Archive for spiritual evolution

“If You Have Ghosts…” repost (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, Intuition & Gut Intelligence, Mythos, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, SPOOKY KABUKI, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 9, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Well, lovers, the week started out nice enough what with spoiling the RobotBoy for his August 3 birthday and then a new little niece was born which was all kinds of exciting but then I made a fateful decision and let a 2 year old — my niecy, Thing 2 — handfeed me spaghetti. My friend Vince said, “Ah, you’ll do anything for a baby” and he’s too right. Pieces of parmesan cheese or stray bits of noodles fell from her mouth, onto her sauce-stained shirt, and when she gathered up this germy detritus with her chubby grubby fingers and aeroplaned it towards my mouth, I opened up. Yikes! I must be crazy! It’s a biological evolutionary power these babies have over us grown-ups. We’ll set aside our own good sense just to see ’em grin. Anyhoo. No sense crying over spilled spag. Now I am laid up and only barely human with a wicked case of strep throat. I’m missing Cyndi Lauper in a New Orleans club tonight and still unable to wrap my feeble mind around my half-done draft for this week’s punk-rock gospel. The Robot was gonna fill in for me but then he got sick too so I have decided to repost an oldie but goodie from way back when. (originally posted on the 28th of October, 2008.) Newcomers, enjoy! I’ll make it up to those of you who have read this one already. I’d give you big old smooches but I love y’all too much for that, cause I’m “naasty” as my niece would say and who wants my naaaaasty kisses anyway? Be well and beware of germs!

***********************************************

“If you have ghosts, then you have everything…. You can say anything that you want and you can do everything that you want… one never does that… In the night, I am real. …I don’t want my fangs too long…. The moon to the left is a part of my thoughts and a part of me is me.”

These strange words, a mad shaman’s chant out of the speakers — volume LOUD — and into my atomic self… “eye” at the essence/energy level.

This was a hymn from the church I’d been waiting for. This was reckoning & rock n’ roll at once.

This was the theme to the soundtrack of my life. NOT one of those songs that I came to love. I loved it on first listen — in my bones, in my molecules, in the depths of my mind. If you have ghosts, you have everything. I had been waiting all of my days and nights to hear that song. I still shudder at every listen. It is my anthem. It is the mantra which saves me, its odd sequence of words spirit me off to my truest place. Where it is all okay. Not just okay but gorgeously fortunate.

Roky, my coyote in the dark piney woods. He howls. Pine cones float in the moonlight as organic odes to Tanuki and Kitsune. The coyote says “This was the life you wanted. How lucky you are to be haunted.”

If you have ghosts, then you have everything.

These spirits that clamour, who are they? Why are they here? What do they expect? They leave omens everywhere, valentines in the path of days. Instructional pamphlets? They are here because they adore you. You are who? The “universe’s darling”???  Who told you that? You have won their gaurded hearts. The telephone rings (Dad called it the “cosmic phone”) and the voice on the line is the voice you were longing for. The scarab in Jung’s window will knock with more frequency should he see that you too have twitching antennae.

Ah, to talk about what this song means to me is almost impossible! When the effect it had was to scatter me like seed while condensing. How can it feel this way?

It reminds me of Alice with the Drink Me bottles and the Eat Me cakes. I am ENORMOUS! Crowding, pressing, filling up. I am tiny. A nanotech hologram of all that I am, a portrait of Dolly Parton etched on a grain of basmati. Practically invisible, wholly infinite.

I am simply being forthright when I say that this song means the WORLD to me. Is there anything more in the world than this?

If you have ghosts, you have everything.

 

I have ghosts. More and more everyday. I feel their presense at the tips of my shoulders. I dream of complex impossible machinery and blame them. They are always watching, wondering. What now brown cow?

Some people point to their scars and say, “See! I have lived! I took the leap!”

Others point to frown furrows. “I have suffered. My heart has broken in a million places.”

Or to smile lines. “I have grinned. I have beamed. I have known joy, I have brought joy.”

I point to ghosts. They are the proof of a life lived on the curled up smoky edges of existence like burnt paper. They are testament to …. willingness? …. courage? … awe? … curiosity? … wonder?

 

If you have ghosts, then you have….

  • an open mind like a a wind-whipped hallway. Where is the wind coming from? It just comes.
  • a hungry heart. Skulking in the dark, turning over every rock, nibbling velvet moss, barky twigs, souls unlike your own, souls akin, a lover’s skin, a friend’s soft spot.
  • made allys amongst the gods, the totems, the sky, the dirt. Unlikely connections bind you to the hearts of others forever. Your allys fight for you with fervor and loyalty. They defend you against haters. When you are injured, they gather you up in cloudy limbs and carry you to a bed of soft thistle.
  • loved, you have loved to love, and that they are loved is no secret to those you love. You have grabbed their cheeks or pounced on their goodness. You have pointed out their attributes and celebrated their quirks and their quarks. Even their molecules feel handsome. You don’t withhold kindness. You take liberties with love. You lay it on thick.
  • been loved, always, and with such enthusiasm! They love you fully and fiercely. Even death cannot change the love they feel for you. It is more than emotion, it is a morphic field. It all gathers there, all the love that you’ve ever been given. All the compliments filed away, all the talismans built from origami & feathers, all the tokens of affection. And so many keys to so many hearts on a ring that clangs in your pocket. Lucky lucky lucky to be so loved.
  • you have found members of your tribe, recognized them, summoned them, exalted them, comforted them. SHOOK THEM.
  • not just people loved and lost but selves, moments, ideas. Pets. So many layers of being like tissue paper glued over glass. Illness, experience, dreams, injury, heartbreak, love, longing, learning. All the things that contribute to the complexity of your being.
  • had an unexplainable unduplicated drug like any other … wine, hallucinogens, tobacco, soda pop, sex… none of it compares to the ephemeral solace of the spirits that carry you, ferry you on a raft of peach skins, banana peels, orange rinds. You float on the current of time, space, electricity, wonderment. You crack the pod and lick the shell. The doorway swells with feathery light. You swallow the bulb and become a bulb. Incandescent.
  • no need for long fangs. No need to take, rape, steal, beg. If it’s not willing, you don’t need it. Hate is not welcome in your heart.
  • a glow-white lightning bolt of SPOOKY KABUKI, theatre of synchronicity, dance of the Mindellian demon. When the audience laughs, just bow. Whether they are laughing at you or with you, it doesn’t really matter. When you stutter or miss your cue,  you are Pee Wee Herman who meant to crash his bike into a rose bush. They will appreciate how you stop to smell the roses. Should you mangle a line just tie your mustache into a bow like your mouth is a gift to the world.
  • your toe in the water while the wave has its toe in you.
  • EVERYTHING.
 
