procrastinating writing in my daily journal, which usually occurs in the morning, after meditation and stretching and general household duties, a fresh cup of coffee and a stick of incense to keep me on time; i’ve decided to venture here, instead, so i may mark a pink “X” on my calendar conspicuously absent of that color.
i just erased a paragraph that was going to detail the events of this past month, a catch up of moments exciting and relevant, a linear guide to the last thirty days. i decline. i’d rather keep this chaotic, free-spirited, untamed, as much as possible.
the cool weather is welcome, as was the brief rain that fell the other night, prompting a rush outdoors to gather the bath towels hanging from the clothesline and to secure the rainfly of my hammock, where i’ve been spending time reading and sleeping (in fact, i will probably sleep there tonight). i heard the yips of coyotes earlier, reveling in the cooler air, i imagine. the neighbor across the street has a painted stud who has been destroying the wooden fence meant to keep him in. i say hi to the horse when i go to check the mail; he’ll stop his gnawing on the tall grasses and look right at me. today he whinnied as i walked forward. horses are known to be intelligent. i know very little about them.
i cooked a steak tonight on the grill, a piece of meat i picked up in ft. stockton on my way back from marfa and the trans pecos music festival. sul ross university has an in-house processing plant where you can buy a ribeye for $7/lb. the steak must’ve been at least sixteen ounces and i ate all of it, no sides, just a glass of red wine to accompany it, and some fresh strawberries afterwards. while the coals were heating up i roasted a pound of coffee on a propane stove i keep on the front porch. the smell of coffee beans and red meat grilling might make a formidable cologne: Meat, by Mennen.
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Tags: blog, da, dan, dyer, horses, marfa, meat, writing
eatin’ a peach. from the big bin at the big HEB in Bastrop. not as good as those from a month or so ago, the ones that dot the highway into Fredericksburg. Texas, that is. i’m torn with punctuation, not sure that i believe in it or not. capitalization is what i mean. i believe very much in periods and colons, semicolons and hyphens. or is it dashes? i have books on these things, and of course the internet knows all. googling it. even the auto correct recognizes “googling”. it’s ubiquitous. my vocabulary used to be pretty good. i read a lot. thought a lot. then i became a musician, which requires little of either. music requires going with the flow, of words, of notes, of waves crashing back and forth between you and your audience, or the nearest bare wall. adulation and resentment. success and obscurity. i’m suffering from the mold and i’m broke, two strikes against my buoyancy. my gleeful outlook. my demeanor might be my third strike, as at some point i think i became suspicious of it all. that’s a sweeping statement for which i do not carry an appropriate broom, but the sentiment is the same. rambling to no good purpose. it’s what i do. it’s the state i’m in. jumbled. unorganized in my head. distracted by too many things. this is the war i wage. or, battle. skirmish. okay, paper, rock, scissors. it seems the world likes to magnify the stage, even though it’s the same old problems. we like to think we’re living bigger, better, smarter than our ancestors. i’m not so sure. truly, not sure. maybe we are. sometimes i’ll read a quote, or observation, and it reads as if written at the present, only to discover that it’s from centuries, millennia ago. the more things change…i bet there is a cave somewhere where an ancient artist is bitching about their lot in life, dyes smeared in desperation across uneven rock walls. i can’t say i’m really into this post. i’ve been wanting to write but haven’t had anything to say. the hayfever-like symptoms of the mold are not making anything better. so perhaps i should stop here. i’ll call this “eatin’ a peach ramble”.
