I
In the event of any postal threat that you may have recieved, I would advise you to go to the Sierra Madre mountains. There is a little sign there that says "Beware, here be rattlesnakes." But don't be despirited. A regular humdinger if there was one, and make no mistake its a sign that I put up myself, as a well respected and concientous protector of peace, it is my solemn duty to inform the misplaced postal bureau that only if one exercises one's imagination can the red letter day come calling. Man I'm drunk.
II
It was dark, and the rain hadn't let up. Maggie called about an hour back, saying the baby needed some food. Shit. What world is this, where I can't get an hour's peace, never mind a drink. Something moved at the end of the alley. Can't be a cat. Cats hate rain. And it was something bigger. There it is again. I can't see too good because of the fucking rain, and there's no light. I walk on, a little warily. You can't trust Boston alleys, even if you've grown up there. Them fucking Irish bastards.
III
It was a little late in the day for apologies. I wanted him, and I wanted him bad. I wanted to make him bleed, to smash my boots down on his stinky rotten face and twist my heels. I wanted to hear him scream and drown them out with my own. I wanted all the hurt to go rushing at him like a bullet..a bullet as big as a building. All the blood in the world cannot satisfy this stink. Why this anger? Why? Motherfucker.
IV
I wonder what those flowers are called. Mother never told me. Or maybe she did and I've forgotten. All those years ago.Wang Wei, "Idly I watch Cassiopa flowers fall." What are cassiopas? I always imagined them to be white. I always pictured Wang Wei at dusk or at dawn. Light and dark. The drifting song of the water chestnut pickers as they wander home. What is home? That could be my home, though I've never been to China. I imagine the people living in the forgotten hills. Wang Wei says that you can only get there by following the grove of peach tree blossoms. And that too only if the forgotten land wants you to enter.
V
Welcome to Xanadu Station on 102.5 Night Time Radio FM with me Beq B. Tonight I've got for you The Beatles and Bob Dylan, John Coltrane and Satchmo, Memphis Minnie and the Dixietown Five. I got 'em as I like 'em, without labels and fully fancy free. Tonight we got no themes, but what we got is hurt. Yes my friend, what hurts can't be bad. It reminds you of the reason you're living, and the reason why you can't chuck what you're doing out of the window and follow it. Tonight I got songs that hurt, that ache till you can't breathe; songs that hurt so much that you smile. Here's Skip James with Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.
VI
Ever been to Benaras? I was there once, long ago, when I was in college. There was a light on that town that I never saw again. Sort of like sepia, only deeper, if you know what I mean. Of course, I can never say for sure, as I can't name colours too well. But it was there all the same. And the river. Ah my friend the river was holiest river I ever saw. No no, of course I don't believe in all that, but the thought of the Ganga flowing past the steps of that city makes me close my eyes and sigh. You know what, my most tangible memory of the place is an imagined one. About a storm on the river, a wild apocalyptic storm that I never actually saw. Makes you wonder huh? Memories.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
A First Class Mook
A healthy start to the day. As Mister Kosher from the far away Firangi pani lodge was going over his morning options, it suddenly dawned upon him that the easiest way to the laundromat is through the kitchen. A holistic hostelier if there ever was one, Mister K happily nonced up the ladder to the buzzard-me-timbers and took down his coattail which he then proceeded to dangle from his ear like a neanderthal antenna of the soul. Ah the kitchen, he remembered. But the way to the kitchen is hard and its difficult for the righteous man to pick his way through the gravelly shite that lurks in the hearts of men. So he curved up the pantry way, took a sharp right from the bottle of Sherry and took three steps back over the upholstery and hey presto! He was in the kitchen. The kitchen was wearing its usual morning face, which is the same as its evening and night faces, but different fropm its lunchtime face. Never one to mess with the natural order of things, Mister K hit the mountain of pans like a hurricane in winter and blasted a way to the laundromat. But what's the use of a way to the laundromat if there isn't one at the end of the road? So he took off his coattail, attached a few rubber bands to the hook and stretched it to the nearest kettle snout. Now taut, he started thrumming on the vibrating rubber a curious melody of bass notes and higher, rising falling, till all the utensils were singing that same music of the spheres and vaguely cuboid life forms. Finally, as if magic, the first faint shapes of the laundromat began to throb into focus. Maybe if Mister K had been intent on this marvellous phenomenon, he would have continued till the event had reached fruition, but now his nostrils were tickled with the most delicious aroma of pan-fried chicken dancing in warm honey down from Mook's Corner. Needless to say the thrumming stopped. And then there was siilence. No, not really. There was the sound of Mister K carefully camouflaging the way to the laundromat with casually placed items of everyday kitchen-ware. There was also the sound of Mister K tiptoeing his way out the kitchen and through the rose alley and finally into the roling meadow called Mook's Head on Mook's Hill. Ah yes, there was Mook, a happy jumping presence in the hazy noon day sun. garnishing the chicken with love and care and doing an occassional happy jig whenever he thought of the mmmmm creation ending up in his gullet. Mister K decided to make his presence known. He was never one for sneaking up on food when he could stride to it.
