Inwardly Spiraling amidst TV leftovers..... ....Another stupid day in laxative laziness, I feel like an old jello mold sitting here eyes fixed on the TV, wasting precious minutes that are built by seconds, turning my life into a wasted 24 hour snack. Commercials and then more commercials, my wrist hurts from holding a somewhat weightless yet heavily religious remote control. I wish I was controlled by one, and then maybe I would get off my ass and paint or create or maybe do something worthwhile. But there are just those days that nothing rules over. King nothing sending orders down from waking, “ today sink into the couch, and act like maybe you should do something, knowing tomorrow is work, don’t move, don’t eat, just lose all reality into an electric invention that sucks all creative life away for 12 hours.” I sit staring at the charcoaled picture of Jean Michel Basquiat on gessoed cardboard across from me, planet left I here noise, moving away from slick malt reformations. Ride the wind? “But I feel as if the wind is heavier than I, breaking more freely than jargonized militias in rhyme”. Planet right I fall, far from grace but closely enough to kiss. Spider webs and riches, all save meals for hungry times. If the silo holds more watercolors than grain I feel the leftovers will run before winters drifting. Gibberish, complete though, threw you for a loop. Wondering if this mind is moving far away from the norm. Well I hope so for my case, because you all cry lofty on these damp nights.
Isn’t it crazy how a simple word can place you in a memory, almost like the moment was about to rerun. We were leaving for Hollywood one night, a friend and I, slight rain falling from the sky, as we exit the freeway we could feel the excitement and electricity as Sunset Blvd lay in the distant view. One of our favorite bands is playing at the Dragon Fly tonight. I can here the lucid crunch of the guitars and the emotional tears in the voice all through the nights air like I was live in my living room with headphones on. My mood was swaying on depression and mild excitement, almost like mixing downers with uppers, yet with a head full of poetry and paintings waiting for release. I had my messenger bag full of a few journals and plenty of pens and pencils. It was January 15th, 1998 an opportunity for penciled mental photography is laying in the wait, tonight, Hollywood, tomorrow. (MEMORY IN POETIC VERSE:) I seem to be boxing in first person, poverty stricken, feeble minded heart, empty promises lure my thoughts, like opening a cracked jar as memories float in from afar, light the wick burning helplessly in my mind, wondering in my distant process of mystery, I question all that was and could of.
Back by popular demand my neck stiffens and eyes, my eyes squeeze together tightly, wishful thinking sweeps away my hope, yet, reality whispers softly in my ear, “ Its over you fool “ but I turn my head the other way illuminating the path of dreaming, seeming more than the expression I have left in the box of me, inclined to escape, I absorb into the city tonight.
Rain falling down, lights caught in the mix of drown, fingerprints on the window as I drive on by, simple thought, rational, blank face stares at the street walking past, our eyes meet, the only light in the night sky, are billboards standing straight and restless, looking up at their blur I wonder why?
People and stillness, more people surround my thoughts, they all wonder and wander emptily around, I drive past the street lights as fast as her mind changes, puddles flood the sidewalk but my feet won’t get wet, simply because I’m on the inside, and I’ll keep it on the inside as puddles soak my heart.
Give me a wheelchair for my broken thinking, sinking into the car’s seat I take a deep breath to try and grasp an understanding, the stop light stays green, these streets aren’t clean, I wipe away the dirt and tears with my sleeve, staring out the water dripping window I look out and grieve in utter disappointment.
Strobe lights and fist fights, film projection on the wall, flight of stairs stage right, old footage, video, I go back with the years, delusional state of bliss, mystical foggy vision sifts around in the air, at the screen I stare, the lights flutter drawing attention in my eye, reflection of a dream seen as clear as the liquid of but only music echoing in my ear.
An ocean of sadness, aura of scents swim around this box of humanity, trust me, if I had a motor scooter I would ride across this feeling, me and all that’s left of my frequency, my mind is sinking with the dullness of the synthesized sound, this is whimsical beyond belief, I can feel it, but the question is “ do I want to hear it “?
My mind is moving in time-lapse as the images flutter by, spots of light, soft and bright, unimaginable sound, “Hey man, I want an old Levi jacket too! “ starch my heart, it seems to fold quite easy, computer boy, bite your finger it aches from your sinking melody, generation of stiff-necked believers, self is your righteous attitude, self!
