Stealing Home Base in Hanoi: Baseball Joey

Like some strange old kid with a grey beard he rode the train on Sundays to Atlantic Avenue but unlike any kid he went to pick up his medications. His mind was never quite right since Vietnam. Joey lived in the projects off Ave. W for the past thirty-five years. His hearing was partially blown during a V.C. grenade attack while out on patrol. As Joey spoke his voice had a tendency to rise to alarming levels but he was harmless. He had a real bad form of P.T.S.D., which gave him a jittery nervous twitch. He rubbed his head a lot and looked at the floor after saying something. He was completely calm and stable most of the time. Through his face you knew that he along with a generation of fellas got left behind in those jungles holding onto a whole world of shit. His smile was warm but it never really could hide the scars of war.
He loved talking baseball. Since he had come back home to Brooklyn so many years ago it was the last thing for him that made any sense in America anymore. He held on so tightly to that piece of his youth. It gave him something to focus on and it was its own sort of therapy. He could watch game after game season after season. He organized stats and kept records tracking teams and player careers. He was a walking talking functionally dysfunctional library of baseball. Through the years of doing this he had regained some piece of his humanity. It’s how he was able to connect with people. It eased his mind and kept the nightmares away. It brought a smile to his face and when he got to talk about a game or a player there was no stopping him. His excitement couldn’t be contained and some people got nervous over his explosive joys. But it was only Joey it was only baseball. It was his salvation, the saving grace for an old man who had found heaven and hell on Earth.

Dearly Departed

Release: The Death of my Grandfather


I have been fortunate enough to achieve greater understanding of life through death. At the moments when perspective and solace are needed I have found some comfort through knowledge and wisdom. With the clarity offered only through time, I am reminded that we will and must confront the reality of our mortal natures at various moments throughout our lives. Sometimes these passages can be abrupt and painful and a deeply felt sense of treachery towards life can incite a violent bitterness while other times the loss of life seems akin to kindness, as though it were a merciful act of love upon one by a mysteriously divine grace.

A few weeks ago I was fortunate enough to travel and meet with my mother at my Grandfather’s bedside in Arizona. The desert sun of late September still scorches the earth while the arid dry air burns the eyes. It was not a visit of pleasure but a pilgrimage. We made this trip not knowing what would happen. We were fortunate to eventually bring him home from the hospital and share precious conversations with him. We were lead to believe his life would outlast our previous expectations and were comforted in this new knowledge. Our times together were sparse and brief, my Mother and I spent a great deal of time alone together and with Grandmother. What did transpire in those conversations was of great importance for all of us and will be remembered dearly.

We left Arizona knowing things would get a little better before they got worse. In reality, it would actually be no more than a month before his transfiguration. Hours before his passing, I had a restless anxiety. I wrote to my mother to let her know I was thinking of her. My tension eventually gave way to an uneasy sleep. The morning of, during my commute on the subway, I happened upon one of many possible Jorge Luis Borges’ stories. This particular story was The Immortal. I had nearly finished it when my mother called me to tell me the grave news. I could not help but draw the comparison that man, though he wishes for the eternal, might indeed be more satisfied to live as we all do, briefly.

In the face of my dying Grandfather my senses were capable of directly confronting the eventuality of death but my language could not. I could not speak to my Grandfather as if he were dying though the reality was open and real. There was no need to speak about death while living, as there was still life to live. We had plenty of things to talk about and not talk about. We both could feel the silent waiting patience of death and chose not to discuss its presence. I think we rested knowing it was on its way and instead were comforted by each other while remembering the better days we had spent together.

My Grandfather William passed this October twelfth. The fruit of his labors and the Irish American surviving members of three descending generations walk among us. He lives on in living memories and will be missed.

10-20-10

Late Nights and American Muses

9/7

All by your lonesome waiting for the clock to strike at the midnight hour wondering, why? Why not sleep? You’re too tired to get up and too busy to stop thinking about it, so why not talk to yourself instead? The bottle of cheap red wine you bought at the Russian liquor store down the street that you’ve been drinking out of won’t save you now. No matter what happens you’ll still be a transplanted white suburbanite from half way across this broken dreamland misplaced like a peanut in a bag of skittles.

