Stuff From May 2017

     The Butterfly Effect

I’ve seen the maths,

even if I didn’t understand it,

but mathematics is mathematics,

there’s no arguing with that.

So a small change in one state

of a deterministic nonlinear system

(How’s that for mathspeak?)

can eventually bring about huge changes

in a distant place and time.

SciFi authors love it.

But if the flapping of one butterfly’s wings

in the Amazon jungle

can cause wild weather in Northern Japan,

what about the flapping wings

of the other billions of butterflies

in Brazil and everywhere else.

Seagulls and hummingbirds, of course,

flap their wings all over the place, too,

each having its own effect,

I suppose.

It’s obviously too complicated to comprehend,

and I like it like that.

                       Tunkela

My first wife was a strikingly beautiful woman,

and judging by her facebook photos

she still is one in her late sixties,

the product of a magnificent mixture

of ancestral DNA:

Mayan, Mestizo, and Lombard.

In Louisiana, of course,

some people considered her to be a nigger,

maybe because of her curly reddish Italian hair

and hard-to-pin-down facial features,

despite her creamy complexion,

which is much lighter than my skin tone.

After our divorce, which tore me up painfully,

one of my older relatives told me,

“Okay Richard, now no more tunkelas,”

‘tunkela’ being the Yiddish word for ‘darkie’.

How deeply racism sends its roots!

How bullshit those roots are!

‘White’ is clearly an ogre of the imagination

and not a description of skin colour.

Only albinos are actually sorta white,

but in racist minds albino Africans or Asians

or Native Americans aren’t white at all.

Shit, lots of bigots don’t think that Jews are White,

so where does that leave the anti-tunkela crowd?

After we sketched out our ancestries,

the nice clerk in the New Orleans courthouse

wrote ‘White’ for me and ‘Indian’ for my love

on the part of our marriage licence

that demanded our races.

For statistical purposes only.

          Not Gonna Guess

Intermittent light showers;

brolly up and down;

the distant sky in slapdash

watercolour-wash greys;

the close and distant treelines

also awash with faded autumn tones;

sauntering with my dog

through a hazy, sometimes-light,

sometimes-medium mist

that emphasised a sense

of blurred, indefinite other-worldliness

– okay, enhanced by my cataracts

and analgesic medication –

resulting in a powerful illusion of spirituality

that was probably really something else.

There’s no way of knowing.

                         Emotion

I distrust emotions; I think they’re archaic

and evolutionarily anachronistic,

counterproductively vestigial

hormonal reactions that we’re stuck with, like it or not,

but which people seem to like to flaunt and glorify,

as if they’re noble and filled with some higher fineness,

with hyper-emotional music and song,

stage and movie dramas,

and drama-queen displays in everyday life,

all of which turn my stomach and frost my arse,

but are unfortunately natural and universal

amongst us humans.

My own emotions have almost all

eventually ended up causing me trouble,

and often internal agony,

when I’ve been unable to control or manage them,

which of course I’ve often failed to do,

despite my awareness of the grinding internal conflict

with my knowing better,

when I’ve been fooled into the illusion of romantic love,

or when my daughters were little

and reached out for me to pick them up,

or when my dog’s gone missing,

or when I recall certain aspects

of the trauma of my childhood.

I know what hate feels like,

and it doesn’t feel at all good.

             Passive Aggression

All my personal relationships,

as it were,

are so fucked up

that in most cases my available

relational options

for communicating directly with those I know

are to:

   a) be untruthful, or at least dishonest,

   b) express thoughts that can only result in

conflict,

   c) acknowledge the validity of their

documentable indifference to me as a feeling person

due to my multiple personality flaws,

behaviour most people incorrectly

deem to be passive-aggressive, or

   d) just shut the fuck up.

Since I can’t bring myself to follow options a) or b),

and since people treat c) like some sort of

unforgiveable sin subject to accusational judgementalism,

I’m stuck with d), hiding out at home by myself,

communicating only indirectly

and judiciously

by keyboard

like this.

      Don’t They Award Ribbons Or Something?

Considering all the medications I need to keep going,

I feel as if my survival and ability to function okay

are largely a matter of my GP doing

something like a project for a high-school science fair.

bullshit

claptrap

malarkey

baloney

bilgewater

hogwash

tommyrot

horsefeathers

nonsense

nonsense on stilts

flapdoodle

balderdash

poppycock

bunkum

humbug

rot

bosh

bunk

Irish bull

drivel

rubbish

taradiddle

garbage

tosh

cobbers

hokum

twaddle

tripe

kak [S.Africa]

guff

hooey

crap

bollocks

heiferdust

barmpottery

bollocks

               Shark Cage

Do you trust people?

