Now that I’m on my own I have been forced to assimilate more with the culture around me.
I’ve been wanting to write about hillbillies for a while but it isn’t easy. Because the culture exists on a different plane that I haven’t reached yet. It’s a long slow fall towards the center of the earth.
If I HAD to sum things up with a few symbols I’d choose beer, whiskey, marijuana, beans, potatoes, corn bread, cast iron, dune buggies, family, nature, guns and mason jars. Sound boring? Well it is. It’s a boredom that causes one part of yourself to die while another part opens up.
The best way I can describe it is this…. Imagine you have to spend the next 8 hours listening to your slowest, least talkative friend while sitting on the hillside in a forest. He is going to tell you the story of how he built his house, board by board, brick by brick. You are going to sit there and listen.
Behind you are 48 cans of beer. To your right is a gigantic pipe stuffed with marijuana. You are free to partake but you neither drink nor smoke.
The story begins. You try hard to focus. ‘This will be great. I’m learning something.’ you tell yourself. ‘Maybe one day I’ll want to build a house and this information will be useful.’ For the next forty minutes your brain strains, trying to extract nutrients from the story.
Then you reach a cracking point. A feeling of unbearable restlessness builds up inside you. You panic and reach for a beer.
As you drink the story continues. Nail, board, nail board. It’s as boring as fuck but the beer is starting to relax you. You sink down a little into the boredom. Nail beer, nail beer. Board. House. It’s boring. It’s boring. You will survive. You reach for another beer.
But another hour and you want to get the fuck out of there. Seriously? Oh my fucking God. You know what? Maybe you’ll try that marijuana. You smoke it and start to notice how the leaves sway with the story.
Your mind breaks up like clouds and the story washes all over you. Is he talking about a house or is it a parable for your life? You look at your friend. Was he always this insightful? You’ve known him for many years and only now you’re seeing him for the first time? You lie back on the ground and realize he’s lying there too. You briefly consider making love to him then remember you aren’t gay. The story continues.
Clouds nails boards. Clouds nails boards. The story is more boring than ever but the boredom becomes a brown flood washing over you. Your body is the house. Your friend is rebuilding it. You are rushing away in the brown waters. The past is sweeping over you and forgotten scenes from your life start returning to your mind. How did you forget so much? You’ve lived your life in a daze, haven’t you? Distracting yourself with mental puzzles that ultimately meant nothing.
And now you’re solid. Seeing the world with new eyes. You look at your friend and he seems more real than ever before. He is a potato and you are one too. It’s beautiful.
Another hour passes. Nail, board, hoard, woard. The panic arises again. I can’t take this! And then a thought… WE ARE FREE BEINGS!!!! “We don’t have to sit here Buddy!” you scream. “We are to free to go!” Light flashes in your friend’s eyes and he starts running to the nearby trail where his dune buggy is parked. You run behind him. Exhilaration. You climb in while he drives, going faster and faster than ever before. It feels like bliss until you crash and then you are flying.
When at last you come to, you realize your friend is lying on the ground beside you. He is still telling you the story of how he built his house. Nail, board. Nail, board. Your head hurts and so does your body. But it will be alright. You lie there and listen. It’s a pretty good story after all.
The End.
This is how life in West Virginia feels to an outsider anyway. I don’t know how it feels to insiders and probably never will since ‘Don’t ask don’t tell.’ along with ‘Keep it Nasty!’ are the two mottos of the region. I try to make sense of it all but this world is so dense, dark, compacted and gravitous I sometimes feel I’m being buried alive. I start to panic. Then I reach for my pipe.*
Hi!
But for reals its like I’m learning a new way of thinking. Less speed and more solid. I think its called patience. You just crack open a beer and observe while the people and things around you reveal their true nature.
* I don’t really have a pipe.
The other day a friend pulled out his knife to carve an X on my to go box. What’s that? I asked. Rebel Flag, he said.
A man gave me this old tackle box when I admired it.
A friend of a friend gave me this warm shirt. People are very nice here if you can be accepted but that is a long and tricky process involving nuances I don’t understand. If you are a friend of a friend though you get a free visitors pass.