You were born in the country but never lived there. Yours is a world of fluorescent lights and store bought goods. Stand there tomorrow at your stove-top and contemplate the universe contained in the thin shell of the free-range chicken egg. Whirl your self into a frenzy and be mystified over Nina Simone and the wonder that is a halved grapefruit in sunlight. But for now in the waning minutes of this day, pinewood dust, the same color as your pale skin, is littered across your new apartment floor and arms sore from cross cutting on the miter box for what felt like the same time it took to grow the once majestic tree rests now neatly at your feet like fresh snow on Christmas morning.

Charlie Parker fills your mood of discontent over 11:57. Solo to a new low and swing back up into an early morning serenade but don’t forget to slow dance with your dreams on full moon beams streaming in like mp3 downloads off the worldwide void. Boom. The clock hath stricken and thy still awake.

Crash! The sound of beer bottles cluttered. Let’s dance together. Labor Day. Living a Labor Day life. This is your life.

There is no poetry that could encircle the slide guitar notes of Robert Johnson singing his tune about life in this great big American party.


You stand at a crossroads and look East and West. What’s it going to be junior?

9/10

Mind up in a bind while trying to find a piece to the pie. “Can I get a regular slice?”, two dollars and fifty cents to happiness, why not? Get it while you can. Keep it moving over hot sauce and fresh basil. Belly full dig deeper into the bottom of that bottle and find the ancient wisdom of old sages in fermented harmony with the universe. Roll back the kind wishes and start saving them for rainy days in this autumn season. They say winter will be cold and the women are covering up their toes in leather shoes and boots. Combat operations commence on the rainy days sure to come. It’s the end of summer-skirts, as overcast skies roll on till Spring.

11/29

Kick back Jack with that old indigo mood on parade. It’s just a smooth brush stroke or two to the point of being happy or not so make it happen kiddo. With the sweet taste of Mexican beer on my lips I listen to Mississippi John Hurt wound me in gentle song. He had the softest touch of all of them combined. He could kill a man with his delicate old hands on that guitar. We all have to walk that lonesome valley our selves. It’s just that when I started I took along with me a bunch of stuff to schlep for the trip to keep me occupied. I got a harmonica in one hand, a beer in the other, and I’m toting a wagon filled with a case of Tennessee whiskey, paint, and a wet canvas that won’t leave me the hell alone. Now if I'd a only brought some ice.

4-2-09

N. A.M. NYC.

Note-

A heavy fog has set in this morning crossing the Manhattan Bridge gazing Southward towards the Brooklyn, the city looks as if on the edge of the world. It just ends. The old stone bridge becomes the last and only crossing joining the two strange remaining islands on Earth. Then begins the light misty void extending into infinity as it swallows up all that it can off into a sublime unknown.

1.30.09.

N. A.M. NYC

Today you hark back to a time when you remember headphones being less popular, wait, when was that? You're too young to be imagining these things. You begin to regret their existence. A middle aged mother of two with raw yellow hide boots with a pink ipod sits before you jamming hard in the morning hour. Many people find it as necessary as caffeine to blast themselves and the innocent passerby's with sophisticated tastes in Euro-trash drum and bass madness. Electrical acrobatics. Theory: If one is to listen to 'young' people's party music then one must feel young. Life is a party. Your morning commute well spent. A conscious effort to hold on to youthfulness in contemporary life turned into bad habit. Thumping away into oblivion behind oversized shades of the fashionable variety.

A red bag in your peripheral vision is echoed by another site of a red wool coat and red clad ipod. I begin to sense a theme. A light blue eyed brunette with rain boots on a sunny day? Clearly an optimist. Purple leather Kors bag can go. Leather is not allowed to be purple, you say to yourself. If so, then McDonald's would have never existed because all the peoples of the the world would have joined our Hindu brethren in worshipping the holly cows. Luckily Micky D's exists, but what do you care? You haven't been to that Irish restaurant since their colors were green and gold. The Manhattan Bridge.

The misty morning city basking in the glow of the rising sun. Question: Are large rings a symbol of deep insecurities? Two women side by side, one with a large rock that could take your face off, the other, a modest band. Whom is happier? Roughly both these women are the same age possibly batting on different teams, but really. Rock lady is done up to cover, the other seems confident and natural. My attention is diverted to a sudden realization that large bags are 'in'. Hmmm. Also, are ironed and creased blue jeans a symbol of organization, care, neglect, or indifference to norms? It's too much to ponder. 8:45 A.M. Almost there.

