going through my mother’s kitchen cabinets, I am astounded by the collection of things, various vessels, plates, platters, some I have seen, some seem like they are on loan from museums of era, glassware that screams 70s disco, ornate sterling silver plates that seem fit for a castle service in england, every matter of serving platter and gravy train saucer container, some glassware is clearly 80s, some screams post modern, others are timeless classics, others covered in dust as if stored in the attic, tacky freeware from tropical destination locations, hand made donations from school projects, mostly bad ceramics, even the firing is showing some cracks, all with a maker’s mark on them, mine or my brother’s, from our childhood exploits, a time where you don’t see your father and mother as people going through life, they’re the guides at that time, the law, the rules, not real people until you learn that is the real truth when you are later with age, every shelf has something else, blenders that look like a 60s caddy, an ice caddy that could have been from the copa back in the day, I’m tempted to flip it over and play it like a bongo, that special electric knife set for special occasions, the big ones for carving like thanksgiving, I can hear the specific song of that thing, the rhythmic stop and start, almost like a chainsaw indoors that activates your appetite, for carving is the last wait before serving, other plates speak country store, some are reminders of other holidays and gatherings, when the house was packed with relatives, casserole dishes laid out for buffet on temporary fold up tables, loud mostly meaningless conversation, children weaving in and out, there is salad dressing containers when you never made your own, an original thermos, iconic cup still secure on top, a fondue set, a fondue set ? that someone else bought, cocktail forks, nutcrackers, can openers, all manner of spoon from baby size to cartoon huge, tongs, a complete world of their own, all the same purpose but so many forms, an egg timer, and egg slicer, a mandolin, sounds instrumental but isn’t, a whisker, a masher, a smasher, a tenderizing mallet, all sounds violent but isn’t, all manner of knife, some have teeth, some not, some on both sides, some on top, all have had a role current or past but here they remain as a testament…
There are many way we count time, clocks, watches, wall calendars, all those now carried even closer on our phones, but what else is there when we look closer enough, books, bookshelves, baubles, random art, gifts that have no use except the important use of reminding those who gave us them, photos, clothes in closets, and so much more.
I see a whole life here, a story, laid out in dishes…
notes… freeform tonight one shot write, looking around my folks home, poking around, they are older now, elderly but that seems like an insult, especially since I feel like I will be there in their place in no time, even though that is decades out on the horizon, a horizon that ever approaches, just the weird little things of life have been catching my eye… this is one of those. And thanks to all for the looks, likes, and other such things, if I can entertain or enlighten one person my job is done (hey, a thousand or so wouldn’t be bad either, eh)
“a prayer for a young child may your innocence remain intact let not that shell be pierced or broken still until your wisdom has gathered age so that you shall emerge matured and able to take flight”
notes.. I say this, or post this, as a hope, which I know does not always happen, but no harm in asking, I am not a non realist, but I am an optimist, and always will be…
Being at a family gathering can give you interesting perspectives, maybe it is lost on some, perhaps on the young, on those who don’t step back and look at the whole, but I suppose that is what makes me who I am, an observer, sometimes on the outside, the carousel of life, but the more I thought, the more I observed, “carousel” is a terrible word, and an even worse analogy, it sounds lofty and poetic but is not true, a carousel, well, by it’s very nature people hop on and off, riding fake fabled beasts, everything is decoration and pomp, lighting and circumstance, you always arrive from where you came, that is not life indeed, as un-glorious as it may seem, life is more like a conveyor belt powered by unrelenting time, not quite unlike that famous lucille ball clip, but perhaps more subtle, just in one glance I am looking at the end of the belt and near to the beginning, those starting their lives off, moving into family mode, those watching their grandchildren blossom into adulthood, those nearing the end and faculties fade and old tried stories remain and remind of days long gone by, the passage of time, the belt just moves along, never stopping, always forward, there is no fight to be won, just enjoy the ride…