I ate Thanksgiving in a bikers bar. They had Turkey, stuffing, pie and all the works that you could enjoy for free. You don’t need to be rich or successful to matter here. Only humble, hard working, down to earth & preferably related. I’m none of those.
Slippers and I have been reunited. This has stopped the nighttime panics of hyperventilating with the need to tell her I love her. Her presence is grounding and she makes me feel more at home.
High as dust and I’m walking home Try to breath but I’m never gonna get it right. Cuz I know that when I get home then I’m all alone To face another spooky night.
I know. People tell me everything come and go. People tell me everything’s far then near no fear my dear Was is will be but they don’t get it.
Please get to the part where you hurt me. Please get to the part where you break me down and cry.
In the day you can act that way Like its all okay and nothings gonna cut me. Smile and drink like you never think Like you never feel and nothings gonna drag you home.
Midnight crawling on the graves in the moonlight Wait for him to tell you goodbye You’d cry but you’re just too high Then the open sky fall down upon you.
Please get to the part where you hurt me. Please get to the part where you break me down and cry.
So many skies What are those things that move whenever I open my eyes? So many dreams I need to find a world where I can be weak so I try to breath but I can’t find it.
Please get to the part where you hurt me. Please get to the part where you take me down and cry.
Nighttime is the right time for a game Make a move and then you wait if he feels the same So you float like a ghost in his car Ride up to the mountain top to watch a falling star
Close your eyes and feel the stream A world that enters like a dream His arm around you all you feel His other hand upon the wheel
Then all the stars come rolling down the river So far not bad. Til all the pain will come rolling down his fingers But maybe it will be okay if you don’t make him mad.
So you drink like a fish in his bar Laughter shimmer all around you can feel the golden fire When it floats like a song through your brain Look into his eyes again if he feels the same
But all the stories that you know The roads and places where they go A hill at night that you cant climb A tree that you cant hide behind
Then all the stars come rolling down the river So far not bad. Til all the pain will come rolling down his fingers Maybe it will be okay if you don’t make him mad.
(Originally published March 9th 2023, but my website went down so I am trying to resurrect the posts that were lost.)
Okay I was underachieving a little harder than normal today with this picture.
Like a piece of string dangling in something you wrote Hanging there on a chair in the darkness and oh Feel the clouds rushing in and I start to feel hazy
So I think about you like a drink in my mind Stir it round pour it down and im wondering why With your eyes to the side make me feel like I’m crazy
With your hair and the palm of your hand If you wanted to I could believe. All the things that nobody can teach you You learn when you’re down on your knees.
You were lost in a world where the pieces don’t fit Break a bottle in anger and stare at the bits Beams of light on the stage casting diamonds so dreamy
Break a piece of a candle to hold in your mind Your whole face is a mask no one knows what’s behind But for now hold it down in the darkness we’re dreaming
There it stood open three feet between us A whole world that nobody knew. Close my eyes, maybe I could be dreaming Cause sometimes I feel so confused.
When we step on the stage then we step in the war My mind breaks I don’t know how to think anymore Crumple down to the ground where the red lights are beaming
Say you won’t hurt me, the palm of your hand If you wanted to I could believe. All those things that we promise To hold in the darkness where no one can see.
* I have another song named Paradise too. Is that okay? Actually Paradise is one of my favorite words & I am thinking I might write a bunch more songs with this name if it doesn’t present practical problems….
Well hello, blog post. I told you I would turn to you as a friend when there are no physical friends to be found. So here I am. How much can I confide in you, I don’t know. My life has been a toggle between transparency and invisibility. I don’t know the right place to draw the line. Sharing yourself can feel icky, but living incognito can be dangerous, making it that much easier for someone to lock you in their basement without anyone noticing.
Although I have written a lot of blog posts, they are usually from my brain, the only part of the body that can be safely shared. I guess that is why we have art, to share those parts of ourselves which are taboo to put into plain words.
I am trying to start drinking alcohol. Maybe it will provide a space for me to connect with those parts of myself that have no home in daily life. You are not supposed to drink alone, however, so maybe I will drink with you. I am fairly intoxicated right now, and it is making me cry to realize how homeless my feelings have become. Life is playing a role to please others and maintain harmony. Survival depends upon it.