1-29-09-

1.29.09. N. A.M. NYC.

New York City. Say it again slower. New York City. Never gets old. Or does it? Helicopter flying high over Midtown observing traffic developments on the West Side Highway and FDR drive. Police sirens, fire-trucks, cabs, trains, buses, people, cellphones. It's 5:02, time to roll on out of here. Make your way down the street to your train. Swipe it. Transfer at 34th St. Herald Sq. to somewhere. It doesn't really matter because your train line is unattractive no matter what time you ride. Once in a while a gem surfaces, makes bold headlines across your short attention span and fades back into obscurity faster then whence they came. The tragedy of a glimpse. A diamond in a passing train breaks your feeble reality and it's only 5:09. Women read a gold jewelry catalogue fully illustrated lusting over the gaudy lumps of yellow metal. Good, they leave. Off to spend. But what you ask am I left with? Alone in a packed train car of tired people after a long day's struggle. It's only Thursday. At least it's the same day for everybody. So then again you're not that lonely. A college student pours over her text book. The oppressive weight of an object of distant memory with their low budget design, awkward layouts and outdated graphics filled to the brim with stock photography and jaded illustrations from artists who used to have dreams and aspirations to attain much more. She hauls book and all away. Why? You ask yourself do all Chinese markets seem to use the red plastic bags exclusively. 5:51, you've reached your Brooklyn time zone. You notice Avocado green velvet track pants, you suddenly remember this is why you moved here. New York City, New York City. Living in the land of Kings.

__________________

Holding the train door open he stepped into the car laughing. His cousin followed. They chose a place to stand. Though choice is used sparingly, after all it is rush hour. He took off his fur-lined hood revealing an enormously large scar and pronounced veins in his forehead. As he smiled they bulged as if he was lifting strenuously. He wore an aquiline nose and a sinister smile. Proud machismo. His hair glossed with whatever gel suited him, tied back into a small tail. He glances about the car looking for what cannot be discerned. Chewing gum he rests against the do not lean on door. A large bag in hand, black and red with a shoulder strap. It’s been a long day.

1-29-09: Sushi and Brooklyn Car Vandals

1.29.09.N.NYC.AM

I took Katya out for Sushi last night. We hit our local spot and ordered a beautiful meal. Three ultra fancy rolls and one old stand by that’s our favorite. I ordered Edamame, Hot Sake and all. Our dish was served in a triangular format over the large white porcelain plate. Each roll was set in slight arcs making the arrangement appear as a negative space between three packed circles, or women’s underwear depending on your state of mind. We enjoyed ourselves very much. It was a D.I.Y. gift from my mother. I still needed to cash the check. Money is tight but I was not allowed to use it on anything other than enjoyment.

Sunday past, the car was smashed into. Ugly. The Driver side mirror, front window, and whole side panels were damaged. Luckily the car was drivable. It ran about 300$ for glass and a mirror, no note. Do people leave notes? “Hey man, sorry, here’s my info.” No. This is Brooklyn, Fuggedaboudit!  Needless to say my mood was in the depths that made things wear down thin between K and I. She is such a great partner and I am thankful to her for all that she does. More so than I may express or that she may realize. A pure at heart champion if you were to ask me. I regret lacking finesse at times of which her sensitivity and romantic heart demand.

The past few days and weeks have been taxing emotionally, financially and otherwise yet we are healthy. The past two evenings were very fun and romantic and we enjoyed our selves. This is addicting. I think we both remembered some of the important things. Love and tenderness. 

Birthday Blues

1.23.09 N. A.M. NYC.

Reflections on Yesterday

It was a relatively normal working day for me. I don't take days off for these sorts of things. Back track. Katya woke up early and prepared an enjoyable meal of biscuits and sausage gravy, OJ and fresh coffee. It was so nice to spend the morning hour with her. We even took the train together. The workday as mentioned was fine. A photography deadline for our March catalogue and lots of incoming property to sort through set a brisk pace for the day. I let out to a few here and there and the word spread. People invest a great deal of energy and excitement into these anniversaries.