Turn the movie off with you, the disco ball reflects my evaporating color crayon picture, sugar rush feed my eroding spirit, hush and be still, please, sound swerving to ease, I need some stickers for my case to carry around, I’ve been there too, if I could just get a few? noise, noise, its all interference anyhow.
People file in and out through the smoke filled room, some dancing unaware, others stone still, no emotion to their expression, transgression emptied into a room of unknown thinking, lost souls, lost souls, dancing in the murky arena of youth and consequence.
Blue light, wall, I fall into memory, in a hurry I run across the picture frame, her face, I race my self, reflection, I look, in a hurry, Blue face, floor, I rip up, I tore, right through the prism glass piece of me that sells beyond price, beating, my heart beating, turning in with the enchantment of.
Shadows sway, only today, because of yesterday’s clouds, I’m amidst my peers, yet, their fear seem greater at large than mine own, I can see it in their eyes, I size up their downcastness and present my case, naked expressions blankly erases my chance, but only figuratively, solemn strings vibrate a certain radiance that I can admire, retire my elasticity for a stilling calm that has not since withstood the night, as it falls with every passing minute.
Sing to me your angst, radio fizzled wetness, it seems to be amplified with the intensity of a life long rust, I oil the thought and put a quarter on it, realistically imagination is a trench coat, so I float on ice, stir the drink I sip from, where does it come from, I could take it to the head but the heart stops first, feeling, I wish to touch the ceiling, whirlpool waterfall, stain the day of my pages, to be filled, oh, to be filled, the ink shines brightly my rough targeted, swiftly spirited texture, I write to keep me in view.
TV screen evaporated rational thought, mixture slow to pull minds partially into jelly, I look behind where I sit, a mirror, my reflection looks me in the eye, I can feel him near, I study my facial features, like a theatrical motion, blue eyes reach out for her touch, her look, nothing but space between myself, why even bother, I wish, I wash my tone of voice to mellow the mood.
The arrangement of lighting inside here brings the atmosphere to a slow but passionate cry, dry tear, right corner eye, but I remain seated, a pose on this box overlooking a sea of ages all flocking around one media, dizzy exhaustion fills my mind, driving the waves across this sandy island of me, an ambiance I feel, I rave, on borderline urgency, adrenaline I rush vein to vein, love I see plain shower down rain, splash on me all of your drops , watermarks stain my face, rushing water inside this place.
I swallow hard and picture her, stutter, I stutter at the thought, my hand crawls across my shaven head, the result, a chilled relaxing state, I sit on this box and wait, I wait, I exit this place, the cold chill of early morning air strikes my skin, euphoric bliss, pondering on the feeling of an intensely emotional kiss, as the cars radio whispers in the background, “lips like sugar, sugar kisses”
Palm trees and street lights, homeless wanderers and taxi cabs, Hollywood hills, deprived thrills, I’m leaving now, spine tingling chills, leaving for a while, reflection in the rearview mirror, I crack a smile..............
(END MEMORY)
Time, slow, fast, stalled, remembered, forgotten and still always moving. It’s getting late. The NBA playoffs echoing in the background yet slowly drowning away my thoughts, the back of my mind relocating college basketball days, dreams of making it all the way, in one form or the other. (Only lost in the numbers of has beens and should of mades.) Countless hours spent on perfecting a skill that today, means nothing short of friends made and energy possibly wasted. What if I would of spent time painting or writing, instead of late night hours in the gym? What if I would of spent time seeking out publishers instead of mentally focusing on how to lead a team to the next championship? I don’t know, isn’t everything meaningless. Ask Ecclesiastes?
2.“Meaningless! Meaningless!” Says the teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless” 3.What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun? 4.Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever. 5.The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises. 6.The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course. 7.All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full. To the place the stream comes from, there they return again. 8.All things are wearisome, more than one can say. The eye never has enough of Seeing, Nor the ear of hearing. 9.What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again, there is nothing new under the sun. 10.I there anything of which one can say, “Look! This is something new”? It was here already, long ago; It was here before our time. 11.There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow.
