driving across the country for the hell of it, Sunday drives to grandma’s for homemade apple pie? Driving. Fast, slow, state to state, friend to friend, visits here and there, hop in the car and go. Our heritage, our birthright we thought, an outward manifestation of freedom. No matter how bad things got, we could always get away. Those who grew up near mass transit may not feel such a connection to their car, but when you have to drive eight miles for a gallon of milk, no bus, no train, no taxi, - and the cost of gas goes up, and you begin to not go places. Like the store, or the swimming hole, or the gym, or out to do laundry. The laundry stays piled in the back of the car, you drink water in your coffee instead of milk, your arms get flabby, you take a swim in the bathtub.
I like it. This is the first time in my life as a Boomer that I have seriously had to do without. Even when I was truly broke, I could always fill my gas tank. Peanut butter sandwiches, old cheese and used clothes, cheap booze, rats in the basement of a Brooklyn flat. Could handle that. But when you feel that if you go to the store and buy milk you may not have enough money to pay your heating bill, or electric bill ( two bills that were at one time almost irrelevent) things get interesting. Especially when you hate where you’re living; in the middle of a manure pile.
Move to the city, near mass transit? yes, thinking seriously about that. that’s inevitable for more reasons than gas prices. I’d say I could afford rent in a city like El Paso. Bicycle? Go Fuck yourself. Motor scooter? Maybe. But in the winter? No, at the moment, just a good idea to stay home, make a list, go into town once a week. Save the planet, save my sanity. Suffer the withdrawal of not buying something every day, even envelopes, chapstick, a toaster.
How many envelopes have I thrown away in my life, just because they were slightly stained? How many times have I misplaced my chapstick and bought more, and how many chapsticks do I have in various drawers in my house? The toaster is dirty. Cheap toaster. Sometimes the toast sticks. Throw the thing out. Buy another one. easier. Toaster made in China. $3.44, same price as a gallon of gas. Maybe we will go back to heavy, well-made toasters, and we will keep track of our dental floss, and draw a funny smile face over the stain on the envelope.
This is the old way of life made new. The way of life which made our mother’s and father’s pick up dusty nickels and pennies from the car floor. I like it.
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.
The Joy of Desperation
February 26, 2008
I have been reading the blogs of a variety of artists, both visual and performance, recognizing a recurrent theme: desperation. All this wonderful art. All these talented artists. Desperate for attention, support, love, rent, supplies, feedback, collaboration. People for whom it is too late to turn back. Thousands of dollars, dozens of years, invested with little return. Although warned by the sordid biographies of writers, painters, actors and singers who died and were buried in unmarked graves, we didn’t suspect that Lady Luck would ignore us as well. There is romance in the most desperate biographies of artists. Aldous Huxley’s, ‘Down and Out in Paris and London’, for one. Henry Miller’s days in Brooklyn, — or going back a bit, if you really want a wake-up dose of smelling salts, Edgar Allan Poe. I’d start a list, but it would never end. I think that most despair germinates in ambivalence. Cheever, Camus, Steinbeck, etc. asked themselves, over and over, “what the hell am I doing? I am a lousy fake. I don’t have a chance in hell. Why do I continue?” Beckett said it best. “I can’t go on. I must go on. I can’t go on……. I’ll go on.” or something like that. I think that’s as close as we get to an answer. That is what makes artists so extraordinary, including the thousands we will never know existed. Is the answer somehow connected to the joy of desperation? The seduction of impossibility? The comfort of being on the bottom with nowhere to go but up, or sideways? Is this a mental illness? I invite comments. 
My Novel
February 12, 2008
I have decided to review my own novel before it is finished. I can then quote my review and put it on the cover. There is a distinct possibility that I will never finish this novel or have it published, so why wait anxiously for a review that will never be written? I am a firm believer in handling every aspect of one’s career and not placing destiny in the hands of literary professionals. They make too many mistakes and, as we know, power corrupts.
Title: You CAN survive an airplane crash. Author: Laurel Casey Non-Fiction, 453 pages.