Emails between mom and myself contained wonderful moments of truth and reality. By the time she was my age now, she’d already mothered three of us, and undergone knee surgery, endured my brother and his condition, a relatively fresh marriage and so much more. I was thinking of her and a tremendous amount of things that I began sensing were far beyond what I would be capable of dealing with as effectively as she had. She wrote to me that there was no need to compare the two of us in any way. We all are different and confront our challenges in the best ways we can. She expressed a desire to regain some of the strength of her youth but she reminded me and reconfirmed what I’ve been doing here, whom I’m with and how far I’d come. This was not without the emotional charge you could only expect from one’s mother. This dialogue left me with more to reflect on and I was able to slightly enjoy the day more.

For me the birthday is that of being more a mile marker of one’s mortality, the ever-fleeting nature of life and change as we age toward the inevitable truth that waits in the corner of the room patiently. It sometimes or mostly feels like this.

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, reminds one of the delicacy and precious precariousness of life which is at its base level borrowed time. A reality that let me enjoy myself last evening at the Blind Tiger Ale House in the West Village. Note: A blind pig, or tiger or any number of other names is an old speak easy code name for a bar.

6:30 P.M. was the marked time for arrival. My friend Aaron from work and I rolled down to the spot arriving real early to a bustling crowd of middle age men. The slow but fun realization of which settled in that this was not just a typical after work bar with a male majority on a weeknight. This became clear with several glances I caught from other patrons. (Train Note: Young woman in cerulean blue tights with red knit leggings knee high, black miniskirt and navy style sailor’s coat with knit beige solid hand mittens Union Sq.)

In short many friends arrived and we proceeded to have a grand evening filled to the brim with beer and then pizza near the Vanguard and further on to Reggio’s cafe which I was less moved by than it’s history. I picked up that tab from our party as a way to thank the crew for coming out in the cold night to play. (Train Note: Black suede boots with grey fur lining fringe. Same woman as before off to class according to her dialogue with her over charged class mate presumably.)

A first encounter with Sister Sparrow and the Dirty Birds

1-7-09 F. A.M. NYC.

It’s cold and rainy this morning and very hard to get up. Last night I was out with Katya and Alexis. An old Okie friend of A's from their High School days lives here too. A decent bass man as it turns out who sent along an invitation to hear his band. A real cool guy named Aidan. We set up with some drinks in the dark room at the back of old Parkside Lounge in New York's L.E.S. The band played super well. An 8piece crew with one chap out they still hit it hard with strong roots in Funk, Soul, Blues and Rock. The lead singer was a brown hair, light build, easy on the eyes beauty in a purple pleated dress with an open back halter-top. Arleigh's got chops for sure and if you don't believe it, she even had some moves that made the women’s heads turn. Red lights set a mood on stage and the grooves they were laying down were fit for a good time. I had a feeling while watching that I had finally found some people of my own generation that played music, at least the kind that I subscribe listening to.

When the band was setting up it took only a second to realize they were not a bunch of trust fund hipsters. These cats were authentic musicians that came howling from the great halls of Jazz, Blues, Reggae & Rock. You could tell all this by the way they blew a few notes, tuning away some colorful riffs into the room. The longhaired harmonica man looked like my father 30 years removed. He's the brother of the singer and cousins to the drummer man, Katya’s favorite. We had a grand time and I had a strong feeling we’d be seeing more of this group in the future.

Note: We had dinner near by at local place that ripped us off by $10 or so. A New York momment, you cannot charge $7 for bad chips and a readymade wholesale salty thimble of guacamole. This poor experience needed some remedy, which was found in a Japanese student run French style dessert place around the way. We enjoyed macaroons, coffee and a hot coco to boot. The macs, they were all good though maybe a half day old, chocolate, green tea, cherry rose and lemon dill. Interesting. After all the happenings and breaking out $50 to settle the score, we took the train back home to Brooklyn in the cold wee hours of our anniversary.