I don’t.

Oh, I trust some of them

to do the most dickheaded thing possible

in any situation,

but that’s not the same thing.

So I’ve come to live my life

in an invisible shark cage,

satisfying my hyperactive curiosity

by looking out,

and reading,

because even when the ocean seems clear,

whenever I’ve let any part of me,

with puppylike trust,

stray outside of my cage,

the sharks,

disguised as unique human beings,

some wearing friendship masques,

have ripped that exposed part off of me

painfully,

and made it disappear.

It’s definitely safer inside my cage,

and I intend to stay here,

but of course as a fool I never learn,

no matter how much I know.

Do you trust people?

I don’t.

But there they are.

All over the place,

    No Longer A Beardo Weirdo

For half a century my beard

made nice people look at me askance

wondering why I just didn’t shave,

prospective employers balk at hiring me,

as if I’d scare their customers,

and cops think that I looked suspicious,

probably up to something unlawful;

what was worse was

that I, perhaps consequentially,

found myself feeling

an involuntary bonding

with other bearded men,

even though they were probably

as likely to be shitnozzles

as anybody else.

Now beards have come into fashion,

and although my facial hair no longer marks me

as an enemy of polite society,

and the cops no longer give a shit,

heaps of them being bearded now too,

I shamefully miss

being so obviously out of fashion.

At least it takes more than just not shaving

to keep my head’s exterior up-to-date,

and I don’t sport that swept-up hairdo

that fashionable men all copy each other wearing.

  

  

Stuff From April 2017 & A Couple Of Oldies From The Files

        The Numbers Path

When I learnt to count,

back in early childhood,

I somehow fixed on the mnemonic device

of visualising the numbers

following each other

along specific paths.

One through ten tracked

forward away from me;

eleven through twenty went

upward and ever-so-slightly to the right;

twenty-one through thirty

proceeded horizontally from right to left;

thirty-one through forty

moved upward and slightly forward and to the right;

forty-one through fifty went horizontally

from right to left again and slightly upward,

and so on.

This numbers path stuck into adulthood

and even old age

whenever I’ve had to count something,

particularly something physical,

such as laps when I’ve been swimming them

or sit-ups and later crunchies

or reps during weight training.

It’s involuntary and automatic,

as much a part of me

as how I go about

soaping myself in the shower.

                                 Nickname?

I was thinking during the walk back home from the shops

that since I was settling into my seventieth year

as comfortably as I had any right to expect,

one thing that I’ve never had, but maybe should have,

is a colourful nickname.

By the time I reached the Boundary Road roundabout I had it –

evocative, slightly alliterative, and certainly not all that far off target:

Scrap-Iron Selinkoff.

I wonder if it’ll catch on?

                 Values Conflict

I had a tough decision that morning.

I experienced a deep inner conflict

between two of my most basic values.

I finally decided that I valued

getting up and about

more than I valued

lying in my nice, warm bed doing nothing.

I still don't know if it was the right call.

It’s come up again every morning since.

                      Except

He was firm in his Libertarian conviction

that we are all individuals

and should be able to make our own

individual decisions and choices about our lives,

except, of course, those whose individual choice

is to join and identify with some group

of which he disapproves

or that has interests opposed to his.

She was serene and blissfully

mindful of being present in the moment,

her chakras optimally aligned,

confident that compassionate love

emanated from her like an arahat’s aura,

except, of course, when her teen-aged daughter,

an only child in need of all the compassion she could get,

started having it off with a 29-year-old skinhead neo-nazi,

who moved into their family home,

bringing with him five cardboard boxes

filled with aggressively bigoted hate paraphernalia,

and who soon beat the shit out of her daughter

right in front of her,

before beating the shit out of her, too.

                    Pleasantries

More than anything else,

my miniature schnauzer loves to make friends,

and scoring at about twelve

on any ten-point cuteness scale,

he tends to find this easy

as we go out for our twice-daily saunters

around the neighbourhood and the park.

Since I have to do it so often

I have stock replies to the most common comments.

She’d just climbed out of a car and stood on the grass verge,

a Polynesian woman of an age I wouldn’t even try to guess,

wearing a long dress of some raucous fabric

over a physique like a prop forward’s,

topped by an almost perfectly round head

framing a twinkly smile that could sell anything.

