08 March 2014

The Wind Blows at Midnight a Non Sequitur in Three Parts

"...the crash inside my soul when you think of babyhood..." - from Tristessa by Jack Kerouac

On the trolley going to work yesterday reading Ginsberg poems large butted Pacific Islander woman wearing a pound of make up on face sits next to me plays games on smart phone. I sigh. I read. I get to work. I work. I head back to Berkeley. BART trains not moving due to police action. Announcements thank me for patience but I never get to say you're welcome. Delay amounts to 30 minutes equivalent to half an hour. (Later discover this police action was due to suspected kidnapping that wasn't. Gee thanks.) Meet wife downtown Berkeley have pizza go to play at Berkeley Rep called "The House That Will Not Stand." I stand at end to give ovation of the non sitting variety.

This morning watch my favorite British footie team win match (The Arsenal!) and am happy. Go to Telegraph Avenue. At Moe's buy book of William Carlos Williams poems. Sit in Peets sipping freddo (not the weak brother in The Godfather. The caffeinated beverage). Three young men look college age sit at nearby table. One is upset others comfort him. Looks serious. Looks like friends taking care of friend. This is good.

I walk home. The mail has arrived and it consists of one unwanted catalogue. Yawn. Next will watch a movie. Perhaps one I got on DVD for birthday last week. (Had a nice birthday. Dinner with wife daughters two nephews a niece great nephew and others. Any day holding a baby is a good day.)

Have not written here about movies much lately spent last month counting down to the aforementioned birthday. Also been working and sleeping and commuting and reading and a few times sneezing and looking at clouds. Clouds are nice. They offer shade and sometimes carry rain and can even be in different shapes and sizes and sometimes -- sometimes -- they come en masse and cover the sky. They can change a sunny day to a dark one. Many people object to this but not me. Differences.

So when will I write about movies again? Was going to now but jus' not feelin' it. Y'all. Happens. For me writing is important but the subject isn't always. As long as I'm releasing words from wherever they store up inside me -- heart? soul? brain? -- so I don't get literature constipation. Same reason to run. The sweat brother (you too sister).

Sometimes it is impossible to write about a movie because the experience of watching it and listening to it and making an experience of it is too much to put into words without a compelling reason like someone is going to give me money for it (who would do that?). I can't just muddle through a mediocre writing of a great film and justify it to myself. Not even. Also some films are such transitory experiences of the fashion that you don't want to bother with reliving them. And then there's laziness.

From pharmacy to bookstore I walked past the middle school where I labored for some 20 years. Hadn't set foot on its grounds for over five years. Nor even walked by. I gazed upon the earth and asphalt upon which I trod so often in so many moods after so many happenstances and with so many opinions and feelings and ideas and in so many conundrums and dilemmas and carrying so many burdens and joys.

Twas like I never left and like I'd not been there in this life. I realized that I will always have been there and I have will always be there and am in there now/then/later and it is all as one and there is no more a today than there was a yesterday or that there will be a tomorrow. There just is a flickering moment seen from light years away and it has no meaning and all meaning encompassing as it does everything. That is nothing.

We are all so reactive. We never let things be or see them as they are. They must be interpreted and viewed through a prism. Staring aggressively our eyes searching for meaning and ideas that aren't there and were never meant to be and we are so certain of how they are. Thus anger and resentment and longing. Instead of being. Least I think so.

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