Hallo there young Mook, he said, what's cooking by the brook?
Oh Great Mook, gasped young Mook, by the book, isn't that the lanky frame of Mister K dashing this way?
Surprised but eager to show off his new cook-book souped-up schtook, young Mook of Mook's Head on Mook's hill elaborately bowed and inwardly vowed that Mister K would not leave this day without uttering wow at the remarkable chicken that he'd been cooking this wide day.
What ho there Young Mook? Is that a delicious chicken I smell old fruit?
Oh yes Mister K, I dare say, a little something to pass this lazy day, said Mook.
Ah, capital, young fellow, it looks too good to eat, by my jowls, exclaimed the devious Mister K with a slight twitch of his snickered whiskers.
Too good to eat? Exclaimed the surprised Mook, who looked even more like a Mook when he was surprised. But my dear Mister K, as I live today, I say this chicken is for the pallette.
And of many hues too, cried the notorious K and pirouetted around on tippy-toes. The fried yellow here, and that honey red there. Ah my master artisan, what a veritable feast of the senses hast thou made!
A surprised young Mook gave way to a pleased-as-a-peach Mook. Words wouldn't come to his mouth even if he had sallowed an entire book. Thank you dear Mister K, its nothing really. Would you care for a bite?
A bite? Screamed an enraged Mister K. Oh to take a bite out of this most precious creation would be a sacrilege akin to eating all of it. No dear young Mook, what would your other Mooking relatives say? You don't want to be the black Mook in the family book would you? I tell you dear boy, this is a work of art and it deserves to be shown to all the humble parishioners of this county. Tell you what, said the mischievous Mister K, I know an Under Assistant East Coat Agent who'll be overjoyed to get it shown at the MeeRakow Institute Of Distinguished Feasts. Give me this chicken this instant and I guarantee you immortality.
Young Mook could already see himself rising to the top of the Mook pile. Why, maybe coming generations would gaze with awe on this spot and say, Now look here me hearties, for that is the very spot where young Mook authored his swan song!
Our story is near an end. It ends as you all imagine....a happy lunch for the noncing Mister K of Firangi Pani lodge and the shaming of poor unfortunate young Mook. For what its worth, story of this great Mookery became a happy bedtime story and a cautionary tale about gullible Mooks, and long afterwards, people would gaze with awe at Mook's Head on Mook's Hill and say, by my grand mam (may Heaven bless her breeches) , isn't that the selfsame spot where young Mook met his denouement!
Understandibly, not many people know of the Laundromat. A healthy start to the day for Mister Kosher.
Hallo there young Mook, he said, what's cooking by the brook?
Oh Great Mook, gasped young Mook, by the book, isn't that the lanky frame of Mister K dashing this way?
Surprised but eager to show off his new cook-book souped-up schtook, young Mook of Mook's Head on Mook's hill elaborately bowed and inwardly vowed that Mister K would not leave this day without uttering wow at the remarkable chicken that he'd been cooking this wide day.
What ho there Young Mook? Is that a delicious chicken I smell old fruit?
Oh yes Mister K, I dare say, a little something to pass this lazy day, said Mook.
Ah, capital, young fellow, it looks too good to eat, by my jowls, exclaimed the devious Mister K with a slight twitch of his snickered whiskers.
Too good to eat? Exclaimed the surprised Mook, who looked even more like a Mook when he was surprised. But my dear Mister K, as I live today, I say this chicken is for the pallette.
And of many hues too, cried the notorious K and pirouetted around on tippy-toes. The fried yellow here, and that honey red there. Ah my master artisan, what a veritable feast of the senses hast thou made!
A surprised young Mook gave way to a pleased-as-a-peach Mook. Words wouldn't come to his mouth even if he had sallowed an entire book. Thank you dear Mister K, its nothing really. Would you care for a bite?
A bite? Screamed an enraged Mister K. Oh to take a bite out of this most precious creation would be a sacrilege akin to eating all of it. No dear young Mook, what would your other Mooking relatives say? You don't want to be the black Mook in the family book would you? I tell you dear boy, this is a work of art and it deserves to be shown to all the humble parishioners of this county. Tell you what, said the mischievous Mister K, I know an Under Assistant East Coat Agent who'll be overjoyed to get it shown at the MeeRakow Institute Of Distinguished Feasts. Give me this chicken this instant and I guarantee you immortality.
Young Mook could already see himself rising to the top of the Mook pile. Why, maybe coming generations would gaze with awe on this spot and say, Now look here me hearties, for that is the very spot where young Mook authored his swan song!
Our story is near an end. It ends as you all imagine....a happy lunch for the noncing Mister K of Firangi Pani lodge and the shaming of poor unfortunate young Mook. For what its worth, story of this great Mookery became a happy bedtime story and a cautionary tale about gullible Mooks, and long afterwards, people would gaze with awe at Mook's Head on Mook's Hill and say, by my grand mam (may Heaven bless her breeches) , isn't that the selfsame spot where young Mook met his denouement!