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I wonder about my place on the belt as well, somewhere in the middle of all this, but my experience is vastly different, I suppose I am on a different route, same belt, more doubt, wondering if I could have or should have done things differently, of course this is feeble distraction and not worth my time, but I can not say I do not indulge in the delusion of that particular rabbit hole, the ‘what ifs’ bear intoxication, as dreams mainline into my veins, here, at a summer night, one block off the ocean, the breeze coming in, a cover band of covers I don’t recognize, probably bon jovi and springsteen as is the custom here in my native rock, I notice the air has condensed on the banisters of the deck, I look around and realize I am reading a book, a story, an amstel in my hand, drips condensation down on to my leg, I wonder if they can read what I am thinking, or what they think of me, families are a strange thing, people you know your whole life but at times more mysterious than friends, years pass and things seem the same, the only gauge is hair, lack thereof, and kids, who are no longer kids, I must admit I passed a grin, even if none of this is for me, at least for now, probably never, but there is joy in others, even if we are on a factory floor, riding a conveyor belt to an inevitable end… maybe the best if this is a carousel, if I choose to look at the draw, the charm, the joy, the smiles, on a summer night, by the beach, hearing stories of childhood from eighty year olds, why not… circle around again and enjoy it all… again…
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prologue, a travel story of phobias and foibles…
I was off last weekend so trying to snag two saturdays in a row would not be feasible with work (or fair to my fellow workers, I have this strange work ethic thing happening), but I did manage to leave the office @ 3:30 pm which seemed reasonable to get somewhere by 5:00 pm in a state where you can pretty much drive anywhere in 2 hours (give or take), and this was not (well should not have been) a 2 hour drive, certainly a sparkling day, not too humid, and I am travelling to the shore… so expectations are a damn nice ride, if I can get there, ah, the garden state parkway, in summer, living up to the “park” portion that is for sure, I was colored surprised figuring if you want to get to the shore, you leave friday, or early saturday, why oh why would saturday later afternoon be a traffic magnet, but I suppose the universe was conspiring against me, although I should really just relax a bit, this is a family gathering, not a court appearance, so, I tried to convince myself of that, although I don’t like to be late, I nod to myself to accept my fate (well, OK I think I went about 82% and held onto the rest anxiousness, c’mon that is progress), so, I slog through some traffic, mainly just frustrating, as there seems to be no rhyme or reason to the flow, or lack thereof, stopping, starting, darting, speeding up for four miles to come to a complete stop, the relentless tease of release which does not come until I am well south of edison, around the arts center, at least there was no concert tonight, time is ticking, the hour of the party is approaching, I have to stop myself from thinking, just accept being late, just a margin of how late, half an hour, seems reasonable, but 42 minutes? for some reason that makes me feel like a scoundrel, ah, turn up the tunes, you live in a world with thousands of choices within reach, jam out for a bit, for some reason, and I do not know why, “monmouth beach” sounds so much closer in my mind than it actually is, am I conflating “monmouth” as an area, or the college? this is almost a foreign area to me, I have been every place in and around it, all the roads, 35, 36, all of it so well traveled in my travels, but never right HERE, strange, how could I miss out on something as great as “seven bridges road” as you crest and fall like slow waves up and over gorgeous views, water is more of a power broker here than land, it shapes everything in your eye, surrounding, people hiking with fishing poles, I’m jealous, but I have somewhere to be, even if late, my GPS glares at me screaming 5:42 arrival – no matter how fast I seem to go, I think I earned back a minute, damn these things for being so damn accurate, as the miles dwindle, the sky in the coming not so distant distance is beginning to resemble smoke, so of course your mind starts to wander to wonder? is that smoke ? or is that fog? well, I am travelling right in that direction so I suppose I will find out, and the closer I get to my destination (always a bit of trepidation to new locations is creeping in), the closer I get the sun is more obscured, it is not cloudy for sure, just this amorphous fog that seems to have dark streaks, one thing about the shore, you know you are there when every street seems to have a purposeful name… “seaview avenue”, “ocean avenue”, “atlantic avenue”, “dave don’t turn here blvd”, ok, I made the last one up… so here I am tooling about this town I know nothing about, a strange mix of old style beach houses, huge porches, decks, those awnings that remind me of the beach as a kid in deal and yet also italian restaurants, and then there is some other gaudy mansions, roman columns, some other homes that look like an architect could not resist bucking what a beach house should look like, I am probably rubber necking, I try and keep my eye on the prize and be aware of cars behind me, but this is a nice town, it is all new and yet familiar to my jersey DNA, I make a turn, I think