Desire is the only thing standing between you and true freedom. But freedom is a desire. If you are lucky enough to be free of desire then you are free and can lose that freedom. If you desire not only attaining a state of freedom but also the continuation of that state, you are back where you started: with a desire. The desire to not feel desire. Luckily, I do not desire to feel no desire, therefore I can enjoy the freedom of no desire without the desire for it to continue indefinitely. Desire or no desire, it’s all the same to me, because I do not see a connection between desire and it’s attainment. Just as I have ceased to see a link between hope and possibility, fear and safety, prayer and a miracle. Continue reading
They live behind sculpted shrubbery plantings and faux distressed fencing but they are always in our face. Why? They have, until now, been able to get away with it. They insist on isolating themselves from the rest of us and yet, if we walk our dog without a leash in a near-by park, or piss on the sidewalk in front of their moat, they call the authorities. Until now, the authorities responded because the authorities were afraid of the rich. Now, the authorities could give a shit. Mr. and Mrs. Bosworth no longer have clout. They are now avoided and ridiculed for their shrubbery sculptors and pig-like lifestyles. It is much like pre-French Revolution days– when the people finally figured out that Mr. and Mrs. Bosworth and their high winded demands could be erradicated with a blunt knife. Who would have thought that the day would come when a person wearing a Rolex would be looked upon as a jerk instead of a success? It has happened almost overnight. The rich are deflated. They hunker down as they drive their BMW Mini-Vans to the mall…. they are finally ashamed of themselves, being caught in action: the action of inaction. Good God. I saw a specimen today, near a lovely waterfront park. This pig lived on park-side in an ivy-crawling mini mansion with her two poodles. The park has a big sign that says, No Dogs. I was walking my dog in front of her house. Without a leash. As were many others. Apparently, in earlier days, the pig would call the cops on park walkers with dogs. After all, a law is a law, a rule a rule. After all, she and her fellow piglets insisted on these laws, the laws of exclusion. So- I was walking my dog without a leash, and Mrs. Bosworth was watching me as she walked towards her Mercedes Mini-Van. A year ago, Mrs. Bosworth would have made a face, or I would have felt fearful. Instead it was Mrs. Bosworth who was fearful. “Isn’t it a lovely day?” She sang. “What an adorable pooch you have there!” Why thank you! I replied. Please don’t cut my throat, thought Mrs. Bosworth. I won’t, now that you are being civil, I thought. Keep it up and I might let you live. I strongly suggest you never again call the authorities.
This photo was taken during a call from a jazz club, firing me for a reason they could not comprehend themselves. 100 thrilled audience members, 1 asshole. One asshole trumps a crowd, so I suggest you become an asshole if you hunger for power. It was time, long ago, for me to separate myself from businesses dependent on total acceptability from the masses. And yet, there is the promise of the steady 100 bucks, a weeks groceries. Is it worth it? I want you to consider this question as it relates to your own inner or outer sobbing manifestations. This photo was taken in 2002, in Sarasota, Florida, while I was living and caring for my mother in that swamp land of escapism. I just found the picture at a friend’s house, the friend who took the picture. He knew that someday I would appreciate the photo. It would teach me something. And it does. How ridiculous to weep over the loss of a negative. It takes many slaps in the face to wake us up. I am happy to have this photo as a reminder that a happy deep sleep in the bosom of the mediocre is not my destiny.
Winter, 2002, Davio’s in The Biltmore. Buddy and his constituents holding court, heavy handed drinks, people with an easy laugh, money in their pockets, a scam in the works. It seemed like everybody was getting laid and actually enjoying it. Brown University Professeurs, seeking tenure but completely confident of their future sipped champagne cocktails in the love seats and requested songs with suggestive lyrics. The Davio’s management, happy with the flow of money into their cash register, let the evening unfold without comment. The gays and straights and rich and bohemian and uptights and East sider and West siders crushed together in a frenzy of freedom from the Same Old. It was a true Cabaret room where all castes congregated, sharing bad jokes, sing-a-longs and lousy nachos. The young and beautiful students. the Brown intellectuals, the tourists, groups staying at the hotel for a conference — Turf Masters of America, a Mortician Convention — dull herds of men from Milwaukee and Baltimore pressing against the local Madonna-Wanna tarts of North Providence, and Voila, it’s Christmas week and Davio’s has decorated the front windows with fake mistletoe and an electric Santa and Mrs. Santa, who girate randomly until I readjust them for slow dancing and suddenly, Mr and Mrs. Santa are fornicating on the stage. The crowd absorbs the peculiarity and is amused. Nobody makes a move to separate the electric Christmas couple. The night heats up with more jazz swing tunes, heaps of snow pile up against the windows behind the stage, cars in the street are stranded in sleet. They double park and come into the room for a drink, welcomed with cheers, handed half empty beer mugs.