the blackstar passes/#trulymadlydeeply

Posted in art, current events, days in the life, film, music, poetry with tags , on January 14, 2016 by furious buddha

I had been worried about David Bowie for months, since I saw Blackstar, the profound and haunting music video he released in anticipation of his album that came out last Friday.

Juliette@ElusiveJ actually sums up how I feel about it best: We don’t cry because we knew them, we cry because they helped us know ourselves.

I began rehearsal with a moment of silence on Monday. I was already going to base Oberon on Jareth but I’m going to be much more explicit about it now. Maybe I will base all the fairies on a different Bowie .

******************************************************

It’s a few days later. I based all the fairies on different Bowie personas.The costume and makeup people are besides themselves with joy.

You should buy the new Bowie record. It’s amazingly good but I am not an objective critic and in any case I’ve only listened to the song ‘Blackstar’ repeatedly this week. I started to watch the ‘Lazarus’ video but I turned it off. I wasn’t ready for it yet. I’m going to dole out the new songs over the course of the year.

Tonight I held a long moment of silence for Alan Rickman.

Alan Rickman was a tremendous actor.
He played the sort of villain you wanted to root for, which is a real trick, and he embodied Severus Snape with the sort of humanity that made him the most interesting character in a series full of very interesting characters. He was an actor’s actor; an original.
One of my favorite films is ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply’; if you want to understand the difference between Hollywood films and independent film, watch it along with ‘Ghost’. They were made around the same time with a very similar premise but could not be more different films. Watch it this weekend.

 

 

R. Batty’s Incept Date Jamboree Mix Tape

Posted in current events, days in the life, music on January 11, 2016 by furious buddha

Kenny,

I left you a voicemail. I’m sorry.
I’m also sorry that I write personal letters to you on a blog that horrible people occasionally lurk at.

I’m babbling. I’ve erased and rewritten so many paragraphs.

I want to comfort you and make you feel better. I love you, plain and simple, and I know how you love your Mom and how much it must hurt for her to be gone, regardless of how she finally passed.

She was a wonderful lady. Julia watched me weep tonight describing her and that’s when she told me that I should be down there next Saturday morning. So, I can’t promise yet but I’m figuring it out.

I started to tell you about my week on the phone and I’m so fucking sorry that I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry I tried to tell you about how fucking terrible my Wednesday was, when the stomach flu Little Dude brought home from Pre K hit me during the midday shift at the Clown Factory. I had skipped breakfast and while swinging through the cafeteria, had downed a bowl of beef barley soup around ten thirty in the morning. This was a tremendous mistake as I explosively vomited it at a toilet three hours and ten minutes later completely undigested, just as the fever aches and shivering chills set upon me. I was soaked with sweat and was whirling with nausea. I managed to get home and collapse into a lumpy futon in the toy/guest room (so as to not infect Julia or re-infect Tony) for more or less two days. Julia called me a big baby. Friday night after I had showered, shaved  and re-conquered solid food Julia vomited dinner at our toilet.

She has this weird thing about sickness that reminds me of Lily where she thinks illness is almost like a matter of willpower or morality or something; she refused to admit that she had the stomach flu because she had barely acknowledged that I had it. She had insisted that I had eaten something that hadn’t agreed with me and thrown up my meds and that’s what had messed me up and that I was probably just being a baby about having thrown up anyway. This afternoon as she laid in the dark bedroom shivering in a pool of feversweat that I mopped from her brow she acknowledged that perhaps there had been a communicable agent involved.

I don’t know  why I’m telling you this.

The TV just turned itself on.  Weird.
I’m basically alone in the house. Julia is sleeping deeply and Tony is having a sleepover with his cousins. This was supposed to be a date night tonight for us but she’s sick and besides I’m days behind in work; I missed the readthrough and had to cancel the first rehearsal of the show I’m doing.

I loved your Mom, she hugged me like I was her own and made me feel at home.