I’m here, on the street at least, frantically looking for the number 10, making sure I am not causing a traffic dust up, that must be it, over there, on my left, catering truck check, OK, first mission accomplished, time to park, oh, there’s my brother’s car, definitely got the right place, damn, was that a space in front of him? hard to tell, there is yellow curbs and some curbs kind of colored with rust that in a flash throw me off, so I go to the next block… can I fit there? I have a perception problem, I always over estimate the size of my car, which makes parking a loving endeavor or I drive around needlessly for too ling, so I begin to parallel park, damn, awful angle, and I knew it pulling in, a quick look, eh, no one saw me as I now micro correct my parking job back, turn, forward, back, curb, forward, turn, turn, back, no curb, whew, back, back, park and I’m in, so I grab my offering and saunter over to the house, up the driveway, “hey dave”, it’s my brother, in the garage, I assume up to no good, but no, he was helping his beau prepare a cake in the form of a truck, like one of those cakes you see on TV that looks more like a toy than chow, but it was apparently a rice krispies cake, pretty neat I must say, although I hate sweets, looking more forward to the clams and such, I’m a mollusk freak in that way, so all my fears now allayed, I stroll to the back of the place, noting all the house features, the smell of the ocean is faint at the moment, and the fog? yes, I almost forgot about the fog, since I smell no smoke, this must be fog that decided to join us from over the water, no matter, no matter at all…
notes… I wrote this all in one form, my hybrid of prose and poetry or just what I do…. writing is cathartic, not always, but sometimes, it allows me to question everything, mostly me… I hope you agree, and I suppose if you got this far, you got something out of it, only one person other than myself, that is always my goal, two is a win, four is more, but one is just as good… all thoughts, comments, likes, re-posts and whatever… are all appreciated, thanks. I do this to throw myself out into the world, maybe there are simpaticos out there…. maybe not, but I have to do what I am made to do….
Sometimes I see something and it is just a trigger for some lines, this would be one of those times, a simple thought, just spilled out of my gut, onto this page, how um, romantic, if not gross… but seriously this was just inspiration from a frame, some old wooden power lines stretched across the vast salt marshes of southern new jersey… which made me write this…
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wooden power lines make me think of the plains and open spaces stretching prairies golden rolling fields wide winding roads that inevitably lead to the feet of mountains and the gateway of the west
notes… tonight I was at my cousin’s house, one block from the beach in Monmouth Beach NJ… seemingly I was watching a life I left, or was supposed to have, it isn’t that I am unhappy, but it is strange to observe the changing of generations, the “kids” I knew are now all young 20 something party animals, my cool cousins are now almost the older generation, my uncles and aunts are all 80 plus… life is strange, I am glad to observe it, I must have looked like a weirdo to them, just kind of kicking back and taking it all in, a watcher, no need to fit in, comfortable in my own skin but content to stand by myself, I must admit that I thought about her… how she would have been right next to me and I would have brought the bell to the ball in my mind and heart, I would gladly have had the most beautiful girl in the room, because she always was, to me, but I am happy for the others, my brother who is on wife three, my cousin from philly who has gotten back with a great guy (as far as I could always tell, and I am a good judge of character), a cousin with a new beau, her older sister with the same old who seems a new man when wall street leads to ocean views, and my uncle who’s birthday this was all for, let me be that when I am 80 and I will claim victory, but to look out, and see three generations of your family…. that must be something, I saw it, but I am not of it… but somehow I do embrace it even if I feel outside it at times…
family…
for some reason, I must admit to myself a certain underlying apprehension, as a family gathering is happening out on the horizon, nothing formal like a wedding mind you, just a get together, a party for an uncle eclipsing the 80 year mark (who looks great for his age), but anyway, I got to thinking about this underlying apprehension as to how I would be judged or looked at, is it my expectations, theirs? both? driving to work can provide mind maddening traffic nightmares but also a chanee to reflect, so I guess this is what that is, I suppose there will be idle talk about what David is or was supposed to be, and what or who I am now, speculation, derision, is family strangers… you just happen to know better ? just not better than your friends ? these are my findings, not all families get along (we are not fighting mind you,), I suppose we do alright these days, better than most, although the distance between all of us has grown and is quite palpable, an