IF YOU HAVE GHOSTS
 
If you have ghosts you have everything
If you have ghosts you have everything
if you can say anything you want
then you can do anything you want
If you have ghosts then you have everything

one never does that
one never does that
if you call it suprise there it is
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part me is me
one never does that  In the night I am real
in the night I am real
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a pert of me is me
forever is the wind is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
in the night I am realI don’t want my fangs too long
I don’t want my fangs too long
the moon to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
forever is the wind to the left of me is a part of my thoughts
is a part of me is me
I don’t want my fangs too long
if you have ghosts, then you have everything.

*************************************** 

The three paintings (above) are by the mind-boggling Miss Van who has captured my soul as well as my skin. Hopefully her brilliant renderings can help to translate my urgent over-wrought gobbledygook. When you love something the way I love this fucking phantom-tastic Roky Erickson song, your brain turns into a dollop of whipped cream. In the struggle to grab the meaning from its swirling vortex of importance, the writer looks like a hack and a zealot.

So please, please, forgive my words, excuse my raving mythos.

Just look at these masterpieces by Miss Van. 

Just LISTEN to Roky, my coyote guide, our city-shaman, our genius mad man who was spirited home to us at last. 

What God is to Goof, amen is to Aha!

God=Goof.

Amen=Aha!

Goof+Aha= if you have ghosts, you have everything.

Fur reals, y’all, not funny math. 

Thank you for tuning in/turning on to this special SPOOKY KABUKI edition of the Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel. 

AHA!
  

“Joy” by Citizen Bird aka Silverbullit (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Robots, Music & Life & Sundays, Psyche & Sexuality, Rock & Roll, Romance & Relationships, Sexuality, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, The wisdom of the universe with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 1, 2010 by alphabetfiend

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy. It’s leaking out from every pore. I feel joy now I feel joy!

Thanks for tuning in (“and turning on?” she asks, eyebrow arching.) This is a very special hip hip hooray Happy Birthday — to the RobotBoy! — edition of the Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel.

Today we’ll be musing on the magic of love, on the mystery of dreams, on the JOY of music, on the brink of ecstacy.

Be patient while I goo-goo mew, for who am I but a love struck girl? 

This is just what I been lookin’ for! This is just what I been lookin’ for!

Before I met the real-life RobotBoy, he starred in several very vivid dreams.

It’s been a theme through-out my life, this “sensing” of an important someone before they’ve arrived.

My parents say it’s cause I was born with a veil (the amniotic sack, known as “the caul”, usually breaks away but when a baby comes out still hooded or “veiled” they’re said to be extra-sensory.) I say it’s cause I pay attention, plus I have the patience and the pesky urge to record my dreams rather than let them be lost to the ether. But perhaps it can be chalked up to a childhood spent on hyper-alert, always anticipating, neck craned and waiting.

This is just what I been lookin’ for! This is just what I been lookin’ for!

Maybe the universe just wanted to make damn sure I noticed that southern gentleman in the Hyde Park laundromat who would probably have been too shy to strike up a conversation, never mind ask for my number.

Eleven years later and the conversation I started continues. Sure, he’s shy but give him a beer and he’ll start talking; give him another and he’ll revert to the dense Mississippi drawl that slays me with sexy.

The RobotBoy and I have loads to talk about.

Being from the same mystical tribe makes for good conversation.

It’s especially important for weirdos (mofo freaks, genius odd-balls, jukebox poets, mutant mavericks) to find fellow tribe members with whom they can share their lives. This isn’t easy. Nothing great ever is.

But how could someone like the RobotBoy be with a woman who, I dunno, thinks like a mind-numbing Normal? Who sez “a man’s place is the workplace? Who voted for Bush? Who doesn’t give head? Who forbids fun in any form? Who freaks out over pot, porn, punk rock? Whose idea of music is Miley Cyrus? Who can’t rock and roll? 

Hell no. I know this man and he wouldn’t waste a moment with that woman.

If I hadn’t come along he’d have lived his life as a punk monk.

This is just what I been lookin’ for! This is just what I been lookin’ for!

Back in those days, before I met my Bot, I was still hyper-disciplined about recording my dreams (in an ever expanding series of tiny notebooks) and so those loverbot dreams can be returned to for re-examination whenever curiosity strikes.

We constantly marvel at all the little things those dreams foreshadowed.

In one of these dreams, he was known as an “R2D2” or “someone capable of inter-dimensional travel.” R2D2. Hahaha. It took years before I got the joke but I eventually laughed my ass off. In another prescient dream, he rose up from a smoky stage, surrounded by musical instruments, like a “Bradbarian Amadeus.” (No shit, that’s a direct dream journal quote.)

So it’s no surprise that music (real music, not Miley) has been such an enormous part of our love affair. 

Music — and the times we’ve shared within its clutches — has made “us” into a whole new thing, having given us a curious kind of form & function. It has also brought us a most immense, intense JOY.

This week’s featured song is “Joy” by Citizen Bird. They’re actually a Swedish band known as Silverbullit who had to change their name here in the states so as not to be confused with Bob Seger, er, I dunno, some other Silvery Bullety bunkos. I like the band by either name.

We first fell for Citizen Bird aka Silverbullit after seeing them live at CBGBs. They opened for The Soundtrack of Our Lives, more Swedes and one of our all-time favorite bands. (I Heart Ebbot Forever!) We saw both bands again the very next night at The Mercury Lounge. Despite impatience and preoccupation with our beloved Soundtrack, Citizen Bird blew us away.

Since then our love for them has only deepened.

The song “Joy’ is about just exactly that kind of love. 

I love to listen to “Joy” cranked up loud. Louder than yer mama can stand! Louder than yer doctor recommends!  Loud ass loud, my friends. I love it loud at the dusty gray, the very start of day, before the sun has risen, as the blackness fades. This sound, that gray, with the day & the highway curving up ahead.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy. 

What is it? Well, you call it joy.

But maybe it’s more, maybe it’s an ecstatic rumbling from deep inside the cerebellum. Maybe it’s a giddy vibratory jumble of goodness in all it’s guises. Maybe it’s a wondering, a tumbling, an awe-gasp plundering and then a sudden eye-pop hiccup of hell yes. Maybe it’s a coming clean yanking free making way kinda thang? Maybe it’s a beat happening! In the left foot of Venus. Hard to say really.

It’s simple but it’s sacred, it’s easy but it’s pure.

A melody and a couple of chords.

