Shinola

A lot of good people
Pushing on through the rain
Painting whimsical rainbows
With impossible pain

Searching for salvation
Searching for love
Searching for a safe place to dream

A lot of bad people
Killing joy for money
Killing peace for kicks
Pissing on batteries in the name
Of righteous indignation

I got a whole suitcase full of madness
Demons and monsters instead of brain cells
I got more pain in my bugged out head
Than any one man should have to bear

But just for today
I’m going to get myself quietly shitfaced
And keep trying to devise
The spaced out alchemical algorithm

That will convert all this excess emotion
Small oil tankers of pain
Freight trains packed full of anger
Convert all this shit to Shinola
And keep polishing the blues

golly

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On Being Broke

Broken inside but still ticking
No way of knowing
Where this train is going

So many dangerous words
Dangerous thoughts
Evil beckons slyly

Waiting
For a chance
To flower

Poison dripping
Patiently
Into my soul

I would have to save this whole awful world
To make a dent in my perfect wrongness

Or just go away
Quickly and quietly
Before doing any more harm

broken

Mother

I sometimes think that the things in my head that don’t want to come out are the most dangerous. Things that stay lurking in musty corners of my mind for years. Sometimes decades. That can’t be good, right? God only knows what twisted mutations happen in the darkest corners of a troubled mind.

This thought, the one I’m chasing with you now, is a real crafty old bugger. One minute it’s a ghost then a lie then a fantasy. It’s there though – I can see the empty spaces that it leaves in the process of its concealment. I can notice the missing joy and peace and energy that it uses to power its invisibility motors.

Can one catch a thought with a thought? Perhaps I’m being too ambitious – maybe I should just throw likely words in the general direction of the gaps in my mind and see what sticks? Words like shame and guilt and waste and ….. denial.

Fuck I just saw the ghost of my mother. The hole in my mind, the hole in my soul, is in the shape of my mother. My mother is ancient. Older than anyone should be made to be. She’s been that way since I’ve known her. There’s always been a feeling of primal misery and decay about her. It was once covered in young fresh skin and now it’s covered in sagging wrinkled tissue thin skin. There’s something frighteningly timeless, almost vital, about her decrepitude. An endless fuck you in the face of innocence, beauty, youth and joy.

An endless capacity for incapacity – a problem for every solution. That’s me old mum for you. Even the best of her days are endless, horrid and grey.

What’s that? Why does this bother me so? It’s hardly my fault is it? Just ignore her and she’ll go away. But don’t you know the saddest ghosts live the longest.

I left my job in the city to engage in a spot of ghostbusting. Just in case it would help the endless proliferation of symptoms. Help fight the anxiety, the despair, the addiction, confusion, anger, lostness, lack. Told myself, wouldn’t it be nice to spend some quality time with mum while she’s still healthy enough to hang with. Go for walks, have some lovely little chats.

Fuck. Was my capacity for self deceit so strong? Now there are two sources of endless darkness in my life. My mother and my mother’s ghost. The Mother, the Son and the Unholy ghost. What a clusterfuck.

Well I can’t rightly leave us here in this mess. It’s not a fertile mess – just a merry bit of madness. And, believe me I’ve tried, there’s nothing to be done with the woman herself. She’s oblivious. Her misery and darkness impenetrable.

All I can do is align myself with lighter beings, brighter beings. Be a lighter and brighter being myself. Be a channel for the light and love of god or, if the g-word offends, of the Universal Mind. No good carrying candles into a black hole. I’ve spent my life smashing my serenity – bouncing against the implacable event horizon of mother’s misery.

Wish me luck with that ๐Ÿ™‚

despair-2

Creative Living – Beyond Self Consumption

workbuyconsumedie

I have a friend who is always animatedly disgusted about some aspect of life. Well when he is in a huff he calls it life. But really he is usually disgusted by other people’s behavior. But this seems more like righteous indignation rather than any useful, creative interaction with the world.

I love paradox. I eat that shit for breakfast. But I won’t be self righteous about the wrongness of being self righteous. Or be judgmental about people who are judgmental. In fact I’ve found a profoundly humbling little motto. “Yes, it is all about me.”

Before you run screaming for the hills let me try to explain. I believe that we are all tripping. Every single one of us. Some of us are tripping on drugs, some on power, some on Jesus – the list is endless. But it’s sure as nuts not reality. It’s just the story we assemble, sometimes meticulously other times on the fly, to make sense of the chemicals flowing through our brain.

The problem is not with reality – reality is pretty cool – the problem is with our uncreative, limited or negative narratives. That’s what I mean by it’s all about me. Mahatma Gandhi said it better – “Be the change you want to see in the world.”