Understandibly, not many people know of the Laundromat. A healthy start to the day for Mister Kosher.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The Band
Another time, another band. A swing band, a country band, a blues band. But also a rock band? I dunno really. In case you're wondering, I'm reffering to my new band. And a cool band at that. It bops, rocks and shuffles. It plays songs about going back to the womb and plays major songs like Minor Swing. It hopes to play songs on drunkenness, and songs about feeling good, and neurotic songs about the story of a man of constant sorrow. Its a good feeling all right, especially when melancholic little 2-5-1 minor sketches etch out a movie soundtrack in the dead of the night and neighbours howl to hear the preacherman saying, "You gotta move, you gotta move. Cause when the Lord gets ready, you gotta move." When the only defence left is to blame it all on the whiskey.
I like the eclectic mix. A blues stylist, a jazz prof, a busy virtuoso and a charlatan CAN make music together, as we prove everytime that we possibly can. Let me introduce some members of the band.
O'Neil: Goes by many names, mostly shifting. Has been called many things in the past, the Fertility God not being the least of them. He likes a bottle-neck and one suspects has a weakness for raucousness...at least on the record. Off it, he's enthusiastic but overworked, probably grits his teeth privately, and unfortunately calls people "babu" affectionately. Enough said.
The Prof: Ever wanted to know about the aeolian cadences of Stephane Grappelli's gay violin when he played the Moonlight Sonata in the buff? Yes? Then don't go to the Prof. Cause the Prof will take deep thought and say, "You see, that was a top forty hit." What you could approach the Prof with are intricate problems like the best way to play Eb7 6th in the seventh cycle of a true tour-de-force.Or a piece-de-resistance? Don't ask me. The Prof's waiting for queries such as these with his mp3's and dvd's and a band in the box called Pandora.
Obbligato Virtuoso: Ever wanted to know what sound a deep sea excavatory machine on the bed of the Mississipi would make? Come to Obbligato, and he'll wobble some mandolin legatos in your direction while you were absently humming Dark Hollow.
Running Obbligato eaves dropped: "I have a sexy mandolin." "Beethoven was a bugeoise sentimentalist." "I like long flutes." "Did you ever think that the unconcious doesn't need the mirror stage to recognise a buxom girl when it sees on?" (The last one isn't true, but you can't say where his mind might wander to.)
Charlatan: I whistle, I sing, I bandanna, I bling. I disaggree wholeheartedly till I'm agreeing against myself. I write a song filched from another song filched from another song filched from Gershwin. I'm his 85th cousin twice removed. I want to sing Aguas De Marco, cause I don't know any better, and it would be even better if I could segue it into Grateful When You're Dead. Say yeah yeah yeah someone, or I'll be deeply umbraged.
So there you have it, a motley of many coloured hues, dusty from all the earthy songs we do. A phenomenon of a foothistory, a postmodern pachyderm. But who cares? Its great fun!!
I like the eclectic mix. A blues stylist, a jazz prof, a busy virtuoso and a charlatan CAN make music together, as we prove everytime that we possibly can. Let me introduce some members of the band.
O'Neil: Goes by many names, mostly shifting. Has been called many things in the past, the Fertility God not being the least of them. He likes a bottle-neck and one suspects has a weakness for raucousness...at least on the record. Off it, he's enthusiastic but overworked, probably grits his teeth privately, and unfortunately calls people "babu" affectionately. Enough said.
The Prof: Ever wanted to know about the aeolian cadences of Stephane Grappelli's gay violin when he played the Moonlight Sonata in the buff? Yes? Then don't go to the Prof. Cause the Prof will take deep thought and say, "You see, that was a top forty hit." What you could approach the Prof with are intricate problems like the best way to play Eb7 6th in the seventh cycle of a true tour-de-force.Or a piece-de-resistance? Don't ask me. The Prof's waiting for queries such as these with his mp3's and dvd's and a band in the box called Pandora.
Obbligato Virtuoso: Ever wanted to know what sound a deep sea excavatory machine on the bed of the Mississipi would make? Come to Obbligato, and he'll wobble some mandolin legatos in your direction while you were absently humming Dark Hollow.
Running Obbligato eaves dropped: "I have a sexy mandolin." "Beethoven was a bugeoise sentimentalist." "I like long flutes." "Did you ever think that the unconcious doesn't need the mirror stage to recognise a buxom girl when it sees on?" (The last one isn't true, but you can't say where his mind might wander to.)
Charlatan: I whistle, I sing, I bandanna, I bling. I disaggree wholeheartedly till I'm agreeing against myself. I write a song filched from another song filched from another song filched from Gershwin. I'm his 85th cousin twice removed. I want to sing Aguas De Marco, cause I don't know any better, and it would be even better if I could segue it into Grateful When You're Dead. Say yeah yeah yeah someone, or I'll be deeply umbraged.
So there you have it, a motley of many coloured hues, dusty from all the earthy songs we do. A phenomenon of a foothistory, a postmodern pachyderm. But who cares? Its great fun!!
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