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Tags: dan dyer peach ramble blog
2AM. tired eyes. the a/c is off, so a shade towards uncomfortably warm. slight breeze wanders through open windows, a hint of rain. been watching Deadwood, the dvd box set given to me for christmas, or birthday, or just a gift–i cant remember. it’s easy to be nostalgic towards a time i can’t possibly comprehend. easy? sure, ignorantly so. to yearn for simplicity, honesty, even when dishonest, villainous. al swearingen is a hero on deadwood, for his principles, for his convictions, tragic as they may be. i almost typed “evil” but realized it is the lack of such that makes al heroic. swearingen is merely practical towards the circumstances. i shouldn’t be typing. thinking. so starved of sleep. always a bad idea, though good ideas don’t always work out so good, so let’s try some bad. unprotected. unedited. free flow. garbage. the world, the media world, seems to safe, too manicured, too curated. well thought out. marketed. the world has been tamed. pubic grooming. trimmed and coifed. where the wild things are. let them live, and prosper. flourish. untamed wilderness, insects, fauna. beastly workings in the unlit, unkempt, playgrounds of trees and brush. fallen branches, dead leaves, thorns and spider webs, criss crossing, flossing. bossing the bosses. we, the tyrants, fire ants. we, ashamed and afraid. tamed and timid, unless enraged and engaged. then we destroy without prejudice. or, many times, with prejudice. in fact, always. i’ve a new keyboard that clicks and clacks when i type. that depresses, springs, requiring energy to push. response. i should divide this into sections, paragraphs, but i’m lazy. not drunk. not tonight. just hot. sweat film saran wrap wrapped up in sticky gauze. the desk top is slightly too high, by and inch or two. i’ve decided i will make a platform to stand on and make up the difference. to type. otherwise. it’s perfect.
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Tags: hot ramble blog dan dyer
a whiff of fall,
the cicada call:
a black, fine-toothed
being pulled against
the woolen sky,
a heavy sigh
against the rain
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tech. null. agy. agey. aging. my battle, my bane. bandwidth decreasing. my brain, with stained apoplexy. drinking whiskey, soda, ice. summer cocktail. the windows are open, the lights are dim. a welcome coolness whisks around the walls and ceilings, my limbs and feelings. i love the night air and the chorus that comes with it, in the country, in the bush, where light has yet to pollute the somber sky. i’d like to think i’m done with the city. that will surely change, as my life seems to constantly change, which is something i’ve taken a measure of pride in, but change is weary, change is work. in the process homes, loves, friends, places are lost. i’ve changed lives many times and the survivors are few; i’m not sure i include myself in that list, not sure i’ve survived. yet, i stand here typing, the push and pull of intent bringing me again to this place that i’ve yearned to occupy but have found one excuse or another to abandon, to leave waiting. i deactivated my facebook account yesterday, my intent is to do all business here, or, wherever. that fb is so ubiquitous is the problem, my problem–i don’t even want to say the name. the public square, the coliseum, where only the loudest resonate. self-promoters, congatulators, sympathizers, proselytizer’s. our vision has been a succession of smaller and smaller screens: from windshields and windows, frames around an outside world, to tv and computer screens, frames around an inside world, one that can’t be proven to exist. perhaps the point is to shrink our perspective so we don’t expect so much. the world outside crumbling while we sit literally entombed, distracted by the glow of artificial light, the taste of artificial food, the warmth of artificial clothes, the sound of artificial music. ha! what a mood i’m in! it’s the whiskey, i swear. i’m usually optimistic and happy, a regular ray of sunshine in an otherwise dreary world. in fact, some have called me sunrise. well, there is no point to any of this, except to speak honestly in the moment, without selling anything, or promoting anything. actually, there are things i’d like to promote, but they have nothing to do with me, directly. that’s a lie. i’m connected to everything. this is an exercise in embarrassment. i’m not sad, or bothered (i get comments of concern relating to these infrequent posts; i’m okay). this is where i will be, and instagram (for now). rarely twitter. hardly texts. barely email. some phone calls for those who have my number. letters for those who know my address. personal interaction for those who know what i look like and happen to see me. good vibes for those who are connected in such a way and feel the energy of the Nature. listening to jazz on pandora. mingus channel. not meaningless. my glass is low, so i better refill it before i lose my buzz.