Obviously the writer’s whole outlook is one of no hope. His searches for peace of mind all came up empty, a defeated feeling. I know this, we all know this, but I am not in the self-help business. I am in the artists for social disorders business. I am in the business of making sense out of non-sense, out of sociological imagination. I create to create, if I am known for my creations, great! If not I will do it anyways because I have to. I am through being defeated, we can only defeat ourselves, and quite easily I must add. My home is my gallery; my mind and journals are my books. I am really able to laugh at things, have your own agenda, whose time is it anyways. The Creator pulls the plug, ends it all, and calls us home. If I can’t control my time, I will create all I can within the small moment I have! Damn man, what is a day anyways, I think I already explained it, and mathematically(.60x24, .06x.60x24, whatever I probably didn’t). This is coming from a guy who never got passed pre-algebra, but lets keep that on the down-low. My eyes feel like 10 pound weights are tied to my lids, ever see those Chinese guys that hang 50lbs of stuff from their lids? I think I will try to drift off for a rest, although the tornado warnings climbing from the bow tied weatherman’s mouth cause a slight nervousness in my heart, along the sound of hail and strong winds against the windows.
(SLIGHT DREAM/THOUGHT HALF ASLEEP THING) Wind plugged ears and great chasms leaking ahead. I have heard that mind is a terrible thing to have ooze to nowhere.(to paraphrase it myself) I grieve consciously, yet always perturbed. What lurks into this little world? What fractured apart this little soul? Only I am inside this personal box and I stand by the light of the moon. The streams of light come down in torrents around me; I am drifting, silently, lucidly. Momentum breaks monotony; bare nudity beats floor scraped pieces. Can’t here whispers tonight, maybe I just missed the gentle breathes, direction, misconceptions? That thought was an accident this time. A wall, a blank wall haunts this dream. Like a cloud bothering a blue sky. But bigger, yes, a lot bigger like a storm on the horizons edge of nonsense. I flip around in twist, toss over in disgust, a person of a lost vessel in a forgotten sea of undiscovered. Blissful star shoot my way, give me caffeine for the creative. Hand me drugs for the view to escape all of here. Unwanten glee, I am mad about thee, clearly this unpaved distance is foggy and unobservable to the estranged eye. So, stay away from me housebroken imagination, can I arise on the fly?
(AWAKE) Picking up my closest friend as of late (Mr. remote control, could of said RC but then you would of thought I was drinking a lot of Royal Crown soda) I flip to the weather station, I’ve never really seen a tornado before. Don’t care to, but I loved the “wizard of oz “. What a great story, character development, plot, climax, its got it all. I was really hooked on “Willy Wonka” for a while, man what an imagination, midgets and all. Roald Dahl is insane; “James and the Giant Peach” was dope too. Kind of trips you out, what was with the freakin boat ride man…serious LCD or something. I even loved Tim Burtons remake, Johnny Depp and Charlie were fantastic, Tim is a hero of mine I love all of his work, every movie. “The best song I ever wrote was forgotten”, that’s from a song I wrote along time ago. Man to be able to put music to all the songs I’ve written. That is the one thing I would love to learn, I can play like two chords, and all my lyrics go with them perfect. That would be great, to go play some coffee-house and play twenty songs with great lyrics all to the same chords. A good performance piece! We used to watch these great performance art videos in school. Man the artists cracked me up, fools shooting themselves in the arm and stuff, nailing themselves to a VW bug as Christ on the cross. It might of even been the same guy that hid on a shelf in an empty gallery up high where no one could see him. He advertised this huge art show and everyone came, wondering what the heck was going on in an empty gallery. This guy was up on this shelf for like a week as the art! That is pretty crazy, whatever turns you on man. We always talked about doing crazy crap, and sometimes we did. One weekend the boys and I decided to dress up in funky ass clothes, and wigs, and go screw with people downtown on a Friday night. One of the boys faked injuries every time we did stuff, so he had a wrist brace on and holsters with a one-piece ski suit overall outfit, and a basket on his dreads and one buddy had a flight suit on with helmet and air mask. We cruised downtown and walked around with an old school ghetto blaster on our shoulders break dancing on the corners, posing