11-4-08

West Village NYC. -I am sitting in a crowded Manhattan bar with Katya, Vera, Aden. Drinking beers & wines we are discussing our voting experiences this morning. CNN news election coverage is blaring throughout the bar on all TVs. We are among the youthful robust crowd of college graduates, M.A.'s and others excited together over what we are witnessing. What we are sharing. History. Pennsylvania is leaning our way to crowd applause. Good lead with senate majority. Tide has finally turned. Grant Park Chicago looks so beautiful on the screen. The miracle mile never was miracle until today. Optimism is thicker than butter in this humid warm air. Smiles are abundant and hugs are passed along with the drinks. T-shirts, buttons, homemade and those from the campaigns. We remain somewhat cautiously optimistic however I think we are all ready. Then it happens, state by state- swingers are swinging. Tight races, we see projections, the lead seems unreal. Growing more by the minute as each state is cheered by us with thunderous applause. Our country is changing. PA., OH., FL., CA., - OBAMA WINS. A flash of type on the screen, all I can see is blue. We erupt. We hug and dance and kiss with strangers. We scream, we cry, New Yorkers are running through the streets. We are all running throughout America. We celebrate & we announce our time, our place in history. 'Yes We Can'. People smile at strangers in the streets and in the subways, I hear cheers on every corner, every bar and at every stop. In all the places we congregate we celebrate. The belief in our ideals our republic and our next president. Barack Obama. -- It's still hard to imagine this thing that happened today. Yet it happened. I happened to all of us. We all are in it. The air, the energy, it all seems different, familiar but far from it. I tell all my friends and family 'I love you all and welcome to the right side of history.' via text. Then I receive a full list of joyous responses. It happened & it's time to believe. 

9-26-08

Rain all night into morning results in slow start today. Late trains wet weather synonymous, lack of clarity in judgement results in fatal mistake of stepping onto car with fat loud obscene youths full of morning attention deficit disorder and whatnot. Perhaps lack of love and affection at home. Gains pleasure in public performances unsolicited and of lesser quality than worth mentioning. Is humored by abrasive style and friends support her efforts in youthful reckless stupidity. Lack of discipline and structure, respect and otherwise. A sad case of contemporary degradation in this urban habitat. Emphasis on habitat. Animals- just animals.

9-11-08

9-10-08.  Wine in copious amounts result in a night of goofy rambling and doodles in pages prior. Burgers and shakes in Madison Sq. Park. A dinner following an AIGA show. 9-11-08. A.M.  Train late this morning platform is full. Woman doing yoga or just stretching. The car is already full. No seat. Is this Thursday? I foresee more wine this evening in Chelsea. One of those days. 9-11-08. P.M. B-Train- No A.C. and delays as it crawls its lowly broken self on down to 34th. MTA. Eventually catch the N where several homeless men in army fatigues cause a ruckus and aromatic bliss necessitating a full out abandon ship at Union Sq. A light walk in fresh air should to you good. Much needed. This diversion in the commute results in a call from K. Jury duty is done, but wait, we must go to aunt and uncle's tonight. No Chelsea, no studio, no wine. "But wait, are we driving?" K. "Well I have to find the car." Visions of thievery dance through my head. The car apparently towed for a parking on a street under repaving orders. "It may be a few blocks away." (possibly). Still not sure if we're driving. I hope she finds it. Woman gives child loud obnoxious toy and encourages button pushing. Clearly by coincidence of outfit, perhaps no 9-5 allows for such fun and luxury. *Note: No noisy toys, O.K.? This has gone on way too long. Everyone around me agrees. Exchanging looks of mutual disgust. Wow. She is proud of herself. With a look of enjoyment. She likes it. Spiteful don't you think?

9-1-08

Q.P.M.NYC- Where do we place our ideals? Mine float on a 15 degree slope about 12 inches up from my nose. The genius is in the green hand bag. Black leather, the staple diet among American foot wear & fetishism. (periwinkle, herring) Will Century 21 have to change it's name in a few years? How many misses were made before they came up with a name like Target? Was the dart board really full or was it a cop out? The guy next to me has nails longer than Tina Turner's hair in Mad Max. People should want Alexander Calder sculptures for there children. They'll call it Calders for Kids, copies will be made, that way yuppies could collect them all. Train door leaning is O.K. Just stop before you enter the station and before they open. Pink shirt, red back pack, sneaks on to train.