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supposed to write a blog tonight. can’t say i’m terribly inspired to do so. for some reason, i’ve decided it needs to be about something, and there begins the problem. pre-conceived notions, or lack thereof. my task most of the time is stream of consciousness, an unedited, unrehearsed, therapeutic style of expression. therapeutic in that i exorcise myself of garbage. like the computer lessons of old, something to do with “garbage out”. speaking of which, i left a pastured chicken on the counter too long last night with the purpose of bringing it to room temperature, which it maintained for more hours than is healthy. afraid to cook and eat the damn thing, Mahsh wraps it in a black plastic trash bag and delivers it to our outside trash can, where it will have until Tuesday to transform into a putrid rotting flesh carcass. i can’t wait to smell it! speaking of black trash bags, this has nothing to do with them. black electrical tape, actually. there was a stray cat who had wound up at my house when i lived in Lancaster, TX, in third or fourth grade. it was injured with a broken front leg, bent and dragging on the ground. the dragging produced a constantly festering wound which we (my family) began to doctor, usually by applying ointment, gauze, and some medical tape to hold it together. the bandage would become worn and useless after a few days of dragging. a neighbor decided to help by administering the same dressing, only instead of using medical tape, he used electrician’s tape. the electrician’s tape cut off oxygen, or air, or whatever had allowed this condition to exist in a fairly stable state, and the wound became infected, dead, rotten, maggot-filled, disgusting. amputation followed (by a vet) and Kitty became our three-legged cat. speaking of pets, i grew up in the country, where strays, when unwanted, were driven far away. when pets became sick, or injured beyond recovery, they were shot. some actually got to die of old age, or slow disease. but any elongated suffering was dealt with by shooting the beast, putting it out of its misery. i’m amazed at the shift in attitudes toward pets, and vets, and operations, and drugs, etc. i empathize with wanting to take care of your pet. i understand the relationship and responsibility one assumes by being a pet “owner”. but, come on?! i read an article about a man who went to jail for shooting his dog after it had been hit by a car. i think that might drive me mad. have we achieved such mastery of ourselves that we now feel obligated to protect, nurture, and medicate our animals? feeding an industry similar to our own medical industry: bloated, backwards, and many times, ineffective. maybe we do for our pets what we can’t do for ourselves. perhaps human ambition has evolved (?) to the point where we would like to be lap dogs or house cats. regularly fed, stroked, and sheltered.
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Tags: air, cats, chicken, country, electrical tape, garbage, pets, wounds, writing
it’s late. i’m up far past the point i planned to be, and i plan to be up far earlier than i will want to be. i’m in St. Louis, MO, staying with my kids and their mom, my ex; still legally married, though each currently involved in separate relationships. it’s complicated. it’s even more complicated than this, or, more simple. what’s the difference? we all exist in a moment between life and death. beyond this, what is/who is/where is the problem? easier to say, or write, than to live. strange. st. louis has been a strange city for me. it’s where my children were born. it is where they live and grow and where they are amassing the experiences and memories that will be known as their childhood. i had my first experience of “owning” a house in st. louis. being a neighbor. working in my yard. all the pride associated with it. i’ve played shows in st. louis, but that feels like some other me, perhaps one who does not belong here. i think this is changing as i meet more people: musicians, artists, etc., who have more in common with me.
i’m not so interested in this direction. i’ve bored myself. tired, but promised i’d write something…
sometimes it feels like the wheels are ready to turn, and all they is one push, an act of intent, of faith; a physical effort of energy to start the movement. the momentum. it’s hard staying motivated. inspired. organized. to work with people, to not work with people. then again, it’s easy. simple. life could and can be so much worse. perhaps the freedom is overwhelming to the point of being trapped by the possibilities. the responsibility. for isn’t one who has the freedom to do what one wants responsible to uphold that freedom? to prove oneself worthy of such a gift? what is it about human nature, my nature, that permits us to feel mired in the best of circumstances? i don’t get it. so i try to work through it. remind myself, or stimulate myself into activity. arouse from hibernation, dormancy. awaken and revive. the spark that makes one move into action. steady, rhythmic work. maybe it’s the distractions that bind us in our freedom. the phones, computers, cars, plans. how can one enjoy freedom with so much pulling at the consciousness?
i’m blabbering for the sake of blabbering. the ideal of blogging: blabbering to the ether. the lonely sitting at home, eyes tired from strain, the light emitting like too loud talking: at us, not with us. nor guiding us. blinding us. still, i’m addicted to the information. i wish it were my own. always accessible, ready for action. like the clothes hanging in my closet, instead of a store full of garments i can’t afford or have room to store. perhaps having too much knowledge or seeking it is unbecoming or detrimental to one’s being, like the desire for money and the pursuit.
i hope you’re happy, omnipresent being who wanted me to write tonight, keeping me awake with nonsense, eliciting a cough that creeps from the hollow of my lungs, rattling my ribs and esophagus. may this offering please the gods and bring rain to my fields; for the winter is long, and i have many mouths to feed.
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Tags: children, rhythm, st. louis, writing