Here’s another quote by a less famous but even more brilliant Indian –

To be creative, which is to have real initiative, there must be freedom; and for freedom there must be intelligence. So you have to inquire and find out what is preventing intelligence. You have to investigate life, you have to question social values, everything, and not accept anything because you are frightened.

http://www.jiddu-krishnamurti.net/en/flight-of-the-eagle/1969-05-11-jiddu-krishnamurti-flight-of-the-eagle-6-the-wholeness-of-life

All this and curry ๐Ÿ™‚

So this is an ideal. To be aware, fearless, intelligent. And loving of course. That’s the trip I want to be on. Not just when I take designer drugs but all the time. And this brings me to an interesting aspect of Consumerism. I think many of us know that the game on this planet, the one sanctioned by the military industrial media Macdonalds complex, is conspicuous consumption of product. The fact that this obsession enslaves us not just economically but psychologically and spiritually too is taken either as an inescapable fact of life or as a condemnation of some or other political system. It’s not. Those are just stories. In reality we just suffer from a lack of imagination. And compassion.

If people who say they love their children meant it, would there be war? And would there be division of nationalities โ€“ would there be these separations?

Krishnamurti again.

Forget the blerry rug rats. If we loved ourselves and each-other would we settle for this or transcend it. Nationalism, racism, capitalism, cannibalism – the whole Pandora’s box of Ism. And the first step is to realize that we have commodified ourselves. We choose lifestyles and narratives off the shelf. Some of us. Oh fuck alright you got me – I do. Or did.

I’ve beaten myself up because I bought the idea of material success, cars, houses, wives, kids. A whole package of ideas and requirements. Then hated myself for not being able to deliver. Consumed myself trying to become the right kind of product. Forgot that It was I that owned the means of production. I was just trying to manufacture a lifestyle that was odds with my soul.

On The 8th Day God Created Yamaha

P1020066

It’s been a very strange day. Strange even for me. I’ve been counting down my remaining days at my current job for about 3 years and got down to five. Then things got weird. After a combination of diplomacy, swearing and filing cabinet punching it was decided that I could fuck off immediately.

Which is all for the good because I got to find a canopy for my bakkie, sell my guitar and meet Bennie.

And yes this does relate somewhat to the picture above – don’t rush me.

Bennie answered my Gumtree ad for my never used Cort guitar. What I liked about Bennie was his habit of ending the brief SMS’s and chats with the words ‘Be Blessed.’ I’m an absolute sucker for random acts of kindness. Just hearing it cheered me up.

So I kinda blew off the other poncy Bryanston contender for the adoption of my much loved (and never used) guitar and arranged to meet Bennie at 4.

OK well here’s the bloody connection already!

Bennie is a member of the Christian Motorcycle association http://www.cmasa.org.za/About.aspx

And a nicer guy you could not hope to meet. If I wasn’t Jewish I would have signed up immediately. Hell (sic.) would even have gone and bought a bike again. And we had a lovely little chat about Jesus and forgiveness and old Yamaha XJ series bikes.

I was quite apologetic and explained that my old mum would have issues. Not with the bike side – she bought me my first two motorbikes – but with the Jesus bit. Only thing I could do worse than that would be to tell her I have a Muslim girlfriend. (No mom I don’t – it’s hypothetical!)

But he did leave me with a very funky leather jacket pocket sized bible. I liked reading about the translation challenges but after a couple of hundred words about who begat who I kinda lost interest in the main story.

Then I, after thinking that the http://punktorah.org/about-punktorah/ guys were pretty cool, then reading that their discount online conversion drive may not be sanctioned by the authorities, decided to search for Jewish Motorcycle Associations.

And found the picture above.

So you see it is all effen connected – just don’t rush me!

Mushroom Steak Royale

Mushroom Steak Royale

I made the above bite for a friend. He loved how as he was eating it the director added some special effects. So he shouted for a camera. My friend that is. Because nothing is real if it isn’t posted.

I just like blood and bright colors so I played along.

Then he got very excited about product placement – and ransacked the room for Red Bull, Bic, Black Label and Mushroom Flavoured Dark Soy Sauce. I never did discover who and how we were going to bill. My idea of product placement is – sit the fuck down and eat the steak before it gets cold ๐Ÿ™‚

The whole scene, for no good reason, got me thinking about life as product placement in an existential space. That is largely mental and solipsistic. Until social media turns every egomaniac into a fearless broadcaster of deep and meaningful shit.

elbowtoe_urinal_unurth

Episode 2 to follow – need to place some nice ice cold Zamalek strategically in my belly.

Next Time

unravel

Iย think my main mistake was I tried to force.
Everything.
It was fucking exhausting.

And to try to squeeze you into a box.
Cut off your arms and legs and put you in a block of cement
Which I called love.

And throw the block of cement into the dark cold ocean of my soul.
As if that would turn an underwater wasteland
into a flowery meadow of love and joy and pizza.

So next time
I may just let things
Unfold and not unravel