Maybe people fall in love with music because Music will never leave –there will always be someone somewhere ready to rock out with their cocks out. Count on that. Sure, Music can and will break yer heart (happens all the time) but it’s the rumble-chest rib-wrenching feel good kind. Music can kick the living shit outta you, sure, but it’s always there later to kiss the boo-boo. 

For your pleasure, I have provided two very different videos. The first was directed by The Designers Republic for some bullcrap coke thing (ugh) but the video fulla throbbing hearts & cartoon pine trees is psychedelic, pulsing and kinda perfect.

Despite the sweet perfection of  The Designers Repub vid, I still feel compelled to share another. “Joy” set to a 1968 short film by German experimental film director, Lutz Mommartz. (“Weg zum Nachbarn”) Pardon my excesses. Really, I couldn’t resist. It’s super cool and crazy sexy. Right up a Robot’s alley! Plus, the artsy dark-haired hottie with the soft expressive (cum)face is just exactly the Robot’s type. 

Mmmm. I’m in the mood for a mind-bomb orgasm. You?

Now that’s a hell of a way to spend a Sunday! Calling out to God overandoverandoverandover.

Later, lovers.

JOY

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

Melody and a couple of chords.

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

Just a simple thing and nothing more.

It doesn’t hafta be any more.

Just a simple thing and nothing more

*

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s leaking out from every pore.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

It’s just a simple thing that you call joy.

I feel joy now I feel joy!

*

This is just what I been lookin’ for!

This is just what I been lookin’ for!

A melody and a couple of chords

This is just what I been lookin’ for.

This is just what I been lookin’ for.

This is just what I been lookin’ for.

I feel joy I feel joy I feel joy now I feel joy!

The mermaid-robot is from the crazily amazingly entertaining comic site Nataliedee.com

“Robot Love — Take Two” by Munster; “Robot Love is Forever” by graphic designer extroidinaire Scott McLean ; “I love you, Robot” is available as a t-shirt on shirtoid; Sad Robot is available as a tee at threadless.

View “Weg zum Nachbarn” in full at http://www.archive.org/details/Mommar…

For more on Cit-bird/Silverbullit see the Silverbullit website or the silverbullit myspace page.

The Citizen Bird album is available on amazon.

“Con Te Partiro”; With You I Leave (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Art & Culture, Art Lover, Livin' La Vida Frida, Style & Fashion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2010 by alphabetfiend

When you are far away I dream on the horizon and words fail, and I do know that you are with me, with me, with me. You, my moon, you are here with me. My sun, you are here with me, with me, with me, with me. With you I will leave.

As you may already know, I’ve been a most irresponsible ringleader. I’ve only recently returned to Cream Scene Carnival after a long hiatus. It wasn’t until I returned that I learned I had any “real” readers and now that I know, I’ve promised no more extended absences.

But can a gypsy-carnie with a history of wanderlust really make such a vow?

Well… yes.

Some time away doesn’t seem like such a big deal except for when it comes to one reoccurring post: The Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel. The column I obsessed over and that no one ever read (besides The Reliable One) but he loved it too so I forged ahead with the idea. The idea?

A temple built of alphabet & musical notes, a church constructed of code, a sacrament of song.

I call it “The Punk Rock Gospel” though only some of the song choices are officially “punk rock.” It’s our attitude that’s punk rock. 

We’re outside the religious main-stream but still ass-kicker omen-seeker mystic-minded mutants who are looking for a moment of holy meditation but on our own damn terms.

No nun to rap our knuckles, no priest to diddle us under our choir robes. No bigot to tell us who to love or hate. No big-mouth phoney with his pants down and his hand out. No saintly soul with her lips pursed & judging our upblown skirts as we smirk all Tinto-Brass balls-out saucy. No one luring our loved one to the woods and striking her down because she is beautiful and he wants her which makes him hate her. (RIP Ronnie. The Robot-Boy misses you.) No one to tell us which hotdog to eat. No one to chop at the genitals of our babes. No one to shame us for unabashedly loving eachother and ourselves.

Now watch as I pass out pastels and ooh and ahh as you draw chalky caricatures of Muhammad on the sidewalk.

No one to kill us afterwards.

Down with the dogma! Up with the dada!

When I started Cream Scene Carnival, I had high hopes for the punk rock gospel. I wanted people to read it, to love it, to listen to the songs and then to come back again. And again.

It seemed as if it would never happen. Now, almost out of nowhere, my hopes have been realized. Y’all are reading the punk rock gospel! You’re coming back the next week and the next week too! I’m so happy I could fly my own heart like a bright red kite.

Which is why I MUST find my way here every single Saturday night or early Sunday morning (Monday at the latest?) Either that or I must initiate others to serve as Gurus of Garage Rock or Mofos of Funk for those times when I am unavailable in any of my holy guises: High-Priestess of Tom-foolery; Trickster Fox Fortune-teller; Lipstick Shamaness. Finding a sacred sub is really the perfect solution as it means a fresh perspective or a whole new kind of song on a special kinda Sunday.

This week is in that spirit, even though I am here (having hauled my butt to a late-night diner to surf their wireless.) So it’s me whose typing these words today but it’s a reader — and new interwebby friend, Alice — who chose this video and song. She sent the link to me after a recent post on Frida Kahlo’s 103rd birthday. Maybe, if you are lucky, Alice will contribute her own thoughts/”gospel” in the comments. Although I’ve noticed that a normal modest person with decent goodness and the appropriate level of humility doesn’t take easily to the idea of writing “gospel”. I say, Phooey! and Screw that chicken til the feathers fly! I say take the word “gospel” and make it work for you. I say that God was created by us and is ours to recreate.

Of course there are those who will gasp — aghast! — and call me a hell-bound heathen. But the way I look at it, I’m keeping my heavenly options open. Wide open. I’m after an all-access pass! If I wanna smoke a stogey with the Devil after a day of wind-surfing with Jesus but before a long night of drunken club-hopping with Artemis and Venus, well then, so fucking be it. These are OUR MYTHS and we should be able to interact with them freely.

On that note, I’d like to open up the Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel to all of you because it was my gift to you and now it’s yours. That doesn’t mean I won’t keep writing week after week but it does mean that I am open to song suggestions or topics of discussion. Anyone interested in guest-hosting a punk rock gospel (choosing song, video & theme, as well as writing the text) should raise their hand with a hell yea! or a why the hell not!?

This week’s song is Com Te Pardis or “With you, I Will Leave” (also known as “Time to Say Goodbye.”) The song is sung by Andrea Bocelli and was “chosen” by Alice who “gifted” it to me after a tough couple weeks in which I wrestled with issues of loss, grief and death. As Alice and I discussed, there’s always that shamanic meaning within injury, illness or trauma.