interesting phenomena in the days of digital communication, things are actually less personal, get togethers are more rare, real communication is even rarer, is it regret? a generational thing? I’m not sure, I suppose we all bear some responsibility, so easy to melt into our various devices as devices of convenience and distraction (the evolution of bread and circus?), in many ways I seem to know more about what my relatives think, on social media at least, but is that just a face… or reality? or a mixture? I try to be as honest as possible in all phases but in reality, this reality we all play roles, whether we admit that to ourselves or not, we have differing faces, not mendacity, not lies, just different sides for different suns, can we escape that paradigm? I suppose that is what I try… at least… so I think there will be those that judge me against their children or some other quite temporal measuring stick, what is success anyway, and is temporary “success” in this world worth anything anyway? Are having kids… success ? if those kids “fail”… does that lessen your ‘success’ based on so many factors you can not possibly control… or do you just roll with it, life that is, the more I think about it the more I tend to let go when I catch myself acting by the hand of outside forces, like these thoughts that have invaded my little space but I caught them sneaking in (they should have removed their shoes… amateurs…)
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lest you be judged…
“let people judge you” because in the end what does it matter, you can never, or will never be able to control the thoughts or will of others, there is no super secret power or device to such end, your options are very obvious if you distill them down, forever chase the end of the rainbow to no end… or just accept things (and yourself) as they are, I am not saying throw out the baby with the bathwater and eschew personal growth and goals, but as far as other people’s thoughts? consider them, but let that not be your guiding principal in this life, it is easy to judge anything and everything, it is our absolute nature to compare things, but take into consideration that we all have limited experience in these comparisons regardless of how long we have been riding on this planet, we are very tied down to our own experiences which in the scope of things is quite limited (think about the variables, when you were born, your parents, your country, your state, your gender, your religion etc etc), so trust in that deficiency, sounds strange to trust in your lack of something, but that lack of experience is exactly the lens you are filtering the world through, admitting real limitation is the keystone to the bridge of accomplishment (I should author fortune cookie messages… or hallmark cards… I’m available for parties, no balloon animals (just can’t do that) and no ponies (I’m allergic) )…
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eclipse…
maybe my problem is over stimulated blindness, looking at the sun can be overwhelming, at times an eclipse might be most useful, something between you and everything, blocking enough so you can see the periphery and the outline, not all the light at once so you can appreciate the whole that much more when it is revealed again, there is a lesson in there somewhere, the patience of it all, as the curtain is slowly drawn and then reversed until full dawn, so maybe I will think of an eclipse if I am ever overwhelmed, and remember not to take in the whole ball of sun at once (as I tend to do, becoming a localized Atlas with not the shoulders he had), realize my limitations and take in what I can instead of swallowing whole, surely though I will falter and draw to close, fall like Icarus into the sea, and hopefully not drown this time, or the next, like all things practice in this, and practice becomes habit and habit becomes your work clothing, and then you forget the change ever happened at all, because you are comparing things as you go…
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so I suppose my fear (or discomfort) is un-grounded, I should not have apprehension for a family gathering, if I cause rumors or a stir, it matters about as much as a car spider scuttling across my window at night, or a leaf slowly swaying back and forth as it inevitably lands on the ground, have I cleared myself of the fear completely? some part of me still clings, but somehow, after examination, I feel some relief… and I suppose that is progress, besides the sky is very blue today, there is a cloud that looks like a mile fern leaf, the wind is gently turning the purple leaves of the cherry blossom outside this concrete box where I work, it all seems right… it all seems OK… at least for now, and that is all you can hope for sometimes…
finger-style electric, mellow but exciting, and if you play the technical level is mind blowing, they are playing the TLA in Philly in September, hell yell I will be there… (I couldn’t make the Brooklyn show on the 16th this month.. grrrr)
“fertile” with free will to burrow in your harvest our limbs entwined as I enter your forest to fertilize within for the land shall bloom and from that union gift forth that womb will emerge, a child hope, is renewed.
