Silly Grins

Friday, August 31, 2012


 Social clubs…never really gave them much thought.

My first time as a ‘guest’ on the North American continent, I was invited for a lunchtime visit. 

One might be tempted to ask why such places exist. 

Where the nondescript entrance led to was not really important. Neither were the forgotten names that adorned the halls. No, nothing of value…nothing valued nearly as much as the messages passed through the writing on the walls. Rules or codes of conduct are what resonate the most. 

Such are places where, when accomplished men enter, they leave their coats at the door, along with the weight of all social status that normally instills relentless competition. For there is a need for places at the tables where people can be reminded of the threads that link us all, through time and distorted histories. A neutral gathering of the minds, a place to develop character where that gnawing unrelenting competition is unnecessary…and unwelcome among peers.

No one sits alone and no one is allowed to buy anyone a round. Sure, bets can be made and dice can be rolled to see who shouts the next drink, as is the custom of mild-mannered gentlemen.

My social status may never reach that which is worthy of such invitation that would merit membership. Still, I am thankful for the opportunity that was shared. From that, I learned, as well as recognized, the need for cooperation in creative spaces from which ‘sacred’ productions are born. 

No one stands out among the circle of men who have risen so high. No one stands out where all are bound by the threads that weave a fabric of cooperation.

Sometimes, it only takes a glimpse to reassure that the driving and ever-present restlessness is subservient to an ageless collaboration upon which everything is founded. 

I felt honored to have been a guest and to have been surrounded by such humility.   

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Stolen Sun

Not too sure what happened along that trip into nowhere. One thing’s for sure, that nowhere was hot. 

And when it gets hot, best to watch out for what lay beneath. 

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Getting There


It does not have enough time to spend here, online. 
Trying to glean what it can from others.
What it has is what is all it could want.
For the moment.
On the road.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012


Airports… nothing is more less exciting for me than maybe reading about a person’s experience in an airport.

Subway sandwich. 980yen for the big one. Hadn’t had breakfast and lunchtime was almost over, so the 700 or so calories were welcome.

Bookstore… it all came down to the price, which was about 1000 yen. A book of short stories. 50 Great Ones. Maybe I can remember enough about each one of them so that, one day, at some party or dinner, I can impress a literate ‘intellectual’ who didn’t see it coming. 

On the way back, we'll be loaded with used books. This transgression, a purchasing of the new, is forgivable.

I think I get airport bookstores now. 

Monday, August 6, 2012

Going Back...

We've all got our soundtracks 
We play in our heads
Even if the lyrics don't quite fit the scene

Decisions we decide to not make

One way or another

Time to get ready to ride jet stream
Go on a road trip
Pay respects 
Say hello to folks

I'm going back to Cali, Cali, Cali 
I'm going back to Cali.. hmm

And just move along...

Friday, August 3, 2012

One Hot Autumn

The gray-eyed cat had been perched up on top of a stack of boxes, next to the dolly that held the gas tanks, where the master’s old apron hung. They were standing in a well-kept workspace, tidy in a way where faded denims fit right in.  Nothing was new, but all the equipment was in good, working shape. Well used. Still.

“Yeah, it’s got the eyes. Kind of surprised…considering all the things we’d done to them.” A silent pause.  A breath. “But, it’s here….”  

The journeyman had heard stories about an old Luger, picked up by the one who went to Normandy to become a man at sixteen, the one who’d lied to get in. Journeyman had heard about that gun, how it had been loaned to Uncle Dead's older brother.  And how Uncle D’s older brother, Colorblind, had stood at the opening of a dead-end tunnel off one of the irrigation ditches. How the Luger had been fired into countless sets of glowing eyes until light had drained from every pair. 

But the journeyman did not question the master. 

No questions… none of those questions because he didn’t want to know what Uncle Dead had done exactly.  So he didn’t ask.  

Smoke... the vaporous hue of the feline’s fur made the eyes hard to see. The two men stood in the shop. They were quiet for a moment as the form slowly turned its head and looked past him, fuck…through him.  The journeyman figured the score had somehow been settled.  Or would be… just a matter of time.