Let us be the ones to look for those gifts which aren’t showy or jewel-encrusted.

Let us be the ones to love being alive and to never ever be too cool, too hip or too busy to (know) show it.

Let us be the ones who find a new spirit in the rubble of religion.

Let us be Lizard Kings! Let us be everything!

Livin’ la vida Frida!!

Con Te Partiro; With You, I Will Leave

(With you, I leave)

Quando sono solo sogno all’orizzonte e mancan le parole
(When I’m alone I dream of the horizon and words fail)

si, lo so che non c’e luce in una stanza quando manca il sole
(Yes, I know there is no light in a room when the sun is absent)

se non ci sei tu con me / con me
(If you are not with me / with me)

su le finestre
(at the windows)

mostra a tutti il mio cuore che hai acceso
(show everyone my heart which you set alight)

chiudi dentro me la luce che / hai incontrato per strada
(give to me the light / you found on the street)

con te partiro
(with you i will leave)

paesi / che non ho mai
(countries which i have never)

veduto e vissuto con te
(seen and experienced with you)

adesso, si, li vivro
(now, yes, i will live them)

con te partiro
(with you i will leave)

su navi per mari
(on ships across seas)

che, io lo so / no, no, non esistono piu
(which, i know, no, no, no longer exist)

con te io li vivro
(with you i will live them)

quando sei lontana sogno all’orizzonte e mancan le parole
(when you are far away I dream on the horizon and words fail)

e io si lo so che sei con me / con me
(and I do know that you are with me, with me)

tu, mia luna, tu sei qui con me
(you, my moon, you are here with me)

mio sole, tu sei qui con me, con me, con me, con me
(my sun, you are here with me, with me, with me, with me)

con te partiro
(with you I will leave)

paesi che non ho mai
(countries which i have never)

veduto e vissuto con te
(seen and experienced with you)

adesso, si, li vivro
(now, yes, i will live them)

con te partiro
(with you i will leave)

su navi per mari
(on ships across seas)

che, io lo so / no, no, non esistono piu
(which, i know, no, no, no longer exist)

con te io li rivivro
(with you i will relive them)

con te partiro
(with you i will leave)

su navi per mari
(on ships across seas)

che, io lo so, no, no, non esistono piu
(which, i know, no, no, exist no longer)

con te io li rivivro
(with you i will relive them)

Io con te!
(I’m with you!)

********************************

*The surrealist pieces Angels of Death & Infinity are by George Gris and are available as prints.

I love how the Angel of Death has the rowboat which she sails in the song: “With you I will leave, on ships across seas, which, I know, no, no, no longer exist, with you I will relive them, with you I will leave, on ships across seas.”

I’ll be all gypsy-wild & on the road after this is published so there may be some delay in answering comments. But I’ll be back. Be assured.

Sonic Youth’s “Sacred Trickster” (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Friendship, I Heart My Love-Tribe, I Heart Tricksters, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 13, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Last Sunday was supposed to be a special birthday-honoring trickster-themed double edition of  The Punk Rock Gospel, but you know what they say about the road to hell…        

Despite my good intentions, I wasn’t able to swing both Gogol Bordello’s “When the Trickster Starts a Pokin”  and Sonic Youth’s “Sacred Trickster.”        

I was too busy eating bon-bons and being spoiled by the Robot Boy. No biggie. The glossy bow-topped packages and the birthday cake carried over into the rest of the week so why not trickster anthems?       

        

The “Sacred Trickster” is the first track on Sonic Youth’s new record. “Eternal” was just released June 9. It’s Sonic Youth’s 16th album and their first album since 2006. “Eternal” — cover art by famous folk-artist John Fahey — is the band’s first album on Matador Records. “Eternal” finds SY creatively-charged and still rockin’ as they return to their old school indy roots and revisit past aural forays:        

Twelve tunes that are a fireworks display of Sonic Youth touchstones. From the primal no wave attack of its earliest days, to the radical chording and song structures of its 90s period, to the more focused and contemporary explorations of the last five years. (Amazon bio)        

   

    In the song, Kim Gordon refers to West Mass noise artist Noise Nomads and French artist/painter Yves Klein.       

        

Sacred Trickster, I want you to levitate me. Don’t you love me yet? Press up against the amp, turn up the treble. Don’t forget.        

   

Sacred Trickster makes me wanna light a cigarette and dance inside my own smoky tornado. I wanna build bombs! I wanna be a girl in a band! I wanna wear my fox-ears to church and bang chaotically on the church organ while reciting lines from Ani songs: I’m tired of being the interesting one, I’m tired of having fun for two. Just lay yourself on the line and I might lay myself down by you. I wanna draw chalk mandalas or fly kites fashioned from old love letters.        

Makes me wanna press up against the amp, turn up the treble.        

Makes me wanna make noise, trouble, love.        

Mostly it makes me wanna ask more of myself: to reach down into my own heaving, hurting place and to dig around in the sadness until I’ve recovered the sacred.        

"LadyFox" by painter, Carolina Hardigree

  

And when I’m done asking more of myself, I’m gonna turn around and ask more of you. And you and you and you.        

I’m going to want you to do for me and to come through for me. I’m gonna want you to make me dizzy when we’re just sittin’ around. I’m gonna want you to levitate me. Can’t you do that for me? Can’t you rid me of all the steely hardness that holds me down? Can’t you blow into me with your breath until I’m light as air? Can’t you lift me from the bed — from my bondage, my ache, my sorrow — and send me up up up with the soft shush of a pink balloon. Why won’t you levitate me? Don’t you love me?        

Or do you think I am asking too much?        

I want you to blow my fucking mind.         

Is that asking too much?        

As Ani sang, I want somebody who can hold my interest, hold it and never let it fall, someone who can flatten me with a kiss that hits like a fist or a sentence that stops me like a brick wall.        

When did we stop expecting to be IN AWE?        

Why are we arrogant if we seek greatness in ourselves or greedy if we expect greatness in others? Why is it too much to want it all? Since when is the status quo enough for any of us?        

So I wanna rub elbows with the sacred, so what? So I expect you to levitate me, why not? Don’t you love me yet?       

       

The Sacred Trickster is that part of yourself that wants to steal the raspberries and chase the gingerbread man.     

The Sacred Trickster is the lover who makes you better by pointing to the bigness in you and saying Gimmee gimmee gimmee.     

The Sacred Trickster is the friend who cracks the secret code and then the nut and then a smile.     

The Sacred Trickster is the melody inside the noise, the meaning inside the poem, the puppet show theater inside a hallowed-out 1956 TV.     