Based on top-secret government documents discovered by the author while sifting through a dumpster behind the Pentagon, this crash-course in aviation survival is a must-read for anyone traveling through the sky, unless they’re in a hot air balloon. Thanks to first time author, Laurel Casey, we now have the information we need to not only survive a plane crash but walk away without a scratch. It is a much repeated mantra based on percentages: Air travel is safer than riding in an automobile, a train, a bus. It is almost as safe as staying in bed. However, the fear of flying continues to remain a constant source of anxiety for a large majority of Americans. This anxiety has been found to have detrimental affects on pilots in our armed forces. The Pentagon made the problem a priority after 9/11 and has spend close to 7 billion dollars researching techniques which would guarantee the safety of those assigned to the skies. This life saving information has been designated top-secret since 2001 by the Federal Aviation Authority for reasons that Ms. Casey reveals in her book.
Why was Ms. Casey able to find unshredded evidence of this top-secret research?Was the shredder out of order that day or were the documents meant to discovered? How many lives have been saved, and how many sacrificed, since 2001? These questions are answered in the first chapter of this invaluble book. The proceeding 20 chapters all explain, in lucid detail, the particulars of surviving a variety of flight disasters, of which there are many. With graphic photos and transcriptions taken from airplane black-box recordings, the reader can methodically piece together a survival plan for their family and friends. Seemingly instinctive reactions, such as praying and screaming, were found to be less effective than previously believed as was placing one’s head between one’s legs or anyone else’s legs. Ms. Casey explains in layman terms the ten steps that DO make the difference between life and an agonizing death for you and your loved ones.
Unfortunately, the first printing of this book sold out in four hours. There are only a few books available for purchase until a second printing, which is slated for January 2009. However, by contacting Ms. Casey directly, it is possible to obtain a synopsis of the documents which will certainly save your life if indeed you enjoy the time-saving convenience of airline travel.
Camp Casey becomes Insane Asylum
January 28, 2008
Dr. Casey has had a mental breakdown and is having difficulties dialing the phone numbers of friends who might come to her aid. It occurred suddenly, the day after her skiing mania and subsequent remorse over buying ski equipment that she feels she will never use again. It was snowing for the fourth day and Dr. Casey no longer saw the snow as white and had no desire to walk in it, let alone ski down it. The skis are in the back of her car and will remain there as a constant reminder of how totally fucked up she is. It appears that her latest personality, Bernice, is a professional downhill skier. It was Bernice would bought the skis and Bernice who skied yesterday. Bernice left Camp Casey this morning for Switzerland, and Dr. Casey has returned, only to discover the skis, and worse, the receipt: Absolutely No Refunds. Camp Casey will remain a one-woman mental institution until Dr. Casey developes another personality with a PhD in Multiple Personality Syndrome. 
Neighbors in the area have suggested that Dr. Casey get in her car and drive either South or West until she spots a palm tree. They have offered to pay travel expenses. Dr. Casey has written recently of the environment in which she has completely lost her mind:
It gets so dark here at night, that when you drive the eight miles you must travel to get a loaf of bread you have to guess where the road is. You have headlights, sure, but headlights are quite useless in total blackness. You use the line in the middle of the road as a guide, but you cannot see the sides of the road, so when you are here, you feel the need to stay here and not get in the car unless there is a large moon in a clear sky. You go without the bread until daybreak.
If you are feeling sad, the sadness will fill the room you are sitting in and when the sun goes down, it will wrap around you like a strait-jacket; suffocating your interests. If you are happy, your happiness will expand like a baking cupcake and warm your sockless toes. You will sit in the dark and the quiet soaking in a happiness that is so immediate it becomes a physical presence you can talk to.
Once in a great while you will hear the moaning of a train whistle across the lake, an owl, the crackling flame of the gas stove, branches moving in the wind. Each sound is an awakening from the dead quiet that has taken you directly to the workings of your emotions. The quiet enters your brain and grants an interview. It enters your groin and causes a baseless arousal. You stay busy staring out the window, listening to the repeated sound of your own internal voice saying, I should, I should, over and over. I should. In a couple of hours, the “I shoulds” fade away.
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.