Melody At NIght

The landscape 

My

Mother

The landscape births me in this world of ceaseless noise...I return forever...sometimes triumphant...quite often defeated...I spill the words in a torrent letting them go...it's the only way I know how to become fresh again...like I did so many years ago....write until the rythym becomes real and the image says something...dwarfed by the magnificent tools that are available now they can be a curse, hanging you up with their excellence forgetting that it's about the word so I'm going to write my way to freedom...in a world where everyine is a writer, photographer, movie maker, movie star, rock star and everything else under the sun the one thing that not everyone has is vision...the vision sustains you threw the the storm...the vision brings you back...to be birthed in the lsndscape the visiion provides the endurance...so many blogs just die....like cable access shows...the producer doesn't find any fame or recognition and then wounded the would b genius saunters off leaving their would be masterpieces to gather dust on the web or an eternal repeat on cable access but I come back, vision in hand, in mind, in soul...and now utilize the tools that are here...the vast colleciton of images, sounds to be freely distribured..oh how we dreamed of such a distribution model back in the day....those dreams still ring fat pregnant real

And

I'm going with it...a vow to describe my eyeball to the end...the crazy eye, the mediocre eye, the tired eye, the ey brutalized by indifference and the big so what...but now to write past heroic noble pose...I ain't nothing of that...I write about mh mom in her underwear...I find that poignant...or to describe mediocrity...honesty gives the words power...true vision...dyanamic....and the courage to create decades into the madness because it takes courage....if your not going to sensationalize the text...add the flash to hook them in...because that's what they want...the flash the tintilllation...after all, everyone thinks their subjective dynmaic is the most powerful....why should they leave their narrative to pay attention to your lame view of the world...and it is there that sublime comes for me...old school analytics....

Water, light...the twin poles of my navigation....that image taken in brookly, now wealthy and over run but the show boght me there...and I think of walt whitman...he would have been down there...in his mad dreams...striving for expressioin....the new wealth cares not of history only its self entitled moment....their finanacialized wall street having stripped the workingman docks that once populated these shores....having decimated them in thier quest for more profit....but it will come for them...and if not for them then their children....the clock is tikcing...the american body has been left like a carcass picked apart my vultures...they blinded bu their hubris but I doin't come here to preach...that was Roger's trip...and that's a cop out....that's not visiion....the light on water...now that' s visiion...down by the once be docks cojures up a path to the imagination where I am free and exspanive beyond fashion....whcih styles so easily come and go...styles that have nothing to say....devoid of learning or any knowledge of the past or anticiapation of the future...

 

I can hear the train rumble in...the last one for the night....3 am....it's part of my landscape...my mental make up...lke the emersoniam dream that exists outside my front door and  behind the house nto the woods of my iamgination....

 

It is there in the woods with the melody, whcih tonight is aimee mann, but that's not important although her tone brings me somewhere special that only her tone could bring me...