The Sacred Trickster is the rock star who has you pressed against the throbbing amp… the writer who wrote that line (the one that kills you every time)… the painter who has convinced you to cuddle the sly white fox. You open up your cozy covers and Fox closes in tight, nestling, nuzzling, stinking like star dust.      

Who is The Sacred Trickster? He’s you and she’s me. That’s the way it should be.      

        

 Sacred Trickster        

I want you to levitate me        

Don’t you love me yet?        

Press up against the amp turn up the treble        

Don’t forget        

Getting dizzy sittin around        

Sacred trickster and the no tech sound        

I wish I could be music on a tree        

Noise nomads and me        

Levitating on the ground        

Uh huh uh huh        

Uh huh uh huh        

Uh huh uh huh        

Uh huh uh huh        

Whats its like to be a girl in a band?        

I don’t quite understand        

That’s so quaint to hear        

I feel so faint my dear        

Getting dizzy sittin around        

Sacred trickster and the no tech sound        

I wish I could be music on a tree        

Noise nomads and me        

Levitating scootin around        

   

Summon the Sacred Trickster! 

Thanks for tuning in to today’s Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel. Enjoy this, the official Sonic Youth “Sacred Trickster” video as released by Matador Records. It’s ferocious fun in a Gossip Girl meets Guerilla Grrl kinda way.      

***The LadyFox painting (above) is by an extremely talented, emerging artist named Carolina Hardigree. We’ve featured Hardigree’s work on Cream Scene Carnival before and we will again; because she is brilliant, amazing and mythic-minded. My kind of girl! Carolina Hardigree’s work can be purchased via her own website @ Black Bird Fine Art.       

Sonic Youth’s Eternal is available on Amazon.

A Sacred Steampunk Computer for A Lipstick Shamaness

Posted in Art & Culture, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Steampunk, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, punk rock, Sexy Bitch Steampunk yum, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 10, 2010 by alphabetfiend

Cream Scene Carnival would be nowhere without the magical mindful influences of The Lipstick Shamaness. How else to explain the little bits of spirit that end up in posts about celebrity haircuts, rowdy rock music, politics as usual, Ouija boards or butt plugs??  

So pass the peace pipe, peeps, as we honor the Lipstick Shamaness with our day-of-birth offerings.  

  

Surely she’d love to experiment with the pigment-dense shades of lipstick from Poppy King’s latest line Lipstick Queen.  King divides her hues into a Saint & Sinner story line which is right up LS’s alley. But saint or sinner? What the hell, why not put two tubes on my Im-Ex card (Imaginary Express — you gotta love pretend funds!)        

  

While we’re spending pastel dollars that we swiped from the Monopoly box, then we must spring for the most magical computer ever imagined by man. That man is Jake Von Slatt, a merciless tease with far too much talent. Von Slatt is a god among steampunks! One look at this cross between computer and church should explain his standing in the steampunk community.  

Von Slatt’s  machines poke at something mythic that still crouches inside technology, like the reptilian brain within the big brain.    

  

“Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology! Don’t give a fuck about a fuckin’ apology!” (Sing it, Iggy!)  

This poet-prophette steampunk computer is a prime example of Von Slatt’s encompassing vision. Have you ever seen anything so amazing in your life? Surely the Lipstick Shamaness has never seen a machine so sacred in all 109 of her lives! Can you imagine the holy rants she might write on such a talismanic keyboard? What potent spells could come of this?            

    

If you are the tech-savvy DIY type, you may be able to have such a magical contraption for yourself. Jake Von Slatt describes this project in detail over on Datamancer, the personal art site of Richard “Doc” Nagy, Mad Scientist of steampunkery and self-described “Jackass of All Trades.”( datamancer.net)   

The Lipstick Shamaness is not exactly tech-saavy so she won’t be returning computers to their typewriterly roots any time soon. She has, however, been known to fashion some seriously witchy head-dresses. Can a woman ever have too many headdresses? Well, that depends… your average woman with a job at the bank and a boyfriend in real-estate? Yes. A kicky kook with a taste for fox fur & dream states? No, never.  

After all, a modern age shamaness must use her clothing to communicate her “otherness” in this world of McDonalds drive-thrus and reality TV. What is a modern-age shamaness? So so so so NOT a new age anything! She’s not about healing crystals, Native American dream catchers or goddess cultures. She doesn’t dwell in the dogma of the past but propels us forward into a new kind tune-in turn-on. Ontological anarchy! Punk rock spiritualism!           

  

The “Starla” headdress by magentafabulous is just the thing for a Shamaness with sparkly glossy lips.  

These converse tennies, inspired by Blondie’s punk debutante Deborah Harry, will come in handy for feverish trance-dance or for running from the cops after erecting a magpie altar on the steps of a of deep-south anti-gay church. I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm, I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb!  

         

Sometimes you just gotta break out in song! And these tennies make me wanna sing some Stooges. I’m a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm! Now let’s rock some more as Iggy Pop takes us to our final gift idea.   

I’m a street walking cheetah
with a heart full of napalm
I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb
I am a world’s forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys
Look out honey, ’cause I’m using technology!
Ain’t got time to make no apology.
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a fire fight
Honey gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby penetrates my mind
                  

The Oracle

  

Wasn’t that the perfect segue into this penetrating piece by J.L. Schnable?    

Schnable aka “babyfangs” says she paints “ladies of magic & doom.” Those ladies have fox faces, pointy crowns and shipwrecks in their hair.  I’ve got my third-eye on this babyfangs cause she’s speaking my language. Know a lady like Cream Scene’s Lipstick Shamaness? Got  someone ESP-ecially lovely in your life? Treat them to a print of “The Oracle.” (available on etsy, along with six other gorgeous prints.)   

And now, for your patience, I have a little reward: back-in-the-day Iggy Pop singing Search & Destroy live at the Phoenix fest in ’94. The footage is intercut with scenes from a surrounding carnival which makes it extra ESPecial perfect for us here at Cream-Scene. Peaches covered Search & Destroy sometime back so if you like this, then check out her version.            

When The Trickster Starts A Pokin’ (Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Lipstick Shamaness, Music & Life & Sundays, Mythos, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 6, 2010 by alphabetfiend

For this very special Happy Birthday –to me! — edition of  The Punk Rock Gospel, I’ve chosen a song about the trickster by actual tricksters.

As I walked into the bar
A man came up to me and said:
you know the older you will get
the more perverted you will get

Back before barely anyone had heard of Gogol Bordello, I had that between the shoulder-blades twitch. The itch that tells me to expect something important. I got word — via emails from friends or omens from the universe — that this was a band I needed to see. Me, in particular.

“Why?” I asked, “Why me in particular?’