My dog went snuffling up to her, as he does,

poking his aesthetically pleasing little snoot

gently against her leg, his tail doing its usual bit,

and she made the usual oo-ing and cooing noises

and I made my stock reply that he may not be macho,

but he’s a real pretty-boy,

to which she agreed effusively, as they do, boodjie-boo,

and I closed with my stock punchline,

‘Well, after all, he looks like me,’

pointing to my grey beard that’s enough like his whiskers

to call up the usual dog-and-owner similarity response,

this being the usual end of proceedings.

But it wasn’t.

The woman lowered her voice a half an octave and asked me,

‘Umm. Where’s your leash, Baby?’

                           Whites

Before starting full-time

in one of the poorest school districts in the US,

where some of the kids’ homes had no running water,

I picked up some work from time to time

as a substitute teacher

at the only high school

in a district that included only

several old-money in-close San Antonio suburbs:

Alamo Heights High School,

or as we called it, Alamo Whites.

The school cafeteria took all major credit cards,

including American Express and Diners Club,

but the pupils could leave the school at lunchtime,

in case, as the deputy principal told me,

‘their parents want to take them to the club.’

The PE classes, unusual for the mid-80s, were coed,

and the kids were actually cool about it.

The kids were also almost unfailingly polite and helpful,

even to substitute teachers,

and I noticed that several

had the same last names as

oligarchical political families

and of family-owned private merchant banks

that I’d read about in the news,

banks that financed only a select clientele

of huge cattle ranches, feed lots,

and petroleum drillers and oilfield services;

y’know – major environmental criminals.

                    Hot Goods Truck

Some time during my last year of study

for a bachelor’s degree in Washington DC,

word began to circulate on the grapevine

that somebody’s friend-of-a-friend had received a hot tip

that a truckload of stolen stereo components and cameras

and other high-tech-for-1966-or-67 gadgets

would be available in a few days,

and that we could place our orders.

Cash in advance, of course.

Several of my friends, including my flatmate,

placed orders and fronted up the money

for items that, no surprise, never materialised.

I didn’t.

Statistically, this may seem to be surprising.

I was at an age when testosterone levels

make risk-taking fairly common amongst males,

and my self-identity as part of the pot-smoking subculture

made me indifferent at the time about the ethics

of benefiting from property crime against big companies.

I’ve also learnt since then

that people who have experienced my level

of what researchers call Adverse Childhood Experiences

statistically tend overwhelmingly to engage

in both high-risk and self-harming behaviour,

and although I have indeed gone for both

from time to time over the years,

I didn’t then.

For one thing, the whole scenario was clearly dodgy;

it reeked of cold-blooded dishonesty saturated with deceit,

and those same Adverse Childhood Experiences

that’d made me vulnerable to taking stupid risks

had also crushed my capacity for interpersonal trust,

and trust is the rootstock of suckerhood.

                      Consistency

Being a copious cache of apparent contradictions,

my mind is relentlessly negative and pessimistic,

but I love to say ‘yes’ to people instead of ‘no’

whenever I can.

My curiosity is constant and omnivorous,

but I hate to poke my nose into other people’s business

or to ask them prying questions

about their personal shit.

The wowsers’ obsession with making stern judgements

in regard to the details of strangers’ sex lives

irritates and annoys me,

but I enjoy a slab of salacious gossip

as much as anybody else.

I’m at the opposite end from macho

on whatever scale measures these things,

but in the way I present myself in public

and amuse myself in private

I’m hopelessly butch.

My default setting is for deference,

and I reflexively go along with others’ decisions

instead of demanding my own way,

but I dig in my heels in total resistance

at my first whiff of bullying, exploitation,

or violation of my basic values.

To me, all the world’s major religions

are ridiculous, dishonest, or – usually – both,

but my relentless agnosticism prevents me

from ruling out the existence

of some kind of spiritual reality, or soul

that we as yet have developed no instrument to detect,

and which I have a nagging suspicion just may exist.

Song Stuff & Song Lyrics

                                          Song Stuff

                      Sex

I don’t have much of an opinion

about lyrics or raps or poems

about sex.

I mean,

sex is fun;

sex feels good;

sex is dangerous.

That’s not headline news.

Anything else?

     Particularly Destructive Earworms

When I turn off all my music

just to listen to the rain

my disappointment’s bitter

if some pop song from long ago enters my head,

even if I liked it then,

as this fucks up a situation

with an enormous potential

to become a spiritual experience

 – or at least to provide the illusion of one,

which would truly be just as good.

It’s even worse,

of course,

if the tune’s some load of crap

that I never could stand

in the first place.