notes… sometimes I have to admit I just don’t know where the inspiration comes from (or words), which makes me ponder the nature of the universe, I mean we are this incalculable chance of billions to the billions chance of being right now, right here, right at this moment (you reading this!), it is mind boggling, that in all the universe language was created and I am here to have it germinate in my mind, and share, as art, as life… it is utterly mind numbing, humbling, wondersome (my word!), and just… an affirmation of life as we have it right now, in our hands, hearts and minds…
musical choice of the evening… “Power of Love” – King’s X, because the greatest of these is love… I am a child of the 80’s so excuse my proclivities… or don’t, I’ll still be here…
and as always I would be remiss to not say thanks for the read, the likes, the eyeballs, the seafood lasagna recipes, and everything else, I am glad to enlighten at least anyone past my door, thanks.
be a cliche, today was that summer day, hot, sun bearing down, blacktop hot enough to burn bare feet, I think my plants have adjusted too well to this year’s heavy rains, they have become accustomed to what seemed always available @ immediate now, so we share that weakness of assumption in the snapshot, so, just a mere two days without storm and they all look thirsty, sagging in the swelter, not wishing to see them suffer further, and quite proud of my shiny green thumb, I unreel the hose, and let loose the valve, left squeak, left full turn – squeak, left full circle – stop, I hear the flow rush of the water filling up the coils, I reach down to grab the the iron spray-head, forgetting it was sitting in the blistering sun all day, and damn it’s blazing hot, I juggle and fumble just to squeeze the thing to get the cold water going, I spray my hands immediately, sweet relief, I shower my bamboo, my pride and joy plant wise, my personal banzai, really, each year as it grows into a bigger ball, some of the water hits the driveway, and turns to steam immediately, and there is that smell, not of water, of the chemicals and minerals in the water, escaping as gases in the steam, definitely metallic in nature, one of those smells that remains utterly distinct in life, lake water, charcoal on a fired up grill, the first cut into a ripe pineapple, technology does not seem to touch these things, they were the same and are the same for a hundred years, to generations of summer culture. So, this is a holiday, seems like another day to me, admittedly I expected much more noise outside than this, it is rather quite calm, maybe the heavy weight of the sun has beaten the starch out of life a little today, and the world is in resting phase, but I am sure, on the night, will come the fireworks, to light the sky, mark the occasion, scare my dog, overtures and songs, a holiday throng when fireworks are certainly foreign born. For me, nothing is different tonight, just sitting here contemplating life, fate, the past, the future, what it all means as if I have the means to solve this puzzle in the first place, as the sun sits between the V of two branches, I understand how holidays can isolate, make you feel lonely, all the joyous sounding around, and you are not part of it, of course some of that is by choice, yes I must confess I am not the social butterfly I once never was, has this past year been better, yes, by slow standards, although change happens all around us all the time, inner, personal change does not seem up to speed, the relics of the past, deeds, memories, they are bindings much stronger in comfort than landing first foot in the new world, landing, with wonder, and fear, will that new land be as “good” as the old I left (or should have fled), the fear, even if home was built on the cold stone face of misery, misery loves comfort, for even the walls of a prison can become familiar horizons, to the point where beyond those walls no longer matters, this is why I struggle to construct pillars of reminder, the truth is rather easy and consistent in most things, we know what is right, what must or should be done, in our deepest well lurks the truth, what we know, that our days are quite literally numbered, there is a countdown as to which we are bound but not allowed to witness, but we know of it’s existence, do we all live in the moment, as if this may be our last minute? do I? maybe this is my reminder, my map, my guide, taking the time to let the “important” world slide away and just consider thoughts in writing, and maybe the rest will arrive, in it’s own time, trust not in despair, you know what is there, trust in the fact, that you are alive, you have a choice, choose the nuptials of love and hope, whenever you can, fail, more than succeed, likely, but it is apparent, that for most of us, this was never meant to be easy…
oh yeah, this is part of my ongoing porch project thing… just me, sitting out there, playing guitar more lately but also with my little notebook scribbling all this, I wonder what my neighbors think….