In my case, my role is easy. Nobody expects anything of me. My only task is to have no desires, no emotions, and be mildly happy all the time. To never want or need anything. To be okay with constant stillness & isolation, to never need fun or adventure beyond a monthly trip to Walmart. To never be chaotic or make unexpected noises. Basically, to be a librarian.
But I can’t take it anymore. The pressure is building up and I feel like a kernel of corn who can’t stop himself from blowing. I want to get on the bus and just go somewhere. But where? The only place I can think of is the library. And I hate libraries. All those thick boring books with their gray waves. It feels like being surrounded by stones. It is hard for me to stay conscious in a library for more than a few minutes.
I want to be surrounded by a different type of wave. Bright waves. Fun waves. Romantic waves. The waves of adventure and boldness. No more sleepy, snoozy, waves filling the air 24/7.
But my horoscope predicts this state of affairs (caused by Neptune-the planet of insane asylums- afflicting my domestic realm) will continue for another 10 months. So far it has lasted for 2 years. So what do I do? Continue to bang my head against the wall in a vain effort to change what can’t be changed? Yes. I think that is what I will do.
As I mentioned before, the circumstances causing me to go insane is living alone with my husband who works from home, but sleeps through the day while working at night. To make matters worse, when he isn’t working or sleeping, he likes to lie down by himself in a dark room to think. He says this is the most important part of his work, and I’m sure he is right, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am going insane. He is the sort of person who never really needs to have fun or let loose, and while I admire this about him, it doesn’t change the fact that I am going nuts.
He doesn’t understand though, how I can be impacted by his actions when we are separate people. If he chooses to spend all sunlit hours lying horizontal in the darkness, what does that have to do with me? How can it possibly impact my state of mind? To me, however, the impact is self-evident. Wouldn’t anyone notice a difference between living in a circus versus a cemetery? A sunny day versus a cloudy one? Doesn’t everyone need to be cheered by the vital presence of others every now and then?
And now I am breaking another taboo by mentioning James. You are allowed to talk about yourself, but you can’t talk about anyone else, which basically means you can’t really talk about yourself either. Relationship issues are private and must be worked out in secret between the two people, which basically means they can’t be worked out at all. There is always someone with less power in a relationship, isn’t there? And for them the privacy of marriage only turns it into a death trap.
Maybe it would be better if relationships were opened up for public scrutiny, at least to some extent. On the other hand, everyone needs a secret garden where their inner self can live away from prying eyes. And that is what the domestic realm is supposed to be. So I do value the gag order placed on discussing domestic problems even though I am breaking it.
But I shouldn’t do that. So instead I will do the right thing. Swallow deeply, smile bigly and turn to magic for the answers. The one friend who has been there for man since the beginning of time, his secrets taught to us through our best friends- the grains. The staffs of life.
Feeding Slippers some corn eggs. Despite my domestic grumblings, you must remember that for many years my dream was to live in a big old house with a dog and tons of dishes. Now that dream has come true. But the planet who gave me that dream (when he spent 7 years travelling through the House of Domesticity) has moved on into the House of Fun & Romance. So now I find myself caring about things- such as fun- which before seemed stupid & pointless.
Adding more dishes to my collection. I am always convinced that a new color of dishes will be the cure for what ails me. I love to shop. Shopping + car rides are probably the only true hobbies I have.
Shopping at Fiestaware with Slippers. Luckily for me, shopping is Slipper’s favorite hobby as well. Spending an hour in a store where she can walk around and sniff everything is her idea of paradise. Mine too.
This is the first song I ever wrote. Well, actually, it is the second song, but the first song is called The Mailman and possibly too perverted to share.
I was a painter living in Los Angeles when I got the feeling it was time for me to do something new, although I wasn’t entirely sure what. The best way to figure out, I decided, would be to spend 5 whole days being drunk. Which was a little bit challenging since the combination of alcohol and sunshine has always made me queasy and L.A. is a very sunny place. It also meant I would have to navigate the city on drunk feet for a few days.
But luckily, it only took a couple of days for the answer to arrive in a flash of certainty- I was going to be a musician! I had always known I was going to become a musician SOMEDAY. In fact, I had already bought myself a little $30 guitar so I would be ready when the time came.