                                  Song Lyrics

          (Feel free to compose your own tunes to these)

                 Sally Says

I don’t care what Sally says

She jabbers on about her rules

in her not-quite tiger-striped minidress

for having a laugh at random fools

Smokes a brass hookah whilst wearing a fez

I don’t care what Sally says

I don’t care what Sally says

Sally B-girl

Sally thighs

Sally play-the-game

Sally wise

I don’t care what Sally says

I don’t care what Sally says

All her air points mean jack shit

Her words are empty when she says yes

You’re in the desert; she has a fit

telling stories of the Sea of Cortez

I don’t care what Sally says

Do you care what Sally says?

I don’t care what Sally says

               Untidy Camellia

Untidy Camellia

you’ve scattered your petals all over the place ―

Cross-wearing Russians

prefer tidy plastic imitations

that shed nothing into their narrow spaces.

Aggressive Old Rosie

you keep invading the neighbours’ clothesline ―

Turquoise-covered Navajos

see into the spirits of rocks

in drylands wracked by coal mines.

Pong-Bombing Jasmine

you last like a love affair ―

Badge-wearing bullies

frenzied by the scent

of gunpowder and blood,

flail about, just above nowhere.

Tart Musky Magnolia

you’re shady whilst you’re shedding

you shed whilst you’re shading ―

Choker-wearing countesses

canter off into the sunshine,

mindless of where they’re heading,

respectable desperados fading

away.

                    Leaving Opotiki

He crawls in gravy

She sings in fear

They both ram-a-lam to the watcha-doo

They’re leaving Opotiki to someplace new.

She wears pig-grease in her hair

He speaks in pain

Then they re-bop the snooggy-woo

They’re leaving Opotiki for someplace new

Ruddy sunshine sugar pop

Maddie’s boyfriend is a cop

whaddah-fuddah shooggie farm

Opotiki shit – unlucky charm

Opotiki shit – unlucky charm

Maybe Tauranga

Maybe the bush

Back in the mountains, green as blue

All we could say

All we could say

We’re leaving Opotiki for something new.

               Grey Paradise

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

     (grey paradise grey paradise)        {Rondo}

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

     (grey paradise grey paradise)

Can be painful, can be nice

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

I love the spider on the wall

I love the tweeting of the mice

I’ve felt the pride before the fall

Right here in Grey Paradise

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

     (grey paradise grey paradise)        {Rondo}

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

     (grey paradise grey paradise)

Sometimes lonely, sometimes nice

Watch out watch out – Grey Paradise

Accountants punching up the sky

They’re keeping warm, they know the price

The homeless queuing up for pie

Taking their time – Grey Paradise

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

     (grey paradise grey paradise)        {Rondo}

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

     (grey paradise grey paradise)

It’s not the place for your device

It fills things up – Grey Paradise

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

     (grey paradise grey paradise)        {Rondo}

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

     (grey paradise grey paradise)

Sometimes it’s best not to think twice

You’re all alone – Grey Paradise

Grey Paradise Grey Paradise

             Shell Shocked

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Elsmere

House all gone

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Foggy Bottom

Skeletons of public buildings

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Aspen – you’re done

All my life I’ve run

Will my old streets go crumbling

into ruins?

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Inland Empire

Fire raging out of control

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Echo Park

Militia battles in the street

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Oxford – you’re done

I wouldn’t get a gun

Hungry gangs scrapping

over scraps?

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Brandywine

Derelict houses left vacant

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Wilshire

War-zone front line

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Wilmington – you’re done

You’ve no comparison

Shooters and bombers just out for blood,

that’s all?

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Biloxi

Snakes fleeing the swamps

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked Uptown

The levee is leaking

Shell SHOCK

Shell shocked San Antonio – you’re done

What’s the matter everyone?

Where is everything? Is it all

just gone?

                                       Complete Song

                             Music © The Goth & The Pixie

       Death On State Highway #2

The freshness has burnt from the dawn

So few have stayed, so many gone

I can hardly remember the dew

Tauranga’s just over that hill

And I think

that someday

I’ll get killed

Yes I will

On State Highway number two

It hurts where it didn’t hurt before

So much is less, so little’s more

The passing lane is just about through

I think I just need one more pill

And I think

that someday

I’ll get killed

Yes I will

On State Highway number two

The turns are too tight to build up pace

I’ve no chance in hell to win this race

Maramarua’s behind me now

But it’s too late to find her, anyhow

The gaps are all I have to show

So little learnt, so much to know

I lurch on blindly, without a clue

And still I feel like just a frill

And I think

that someday

I’ll get killed

Yes I will

On State Highway number two

https://gothandpixie.bandcamp.com/track/death-on-state-highway-number-two