And they said, Well, y’know, they’re like crazy carnies, they’re anarchist gypsies, they’re circus & costumes & pageantry.

Then the Robot Boy delivered the final seal-the-deal detail: their first single was a song called “When the Trickster Starts a Pokin’ .”

The perfection! 

Is the trickster poking into our life, making a mess, causing creative chaos?

Or is it our own trickster-self, poking out or sticking up or suggesting something inappropriate?

 

“When the trickster starts a pokin'” by the band Gogol Bordello is the PERFECT punk rock gospel choice: thanks to the trickster-laden meaning and Gogol Bordello’s gypsy punk style.

They are noisy and kinetic on stage, many things happen at once. There’s costumes and gorgeous goof-blessed dancing. There are lights and drums and uninhibited giddy fun that is lovely and contagious. This is something more than music, more than performance. There is something otherworldly here. It’s a trickster’s fortune cookie. It’s a gypsy curse.

There’s a shamanistic showmanship to Gogol Bordello’s Eugene Hutz. He moves with the trance-rock spirit of Morrison or Iggy. Hutz performs with that same  limit-pushing boundary-crossing urgency. Exhaustive and unfurling, Hutz has a loose-limbed physicality that challenges the inertia and ennui of the audience. 

It’s almost as if Eugene Hutz is endowed with the same kind of magic-making movement as the Trickster:

Ah ha hey!

When the Trickster starts a-walking
He sends the whole world askew
just when you think that it’s all through
It’s just a birth of something new
And when the Trickster starts a-pokin
who does he need to ask permission
before he goes in third position
I guess he’s just a Bordello kind of guy!…

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I invited trickster energy to unfold in my life, so why am I so surprised to see that the trickster has fucked my shit up?  As tricksters are wont to do. Never invite Coyote to dinner and act all disgusted when he pisses in your crock pot. Don’t jump on Fox’s back unless you can flee quicker than he jumps over the lazy dog. But whatever troubles Trickster causes? New life will grow from those soot-filled fields. Just when you think that it’s all through, it’s just a birth of something new.

As I write this, I am wearing my Gogol Bordello tee. I look almost obscene, being sans bra. Luckily, the tee is so tight and has such a cool screen — “This mustache kills fascism” — that I can justify my bare-breasted look as a radical pro-curves statement. Shall I be a classic self-crasher? Or be a good flasher?!  Tonight, in my too-tight tee, I’m gonna be a good flasher cause I’ve been a classic self crasher way too many times.

So I walked out of a bar
and drove like crazy for half mile
I was thirteen beers drunk
on Houston I jumped in some trunk…
We ventured on New York Throughway
where I heard myself say:
Shall I be classic self crasher?
Or be a good flasher?!

I chose the above version because it is such an unusual performance for them and so few people have seen it. It’s from an in-store performance at Criminal Records in Paris. I have provided another clip at the bottom should you care to see a more typical performance full of the usual noise and chaos.

*****************************

When the Trickster Starts A Pokin’

As I walked into the bar
A man came up to me and said:
you know the older you will get
the more perverted you will get

Hey, I’d like to see you try it
Oh what you gonna do about it?
Optzay, be a bad priest?
Ili primernij ononist?!
Be bad transvestattn? (Da yuta nigh!)
Or be a good zoldatten?! (Ozay Optzay!)
Yeah, give it a try, (By by by by)
But me I’m jasto Bordello kind of guy!..

Mama, of course all hopes are so fragile…
Papa, i can’t believe what it costs?..
Sily, Sily oni menja pokidajut
So i did what I did and its worth what its worth what it’s worth

Ah ha hey!

When the Trickster starts a-walking
he sends the whole world askew.
Just when you think that it’s all through
It’s just a birth of something new!
And when the Trickster starts a-pokin
who does he need to ask permission
before he goes in third position?
I guess he’s justo Bordello kind of guy!…

Mama, of course all hopes are so fragile…
Papa, I can’t believe what it costs?..
Sily oni menja pokidajut
So I did what I did and its worth what its worth what it’s worth

Ah ha hey!

So I walked out of a bar
and drove like crazy for half mile
I was thirteen beers drunk
on Houston I jumped in some trunk…
We ventured on New York Throughway
where myself I heard I say:
Shall i be classic self crasher?
Or be a good flasher?!

Hey, I’d like to see you try it
Oh what you gonna do about it?
Heeeeeeey, be a bad priest?
Ili primernij ononist?!
Da yuta nigh!
Ozay Optzay!
By by by by!
I guess I’m justo Bordello kind of guy!

Bordello kind of guy!
Bordello kind of guy!
Bordello kind of guy!

Click on this if you wanna see this band in motion. Pay attention to all the crazy on-stage antics!

Elvin Bishop’s “Fishin'” (Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in country music, Lipstick Shamaness, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 30, 2010 by alphabetfiend

This is my first Sunday A.M. Punk Rock Gospel since my return to Cream Scene Carnival. The night I slipped back in, after posting my first new piece, I went out for another one of my dark highway drives. I listen to late-night fm and come up with absurd destinations. A pitch-dark dog park. The pink neon of the nighthawk diner that sells egg custard pie by the slice. A bundle of brand new socks for my RobotBoy. Sometimes the dogs join me, hanging their heads out the window and surfing through the cool moon-sticky breeze.    

I give myself over to the Radio Gods.

They unwind me from my bandages and wash my open sores with a warm sudsy cloth.  

 The Robot doesn’t care for radio.

Why, he wonders, would a grown ass person, with advanced tastes and an extensive music collection, ever choose to be at the mercy of radio again? 

His dial stays at NPR.  But never for long, not when I’m around. Cause I am an omen-seeker and as an omen-seeker, I worship the randomness of radio. I love that jolt of joy & recognition as my hand jumps to the volume dial. I love being suddenly enveloped in old skins. If the 80’s band “When in Rome” comes a-tinkling with their one hit — The Promise — then I’m 15 again and falling in love with Anthony Castro.

What does RB say of that?

He says, “Promise me I’ll never have to hear that shitty song again.”  

Radio is my own cosmic jukebox… colliding with the cosmic playlists of others. I often turn to radio for comfort and for guidance.  

Charlie Daniels once sang about "Elvin Bishop sitting on a bale of hay...he ain't good looking but he sure can play"

When they played Elvin Bishop’s “Fishin’ ” at 3:23 am, the tune clamped on my barbed hook like a cartoon carp. It was the only choice for today’s Punk Rock Gospel.

