The River

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Suffering for Art

I went to see Vincent Van Gogh at Atlanta's High Museum of Art the day before Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

I had waited for over two hours in line, one of the multitude that said, “shit, Sunday’s the last day for this exhibition.” I had called for tickets the day before and was told 3:30 or 4, the last two scheduled viewing times of the last day of the show.

Oh, I was cold waiting outside the museum. Oh, I was disgruntled. I wanted to sell the tickets. My feet, legs and back hurt.

Leigh was a trooper. Apparently, she hadn’t forgotten that art ennobles. “God-DAMN, this is ridiculous!” I thought to myself. Leigh read it in my looks and sighs. She reminded me that one must suffer for art. I scoffed. But I endured, pained look and all. I made a sound like a dispirited cow. I felt like one.

The line inched forward, put in the occasional lurch to keep you guessing. Finally, I accepted the absurdity. We were nearing the entrance and out of the wind. “It is to laugh,” I said. Leigh asked me if I was going to light up a Gauloises.

I meditated on it: It’s your own damn fault. One must remember that. What the world is, we are, as J. Krishnamurti said.

Thankfully, Van Gogh was, at one time. An artist. In this world, of this world. It’s so easy to forget.

But here finally, after snaking through the lobby, riding the elevator up to the top floor, and embarking on the experience sans headphones, here was an encounter with it, the art, the world, the expression of Vincent Van Gogh. Oh small and petty man, I said to myself. Sort of, once I finally got inside.

When I approached my first Van Gogh, a self-portrait, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Thank you, Vincent. “This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.”

Tuesday, January 25, 2005


Alarmed by the clock
And again asleep

Eyes shut
One eyebrow refusing
To back down

But dreams
Dreams are jumbled
Scrambled, jangled
Over easy

As usual
buttered toast and coffee
traffic lanes

Check the rearview
Is it dark enough for lights?

The city is waiting
More than enough work

All you can eat


(yes, another one of my "back at work after a vacation" pieces, but this time in a poem, so to speak, but why should the true poets have all the fun? Besides, free to be me, baby. Right, Skelley?)

Monday, January 24, 2005

Sidebar update >

A reminder: There is no war on terrorism or tyranny. There is a war OF terrorism to promote a global tyranny.

All people of good faith who have through strength, courage, desire or luck of the draw, if it can be called luck, especially for many of the poor and overtly vicitmized, escaped the bombardment and cult-like groupthink of the mass media are part of the opposition, whether they know it or not.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

My God, do you realize what this is?

This blog, uh, thing, page, whatever.

Do you realize what it is? It’s freedom.

It’s fucking freedom, maaan.

Oh, hey, sorry, Bruce’s skeleton here, not Bruce. You can see my pic below these words. These FREE words.

I took over the blog yesterday, just to remind him, and you, that he’s not dead. I began to wonder; I began to worry. I needed a cig. And I do look cool when I smoke, you have to admit.

So, like, I’m here, ya know, because, helllooo, the hour is getting late. Wait, that’s Dylan, we don’t need to go there. I’ll ride that horse when the time comes, know what I’m sayin?

But. Why I’m here…all I’m sayin, folks, Brooooce, is look at me. Do we look dead? If a skeleton can smoke, then by definition, it’s not dead. That’s all I’m sayin.

So, you know, reminders. I was getting desperate. Bruce was beginning to forget about me. So I hacked the blog. It’s just my way of sayin, “dude, when we were together, blogging, you were free. Don’t you realize that?”

Apparently, freedom is for the little people. The poor people. Bruce was “beyond” it. So he quit the bloggin. Just quit. Do I need to tell you this is not good? No. But I do need to tell Bruce.

Eht-hum! Hey, dude, not dead. You’re not dead. Look at me. Look!

You begin to go deaf, if you quit blogging. Word to the wise.

(he begins to dance.)

Hey, hey. Lookit this. I know you downloaded the Kleptones’ “Night at the Hip Hopera.” You heard that dude, exhorting people: "If you want to have some fun, you have to move around, you have to leap about. You can’t have fun sittin on yer ass.”

Wooo. Maybe cigs aren’t the way to go. You ever see a skeleton doubled over? A veritable bag of bones.

But that FREE musical work, those Kleptones dudes, they rock. You know what they were on about – freedom. But you have to do it yourself, too. You can’t just sit back and watch. That’s what they were sayin right up front. One more copyright nightmare, Peter Jennings intoned over the music. Yeah, fuckin A baby. (he leaps, grabs for something above his head). But that’s their trip. Fuck nightmare. Dance. Dance with me, motherfucker.

I mean, Bruce. Buddy. Go ahead, work, make money, buy stuff. But don’t forget about me. Or the blog.

It’s freedom. I know you want it.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Bruce: Not dead.