A Well-Defined Life

The audience that Richie Havens looked out on at his concert last night resembled the crowd at Woodstock in this video. But now the white kids are old and sat respectfully in their seats. No unexpected art-happening, no bonding in wild brotherhood or free love or dancing in the aisles. Not anymore.

Every one has their life defined. How did I be(come) so out of step? Where are my unruly people? They were here a moment ago, and in an instant I would have left, tonight, on their caravan.

But there are no caravans. They became cubicles.

And within these well-defined spaces we no longer believe in ourselves. We can't protect the environment because it would hurt the economy. We can't stop the war because it would embolden the "enemy". We can't help it if the poor get poorer and the rich get richer. It is beyond us. We haven't the memory. We haven't the capacity.

Our imagination has been misplaced. We sit in the audience respectfully.

Very Good Friends

Long ago there was a streetlight that peeked above the trees outside Little Bunny's window. Needless to say, the constant light and Little Bunny were very good friends.

Little Bunny often wondered about the little light, how it found her, how it was so beautiful, how it had become such a good friend.

But the beauty of the light, which she went to like a moth to flame, was inexplicable. Pure love, deep color, mixed with the taste of cookies baking. Her hand stretched toward it, long fingers of desire, between.

Once, Little Bunny thought she saw the flickering light laugh. But of course, lights don't laugh. And Bunny turned away, fortifying herself. "I love you," she said.

Of course, no one heard. No one but Little Bunny knew what being alone really meant. So she sang a little song. Bunny danced a little dance.

And the street light, while far away it seemed now, glowed it's warm glow and lent it's familiar light and spent the night, like marshmallows on a stick in the hand of a little girl, at the window of Little Bunny.

Brave New Worlds

I have acquired a passion for chocolate recently, which seems kinda strange, as I've never been one of those people who craves chocolate. It must have something to do with the drugs ... caffeine, or maybe it's the released endorphins or something. Probably I have brain damage that caused extreme personality changes.

AJ claims I always go toward worst-case scenarios first. For example, on Grammy night when she messaged me that Wyclef looked horrible, I immediately declared that he was likely infected with the AIDS virus. This seemed reasonable to me, but obviously hysterical to AJ. "Hahahahaha! I doubt wyclef has aids mom. Maybe he didn't get a lot of sleep." Since then I have begun receiving text messages along these lines: "I had bags under my eyes when I woke up. I think I might have aids."

I heard a story on the radio, told by a woman whose mother had a stroke which caused her personality to reverse from introverted and conservative to wild and crazy. The daughter was appalled when her mother began a habit of loudly singing in public, which she had never done before, talking to strangers and generally living her life in an entirely new and outrageous, for her, way.

Isn't that interesting? It reminds me of people who go to extremes to experience reality in new ways, like trepanation. It also brings Dolly to mind, who, after recovering from a stroke, refuses to wear a bra. And, with the effects of Alzheimers, has become a totally new person.

We are so sure that things don't change, that "you can't teach an old dog new tricks," but that's just social conditioning. Everything is changing. My personality. Your view of the world. The way we see, our thoughts and how we process them... our ability to hold on to "the way things are."

I'm trying to experience fully the act of "letting go". And if that includes chocolate, so be it. I can handle it.

Strangely Undefined

Life seems strangely undefined, and all the ordinary days, which once were extraordinary, disappear and reappear as one with all other days. All the champagne, glittering crystal, laughter-with-head-tipped-back, long-slender-hands-nervously-fingering-pearl-necklaces are nothing but goulash and red raw skin. A kid walks to school on gray pavement in winter. Do you want a hunk of bologna? A fart is only a whiff of heaven here. Delicate delicious decadent, you are all that's left of me. I give.

What Art Can Do

Isn't it funny, how art becomes a signpost of home? Paradoxically, it allows us to leave home. Seeing familiar forms planted in another geographical location provides an instant psychological connection. We live among giant shapes that direct us without our knowledge.

Our vision is changed. We have seen in new ways. We will never go back. This is what art can do.

Small people seek to destroy it.