the sounds of a summer night offer a certain melody maybe mistaken for cacophony, school is out, a holiday looms in a few, the sun has warmed the all and now it is beginning to cool, my neighbors to my left are having a pool party, loudly, but not obnoxiously, I used to want a pool myself, too much trouble now, to few days to use it properly in this climate zone, I would much rather prefer a jacuzzi to soak away the troubles of the day, the daily aches and pains of age, besides, I have no children, just a dog, and she seems fine with a water hose and the occasional ride to the beach, have you heard squirrel-speak? kind of a high pitch squeal, something you might imagine a little pig in the trees to make but more shrill, at first you surely would not think of a squirrel, but mostly the younger ones make this sound, the breeze is on double time tonight, lulling me as it creates a tangible rustle as it touches down through the branches and leaves, rising and falling in intensity, not quite as timely as a tide but much the same calling, much the same effect, at times it climbs higher in pitch and fierce force – for just a moment, ready, as if to crash down upon me like a giant wave, and then it relents returning back again to subtle flow, my neighbors are of vietnamese descent, well, they happen to be very american, but many of their relatives speak the native tongue, completely foreign to me only in the fact that I can recognize it is foreign, obviously, but some how… familiar, I mean it is a pool party after all, not a debate about world politics, more or less the same things that go on under the sun, by the grill, silly floating animals, splashing, dont do thats doing thats, the whole family component of people you only see on such occasions, the mourning doves are cooing, a very persistent dog is barking in the close distance, may be a street away, might as well be 100 miles, I look out into all the plants I have planted, great and small, how they come back every year, until they don’t, and how permanent it all seems, in this moment, but of course the only thing that is permanent is change, so I gladly admire my little space in suburbia, and continue to paint it with these words as it was, because was is all that ever is, was, I was sitting here tonight, listening, that dog is still barking, the party is settling out, an airliner rumbles out of view somewhere in the sky, the world is getting quieter, softer, as the day wears thin, so to does my mind, trying to ingest this as nourishment to fuel my being, this feeling, this now, this was.
“dearest firefly, so you have returned I might call you a beacon but know not who you signal a lighthouse perhaps? but we are miles from any shores perhaps you are a flare but I see no alarm in any part of the land, are you just a flash in the pantheon of your winged kind an oddity among your brethren as you sway and dip and climb, where have you been all this time? only to return in your love of the sweat humid nights of summer, I suppose you are a wiser being than I for your pick of season seems that of an inspired mind, I do not know your purpose or even your fate my little floating lantern you seem to exist for only beholder’s sake, good night, my sweet darling of light. sincerely, also musing”
written on the porch tonight, side story, my town is mostly being re-populated by asians, chinese and indian, I don’t care, I actually find it interesting, so anyway, most are cold and walk by as if I am not there, journal in hand, barefoot walking on my lawn, but there is this one chinese family, the little girl (5-6 years old?) is in the “hello” phase, she says hello to pretty much everything, my car, the mailbox, me (multiple times), it infects her father to do the same, at least with humans like me, I can’t tell you how enlightening it is, how a child just breaks down all walls with a simple hello protocol, it makes me smile, regardless of how the day would like to grind me into a nub… is it weird to sit out in front of your house and observe ? I don’t know, I don’t care, it is what I do, especially lately, we are all passengers on this plane headed for the same destination anyway…
Shades of My Garden 