Elvin’s right. We should be spending our Sundays doing whatever makes our spirit soar or whatever brings our weary hearts some peace. For some of us, that involves a church with song & sermon. Others look elsewhere for their song & sermon. They don’t need pews and gory stained glass to make their symbols resonate. That’s what the Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel is all about …. it wants to celebrate that elseswhere, it wishes to be that elsewhere.  

Elvin Bishop’s elsewhere is a quiet creek side spot:

I got me a nice little spot picked out down there on the crick.
Boy, them perch is bitin’ like crazy. Yassuh. Powerful. 

I’m goin’ fish-fish, fish-fish, fish-fish, fishin’.
I’m goin’ fishin’… hook, sinker, an’ line.
I said, fish-fish, fish-fish, fish-fish, fishin’….

Now some folks say that fishin’ on Sunday’s a sin.
If a fish bite my line on a Sunday, I’m gonna reel ’em on in.
Believe I’ll take ’em on home, fry ’em up good an’ have a ball

Cause I don’t see nothin’ wrong with fishin’ on Sunday at all

We ought to all go fishin’, want to have a nice time, fish fish fishin’… hook sinker & line….

I’ll take my pole an’ my jug down to the river,  set up on  the bank.
Every time the fish start to nibble, I’m gonna take me another drank.
  

Speaking with church choir modesty, Bishop said,

“My voice is very plain. It’s better suited for Blues. It’s been good for me, because it’s made my songwriting strong, because to really get over with a voice like mine, which is not a thrill in itself – the quality of the voice – you have to have a strong story and really good words to capture people’s imagination.  (Songfacts.com interview with Bishop.)  

Wish I Had One-na Dem Willy Braids

Posted in country music, Dork Alert, Fame & Celebrity, Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Lipstick Shamaness, Mythos, punk rock, Rock & Roll, Spirituality & Religion, Star F*#ker, Style & Fashion, The wisdom of the universe, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by alphabetfiend

D’you hear the news about Willie and the missing piggies? Yep. He snipped ’em. Willie without braids? What is the world coming to?

 I had a dream around the turn of the millenium, amid all the doomsday mumbo jumbo, that the world was coming to and end… except that it was more of a Michio-Kaku-style metamorphoses or Fred-Allan-Wolf-type transformation. Like Wolf’s idea that the universe has been expanding ever since the Big Bang but will start shrinking eventually and… yea, anyway, back to Willie. In the dream, my friend Rita (a talented psychic) had a pub, where she’d called a special meeting for people who were supposed to help “save the world” (more like guide the world through its rebirth.) Rita was a fine hostess/bar-maid, taking drink orders & zipping around the pub in a pedal surrey with a fringe awning. (Real life Rita, in true shamaness style, was a childhood victim of polio. So my un-consc’ gave her a more fittingly glamorous wheel chair.) The pub had a frenetic bustling energy as people summoned their muster and opened their third eyes. Willie called the meeting to order. I wasn’t surprised to see him with the conch.

Whether savior or city-icon, this is BIG news here in Austin. In our neck of the woods we consider Willie’s smooth nape to be our business.

There was some initial speculation that Willie took to the say-lon so that he might save the gulf with a crimped contribution to the hair boom project. Thank Goof that wasn’t true! Don’t get me wrong, I used the hair booms as an excuse to take my baby wookie to the groomer and I felt righteous doin’ it. Hey, wookie’s  are fur-bombs.

I even have an appointment to see my own stylist next week cause well, we all gotta do our part.

I wanna believe in the whole hair boom thing and I kinda do. But it hasn’t been implemented on the gulf although I hear they’ve had luck in the past. I didn’t want Willie to have cut his braids for some bullshit thing we’re doing just to make ourselves feel better and justify wookie grooming.

The best reason for Willie to cut his trademark tresses is because that’s what Willie wants. Which was the case. I suspected as much. Long hair is a pain in the arse. I saw that infomercial guy on 60 minutes a couple Sundays back and he said he’d love to cut his stupid ponytail but can’t ’cause,  like sex, ponytails sell.

No matter. Willie’s the Big Kahuna whether he’s got braids or not. I’m supportive. Chopping off one’s locks can be an act of freedom.

I only wish that I could have just one of the famous plaits. I’d attach it to the end of a whittled birch limb, joined by a cluster of cardinal feathers and ribbons like kite-tails. I’d bathe the whole gris gris in silver glitter & Eshu spit. It’d be one hell of a talisman — capable of big and small majicks.

Willy! Gimmee gimmee!

If not to further my power as high priestess of tom-foolery, if not in sacrifice to the Saint of Red-Headed Step-Children, then it should go to The Country Music Hall of Fame. Or even the Smithsonian. Can I hear an AMEN?

Willie looks like he joined the cast of Gilligan’s Island but he’ll be much more comfortable in the heat of the Texas summer.

I wonder if Willie’s piggies tried to cry wee wee wee all the way home….

I Swoon for You, Mr. Balloon Man!

Posted in Goof & Glamour, I Heart Tricksters, Mythos, Technicolor Pop with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by alphabetfiend
The lo-fi cult band Dead Moon has a song/line which I consider to be the ultimate profession of love. Fronted by a real life couple with a long-last love story, Dead Moon knew a little something about affection.

 “I wanna live these times with you,” they sang, all throaty and jubilant and UP for whatever these times are up to.

Is there anything more loving than that, to want to live these times with someone worthy of the times and to say it just that simple? I wanna live these times with you. Cause these are exciting times and you, well, you make ’em even better. I strive to be a perfect(ish) playmate for these times and part of that is simply wanting to live them out. (It should be obvious, I know.)

There’s more to it. For me, these times have unique and interesting challenges…

    searching out shamanism in the modern (not new) age

           coaxing out the reluctant beauty in technology

                 running away to join a secret circus amid the ennui

                     finding diamonds in the dirt and heroes in the everyday. 

And today’s hero cum steampunk cum cloud shaman cum soaring circus clown is an American named Jonathan Trappe. Yes, America, Goof Bless.

Awaiting the scissors...

Jonathon Trappe wanted to fly. Oh, he flew! Jonathon Trappe wanted to be the child with a rainbow of hues tied to his wrist, taken along on an adventure by a bobbing bouquet of balloons. To be carried up up away like the old man in the movie. To drift along dream-like, a one-man Cloud Seed Carnival. Oh there were rainbow hues and bobbing balloons aplenty. Close to sixty, in a range of birthday party shades. Up? Check. Away? Check. Over the English Channel? Check.

That’s right, Mr. Trappe fulfilled his dream of flying 22 miles across the English Channel in a contraption that looks like it was parked by the half-eaten cake in Uncle Trappe’s back yard before it began to rise up over the smoky bar-b-q.