I remember one of first if not the first time we had a good cup of tea together and watched a movie it was 1988 and the movie was ‘Blade Runner’. Years later we’d fall asleep to it when we were living at the Castle, but we watched it at the first place I had lived at with Shosh, the top two stories of that huge corner house. God that place was amazing. We were in the attic, digging the movie. Wulf and Gargunza and maybe Handsome Paulie were there. Or maybe it was Indianna Brad. This wasn’t the same night you had sprayed red vomit over the upstairs bathroom when you became a Viking. Netheria would have been the only girl there, naturally. But we watched ‘Blade Runner’ together on the upholstered sofa in the attic with the cool windows on the small TV in a violet haze of cooling tea in 1988, and it was a perfect moment twenty seven years ago.

I still love that movie. Rutger Hauer plays Roy Batty, the android or ‘replicant’ that Harrison Ford hunts. One of the things Batty wants to find out is how old he is (they have false implanted memories which give them the illusion of adult maturity and ‘experience’), which he does, and it turns out he’s four years old and his ‘incept date’ was January 8th, 2016, which was yesterday as I write this on Saturday night. We are living in the future of our childhoods.

Mortality and Identity are all tied up together. It is not my mortality I fear, but loss of my identity, and by that I mean that which I am attached to by love; my family, friends, collaborators, and teachers for example. While art and literature are certainly important to who I consider myself to be my attachment to them is trivial before that of my attachment to my son.

Now, in the bright light of Sunday morning as I resume this, my four year old son is playing, rampaging through our sunny nest full of joys and toys in the quiet corner lot. I am a full blown domestic suburban daydream daddy these days…

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
My God, David Bowie has died.

I do not even know how to begin talking about that right now. I mean, yes, I was just going on about mortality & identity but… …that is a different post.

I am so glad, however, Kenny, that you just made the joke to me and Gargunza about death trilogies and how that you thought it was weird that your ma would be in one with Lemmy and Bowie; it makes a certain amount of cosmic sense to me because that’s how cool your ma was, Kenny.

I am so sorry. I will try to be there Saturday.

My unlimited love to y’all,

Winston

 

the obligatory barely kept resolution

Posted in poetry on January 3, 2016 by furious buddha

and on the third day
he almost forgot to post
irresolution

mortal & fragile

Posted in days in the life, poetry on January 2, 2016 by furious buddha

little man is sick
vomiting fever nausea weakness
curled on the bed
unnatural heat pouring off him in the night
there is medicine
to calm the tummy, break the fever, soothe the pain
there is comfort
handy manny magic school bus and rehydrating popsicles

i talk to mom on the phone
share worries & remedies

a message from a beloved friend arrives
while i am writing this;
his mother is dying
(pneumonia & dementia)
perhaps tonight

i set this aside
and hold my child

 

III. just as new as before

Posted in art, music, poetry on January 1, 2016 by furious buddha

everything is just as new as before
& only our perspective shifts
creating the illusion of change

slide across planes
of experiential phenomena
& believe in the ride
for the best effect
sincerity makes all the difference

all i want all i need
is the oyster of everything
is what the gospel choir
sang in my dream
with drums pounding beneath
all i want all i need
is they oyster of everything
sung languid and slow
frantic rhythm below
all i want all i need
is the oyster of everything

II. always the moment

Posted in art, philosophy, poetry on January 1, 2016 by furious buddha

always the moment of potential possibilities
quiver & quaver with shimmering anticipation
& seeing change is a matter of perception

always the moment of the pearl of everything
& the endless giving of upspin to charm
& the never of stopping & the lever of time moving

always the moment of now is beginning
& the movement of the arc of the galaxy
& the timeless light of ancient stars

always the moment of now is forgetting
where ideas are born & becoming the real
& everything emerges from nothing

the moment of all potential

Posted in Uncategorized on January 1, 2016 by furious buddha

now is the moment of all potential
contained within beginnings containing endings
& the pearl of everything
let time unfurl
& the unreal becoming

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