as sculptures in front of busy restaurants. With frat guys cursing at us in there cars, and trying to fight, we had a blast. There was an art opening going on in a gallery on the corner, so we went in to join the show. The artist loved us, he took pictures with all of us to keep and of course we have this all on video. I swear I have been more than blessed when it comes to friends. I have met so many people in so many places, but the small circle of about 10, sticks closer to my heart than anything or anyone could ever imagine. They captivate all intensity in every area of emotion and artistic beauty. MEMORY: To the tip, right now I’m just starin like snoopy, return of the red baron just heard Isaac and Modest is canceled was going to meet him for dinner maybe share some verse but no, now I’m just standin and starvin was marvin at Isaac’s lyrical knowledge art drop out is my guess I need to finish college Rembrandt the prodigal returned to his father on canvas four units shy left Coronado sick to my stom went the wrong, drove by sassafras past the airport can’t even think tried to steal a rowboat off the beach they were locked up for fools like me long boarded the island saw the city moo-town made me sick I’m feeling kind of shitty cant say that here? Sip your coffee I cussed at mussafi I had a friend once that rhymed with this, his name I can’t remember I love the graffiti in my head if I jumped the bridge from Diego I’d probably yell jumanji ben said he’d yell gibberish and try to punch the fish my girl shaved her head how dope can she get her styles to groove for knocks me silly, face to the floor haven’t seen brandon in a few heard he shaved his dreads have you seen basquiat he sleeps above my bed parking lot car games fountain laps getting ready for the 200 meter back stroke almost caught the swan laughed at punker kennys joke hey horta swindle plays tomorrow night north county’s a drive and a half lets get chad and murph to stay up late…
END MEMORY:
Santa Barbara is one of my favorite places in the spectacle of from here to there. I grew up spending my summers there as a young chap.(English sub-text) My grandparents lived there as well as aunts and uncles. Wow, my grandparents, the reason for my living in poetry, literature, and art. Man they were extremely cultured. Art books, poetry books, paintings, sculptures, think of it they had books on it, or it was hanging on the wall. Byron’s works, Keats, Shelly, Frost, to name a few that were passed down to me, with dates inside from the early 1800’s. The amazing thing is they are all underlined, and full of handwritten notes. They were studied and memorized. Santa Barbara, from the mission to the botanical gardens where I ran free like “Lord of the Flies” across the rocks in the creek, water sliding on the rocks. One time my buddy saw this little pudgy kid with glasses at the beach, he ran over and crouched down in front of the kid, squeezed his cheeks and yelled “BUT I”VE GOT THE CONCH!” I about drowned I was laughing so hard. Oh, yeah that little city on the side of the ocean S.B. So much of me seems to have been formed in little moments over time. People, the water, State street, wine country, the snail house, the rose garden, the few times at Uncle Jiggs and Aunt Nancy’s house. Walking down the stairs wedged into the soft cliffs to the waters edge. Watching your step because the moonlight is slightly covered by 3 AM’s haze. The cold wet sand clinging to your feet. White caps crashing softly mixed with the soothing wind and silent drips of the rocks…..
A mental miss on a chilly night in Santa Barbara, moon to bright to see stars, took the stairs down to the waters edge, wet sands tide running thinly at whites caps release, closed eyes, deep breath, ocean air, I grieve,
the energy of spiritual beauty flows with each rush of wind, the smell, the sight, the feel, encircle this, encircle me, words shared, arms raised, tears from eyes-to-cheek-to-chin-to sandy grave, memories, building blocks, life, loss, death, love, water over rocks swirling endlessly, no end, beginnings,
closed eyes and long walks betrayed canyon of mountain air between riddled movements in fulfilled rhyme as bodies breath to be the one goodby’d mornings wave alone the distance memories in the chill and winter hiding around the corner
late night beach thoughts water sneaking up on the feet cold swiftness with each passing wave arms raised to the stars enough to hold one down wipe away the tears remembered taking glances at forever ago things great caverns of sand tickling frozen toes
shirts off old jeans deep breath held in heaven in a mental picture spelled out complete completely tonight self sympathy, contentment a longing for the precious little thing newborn hopes on elderly time to swim….