Hoisted by 57 helium balloons, Jonathan, 37, was comfortably aloft in a custom-chair as he floated across the world’s busiest shipping lane from England to France. Wow. Brings to mind those old steampunkish illustrations of hot air balloons set against the hustle & bustle of the modern age.

The American dare-devil reached over 7000 ft during the cluster-balloon flight, which was called “a goofy, yet mesmerizing stunt,” by The Hindu

Some folks say he stole the idea from the movie “UP” but this fantasy goes way deeper than than. Although the movie certainly adds to our culture’s interest in balloon-cluster flight.

As if my heart weren’t already aching with little kid wonder, the knife-wielding Trappe (after precise and perfectly timed popping) landed in a freaking cabbage patch. I little-kid you not!

OK… I kid a little…

Watch out for Mr. McGregor! He didn’t like Peter Rabbit playing in his cabbages so I doubt he’ll smile on you. Besides, last I checked the French weren’t too keen on Americans. Freaking “Freedom Fries.” That’s just all kinda wrong. Speaking of wrong, did you hear about Willie Nelson’s run in with the scissors? snip snip. Now listen,y’all, don’t try this shit at home. If you’re gonna cut off your trademark tresses, call a barber. If you wanna sail away in a helium-fuel lawn chair then do like Trappe did and get FAA certified to fly both Hot Air balloons as well as helium-filled “cluster-balloons.” Are you certified to fly giant bubble gum balls like a real-life victim of Willy Wonka? I didn’t think so.

In the mood to hear the 80’s song 99 luft baloons? Me too.

For more info and some gorgeous photos, peek in on Trappe’s site. To watch this suckah move, you should check out some video.

Blondie & Kermit Duet: Rainbow Connection (Sunday Punk Rock Gospel)

Posted in Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense, Sunday AM Punk Rock Gospel with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 24, 2008 by alphabetfiend

Lina and I were just talking last night about connections that happen in art without the artist’s awareness. The subconscious strings beads, the conscious wears a perty necklace. The knowing inside the oblivious. We both agreed that it’s our favorite part of making art. She with paint, me with words. I had one of these moments recently. The RobotBoy and I had a nice hazy smoke and broke into a mile-a-minute conversation about racism and homophobia. Big issues for both of us; life themes. I confessed to three brief moments of ingrained racism as a child, flashes where an adult’s fucked up toxic mindset had made its way into me and I had to then kick it out. But, I told RB, I’d never experienced a moment of prejudice about homosexuality and had this innate calm understanding of it for as long as I can remember. My mom always says it doesn’t surprise her that while not gay my life is a gay cabaret. She tells this story of me casually referring to a friend of mine as gay and she asked “Do you even know what that is?” and I told her in great detail without a hint of judgement. That kid, by the way, came out 15 years later. I do however have an attitude about gay people who are prejudice against themselves. That riles. On that thought I was led to tell a story about my aunt/cousin showing up in our living room and begging my Dad to save her from her terrible situation — she’d come home to find her husband wearing a mask with lipstick & eyeshadow, in a dress, being ass-farked by a man. Of course I was sitting there rapt, being the nosy and non-sheltered kid that I was. And of course my Dad helped her and of course she farked him over. He ended up having to evict her after she completely trashed the place he’d let her live. It took him weeks to clean it up and one day he parked a pick-up truck in the driveway that was over-flowing with ephemera from the lives of these kinky relatives. Being, again, the nosy and unsheltered kid that I was, I began to sift through it all with an archaeologist’s precision and he let me (even left it for days until I’d had my fill.) Was it the choice that most fathers would make? No. Was it the right choice for that kid who would eventually grow up to be writer-me? Hell yea! I poured over piles of love letters, deflated mylar balloons, teddy bears that were far too tainted for me to introduce to my stuffed animals and — Jackpot! — the creepy as hell translucent rubber mask with red lips and blue-shadow eyes. The fact that it had been taken with her to the new place and then abandoned with bears makes me think she was down with the kink and had played up her boo-hoo to win my father’s sympathies. Not that it didn’t suck to then be left for a man and cheated on and betrayed. I’m sure it hurt terribly, enough to abandon love letters in a house filled with cat turds. But that mask was not the trauma she claimed, that mask meant something to her though I’m not sure what. The mask was my trauma! No such thing will ever find its way into my boudoir and I’m the experimental dress up sort. OK, here’s where it gets kinda funny and little kid absurd. When I’d had my fill of voyeurism, the one thing I took away from the bed of that pick up was a 45 of Kermit the Frog singing “Rainbow Connection” (“It’s Not Easy Being Green” was the B side.)

kermit

As a kid, I had to take my music where ever I could get it. My entire music collection was comprised of a few records pilfered from alley ways on trash day and Columbia House rejects from when my dad neglected to check “no thanks” on the little card that announced it would be sending him cassette tapes by Huey Lewis, Kenny Rogers or A-HA. Thus my eclectic musical sensibilities. I must’ve listened to that Kermit record 100’s of times over the years and still have it somewhere. I sang a few remembered lines for RB and he says “Never heard it.” Never heard it? The computer was on my lap because I’d been working on my book before getting carried away with smoke and talk, so we make our way to youtube and hit play. And then it hits me — my own personal RAINBOW CONNECTION. Here I am, taking a break from the book, chatting about totally unrelated things, and ending up right back at the damn book. In  Pure Sweet Chocolate Sense, one of the characters is a cop with “blue sense” who experiences psychic visions of a girl’s body trapped in a mine and the girl is wearing a jeweled rainbow around her neck. All of the characters are dealing with “knowing” and with the feeling that there is something more to be had, to be known. My characters and their maker/writer. The lovers, the dreamers and me! I did not recall the actual lyrics or think of “The Rainbow Connection” in relation to my book but connections were happening beneath the surface and I remembered every word some where. Kermit was poking at me no doubt.

RAINBOW CONNECTION
Kermit the Frog

Why are there so many
songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side
Rainbow’s are visions
They’re only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide
So we’ve been told and some chose to
Believe it
But I know they’re wrong wait and see

Someday we’ll find it
The Rainbow Connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me

Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it
And look what it’s done so far
What’s so amazing
That keeps us star gazing
What so we think we might see

Someday we’ll find it
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me

Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices
I’ve heard them calling my name
Are these the sweet sounds that called
The young sailors
I think they’re one and the same
I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it
There’s something that I’m supposed to be

Someday we’ll find it
The Rainbow Connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me!

It’s the perfect Punk Rock Gospel for today because it has to do with the book and thus serves the gods of nanowrimo but is still a wonderful discussion of spirit and the search for something more. Plus Debbie Harry gives Kermie some punk rock props. Enjoy!

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