Art Notes: Rectangles 8.08

The floating rectangles. They seem to be very much like projections on a screen. Projectors and images of that sort are large, light and sometimes heavy, they have interested me as objects and ideas since childhood. People project themselves in every act of looking, it is a way to prepare putting your body out into the world. As in James Elkin's The Object Stares Back, what is seen is not what it seems. Vision as it turns out to be is not a passive sense completely within our control. This is comforting. It means we can question, reason and question again. Even question the question. If we have an idea we project that idea out before it can be realized. These projections can take many forms both material and cerebral. My interest is in the aperture. The framed image of the view finder. A prerequisite to the moving image, we experience the world this way. Framed in a generous field of vision yet we have a narrow focal field. If I look at one building closely in Manhattan off the bridges I cant count the windows in another especially the closer I get. This I suppose is a built in editing mechanism that is engaging. It is revealing, in image making it can act as an obvious demarkation like the yellow National Geographic box. It can be made as a subtle hint of blocked out paint rolled over graffiti pieces on brink walls that is a shade too light or dark, but always slightly off. 

Spatial Reasoning

If I stand here and want to walk there do I not in some capacity imagine myself moving there? I project my point of view, my sense of body and effort needed to travel to that point. Only then do I arrive. Yet vision and sight are not entirely reliable. You need good feet.

7-10-08

Had a splendid evening gallery hoping with Jessica in Chelsea. Saw but one really good show that caught my attention in a crowd of others busy and not so. We, I guided our traveling direction through the crowd and out toward Nathan's place as we were our plans. Nathan, an Englishman who had a raging love affair for banter as he said, "Is the sport of kings". Conveniently this furniture dealers place was located in the proximity of the gallery hood, we walked over to his flat near the village. Nathan buzzed us both up for some conversation and cool beer. Much needed in the July heat. After one round and brief chat Jessica left for Willyburg. We're both fans. *Note: Nathan makes great noodles and has a fine English taste for the choicest rum. Guatemalan is the way to go apparently. Yum rum. Indeed. He is leaving work... I congratulated him on his new quest. And his girlfriend's new show in Philadelphia who was there at the time. Some certainly seem destined for better and bigger things. To quote another Brit buddy, "Onwards and upwards". It's N.Y. The cream of America, the culmination of the U.S.A. milieu. I like oranges, noodles, I.P.A. & ice cream is good too. If life has direction its good to know he's going. A means to an better end. 

Art Notes: 6.08

Centralizing the figure on the ground plane in medieval art and works prior i.e. neolithic imagery including later Celtic design, we see a pattern of vision repeat itself. One of isolation and centrality in image production we may use a phrase such as central point of focus. These organizations support a view of the world which holds up the hierarchical concepts of their authors. Vision and thought are at a separation and reunion of ideas & objects. The mechanical nature of vision gives us only an object and it must be in our focal point before we fully can interpret the information. In art this seems to feed the origin of the icon. It's centrality and separateness from otherness. As bilaterally symmetrical beings we are drawn to symmetry as we are drawn to balance. Most of the worlds languages are written parallel to our horizontal vision or in the very least follow a grid system that utilizes horizon and verticality in tandem. The ground plane and horizon being that which is aligned with our eyes. One could suppose we are laterally inclined, parallel to the earth visually while we stand simultaneously perpendicular to it. We build vertical doors so that we may enter through the middle. We build round man holes in our streets so we can exit the earth through their centers. We make theaters so that we can watch the stage. The conductor orchestrates from the compass point of the arc of his musicians. We enter the world through the center of our mothers wombs. Our eyes lie at the center of our universe.

Game-Papa

A father slowly realizes that he is out of touch with his young son who as a small boy may have smiled and laughed at his rich sound effects and back rubs in the past but now only seems emotionless. Without response barely aware of anything at all he sits hunched over completely absorbed by the 3 inch video game screen. I think the father is sitting there wondering and even perhaps regretting the purchase he had made to please his son. He is left alone to think of his own father and the conversations he had with him so many years ago. He now sits humming old Chinese harmonies to himself while the boy adjusts his glasses while both thumbs are caught in the button traps of the small device. This thing separates this father and alienates him from the very son beside him. The father appears to be beside himself lost perhaps contemplating the words to his music or what life was like as a boy back in China. He may be  hoping things will soon change for the better. He desperately seeks this son's love and affection and feels lost while he stares blankly at the small screen. Any conversation ends its meaning at what subway stop is next. "We're held here momentarily by train supervision- next stop 36th St." Game closes, boredom must have set in instantly, the world doesn't glow like it did before. Now is the time for father's jokes. They both laugh. Silence again. "Stand clear of the closing doors Please."

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