So far away right now, from moments it seems. Lost but not forgotten, light fills these secrets. Santa Barbara a small city by the sea producing mental photos with words over years of growth, brokenness and reformation. Loved ones gone, family blown away in the winds of ever-changing lapses in time. And here I sit, me, thinking, pondering, remembering in bright metaphors and drowning washes.
Canvas blank, white brightly stares at me, blinding in the light. Yet, blank, calling for me. Vast and undiscovered territory, wandering is my mind, heart beginning to stir rapidly. Close your eyes, picture-figure, distort-emotion, and express spiritual. Reach in, old dirty brush, dry paint chunks unwashed from cheap bristles. A soft sweep kisses color of its home, palette. Fleeing momentary fear, rush home to a creation. Beginning, black line-form, dancing-motion, hands move with spirit, arms control for brain sent signals passed thru blood pumping artery: repetition, colors, others, greens, grays, reds, pinks, blues, darks and lights, sweeping energy: electricity now flowing, tears, happiness, memories, fears, trembling, passion electric: lines, fast, scribbles, marks, tangles, an emotive embrace: LIFE, breath, slowly from a distance stare: new, newness, birth, placenta’s replay. Masterpiece? Piece of self on canvas, pieces of heart on canvas, pieces of mind on canvas, here now on canvas. And now I step back and breath deep and long, body still tight from release. No thoughts at all, completely empty, finished, swept away in worship and fear.
(4 months later) (Impossible, frustrating, determined, yet unaware of any source of inspiration.)
I am lacking in everything, days go by and weeks then months. Not a thing accomplished, (I am sure this will be a repeated entry in the future) no pages, no painting. Andy Kaufman feeds me slowly, Jeff Buckley feed me slowly, Elliott Smith is my new gig along with a bit of Nick Drake and the Beatles of course. Man if could just have a few minutes to pick Wes Andersons brain. I think I am slowly becoming a Tenenbaum, Ritchie maybe, I don’t really know. But my surrounding sure seems a little dreary, plain colors and surrealistic menus. Thunderstorms again, clouds are gathering in this Texas sky, yee-haw cowboy. (Tuesday 12:30AM) …wandering through crosses and high rises, left for lonely, mishaps and mayhem the silence of the cold sheets disappear, long drawn and far away, trucks shifting gears in the distance and Dallas breathes near, siftfully minds swelter on being other places, San Diego in the sand or maybe even old town Pasadena surrounded by wet streets and the sounds of dripping water and confused passers by…
ANOTHER TIME: I was listening to a friend’s music online the other night and it brought back a lot of memories, good and bad. Although we remain in touch he always was a huge inspiration to when I painted or wrote…. Thoughts: ….he said “come to California soon” I cried Texas nights humidity clouds my moon was in OC the other night didn’t bother to call would have been hard for just memories and minutes (that are resting in the back of thoughts, that are whispering words of rhyme, guitar, sand and oceans break? phone calls and emails suck the yoke from ears, finger, and eyes heart, so I cruise back home, danzig and iron maiden controlling the volume of this cars movement tonight, passed over, Dylan, Lou Reed and Tom Waits (to give sad a rest) instead guilty pleasure rips my ears with emotion and good rock and roll even though I can still here him say “come to California soon” I cry…. End of Thought-
Stencils and spray paint stained fingers, I have my art clothes on tonight, stained and dirty like skin on the inside. My body is a sewing machine, used and unused collections of old Polaroid’s. Watching the TV with one eye as I paint, Jeffery Wright and Benicio are on the many pixiled screen. What I would do to sit in front of Jean Michel or even an original work, I would feel the texture and smell the scent of the canvas, with my eyes searching for a finger print in the paint so that I could just imagine his touch on the brush. Or to own a Gray CD, to hear imagination and sound…pastels over acrylic melting for the eyes pleasure, treasure in finger from electric relapse, created. Pressed and smeared to blend with emotional whatever, dancing in movements breeze of mind. This is the feeling, what one waits for, creation, life on cardboard, mess to beauty tearing this way and that. But what the hell, the remote gives minutes satisfaction and takes seconds to bed for premature romances. So, I will watch the clock blinking red till about 3 or 4 in the morning leaving creative actions for future greetings.
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Inwardly Spiraling amidst TV leftovers short story Ty N Clark Ty N Clark
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