Better than Hemingway or Faulkner

Being a film buff in Thailand can be frustating. But I found a street vendor in Silom neighborhood of Bangkok selling bootlegged avande garde and art films for 100 baht, that's about 3 dollars US.

We get maybe 15% of world film here in Thailand, art value, great screenplay has nothing to do with the films served up on Thai Cinemas. It is a matter of luck to see the great ones, and sometimes you can find them bootleged even if they don't make it to the Cinema.

Thai film is another story, very loud, like soap opera, with lots of flash, migraine headache stuff.

Living in a Thailand, a western film wasteland, you have to lower your film viewing standards. So in a downtown a Bangkok mall I reluctantly chose a film to watch, just to waste a couple of hours, called "Love in the Time of Cholera". I expected very little from a film with 'Love" in the title, but the idea of linking "Love with Cholera" was intriguing.

I did see the name Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I had heard of him, he won The Nobel Prize for Literature, but how do you take someone seriously that writes in Spanish? And the Nobel must have given Gabriel the prize because it was the year of Latin affirmative action, or because Spanish writers were hip that year.

English is of course the language of great literature, and maybe you could throw in a German for a the prize, a Gunter Grass or the like.

But great literature coming from a person who writes in Spanish, that's a second or third world language.

I entered the theater and after standing in respect for the King of Thailand, and the Thai National Anthem (written by the King who is a Jazz lover). I settled into my seat expecting hot Love and Cholera in the jungle.

What unfolded on screen was one of the most amazing, human, insightful , deep, wise, soulful, fun, magical screen plays and films I have ever seen.

I immediately went out and bought every book by Gabriel Garcia Marquez I could find in Bangkok, and am of the opinion that if I wrote for another 2000 years or wrote forever, I would never be able to write like this giant. He is better than Hemingway, Faulkner, comparable to Mark Twain and Tolstoy, but much more fun than Tolstoy. Reading his work leaves me feeling like a mosquito looking at a a literary elephant, awe struck, wondering how he got so big)?

Someday I am going to dig my way out of the hole I am in here in Thailand, and move to South America. I will fuck dark women with huge asses, great titas, long curly black hair and bushes to die for. Sit in in outdoor cafes day and night, read books by Latin authors , eat Coca leaves and drink coffee while savoring Bosa Nova riffs. This is my dream! I think I have one left in me maybe, if Thailand and the world doesn't kill me first.

Sleeping Colossus! Da Stuff Heart is made of!

"Seabiscuit floated along in a state of contented bovine torpor. Sleeping was his favorite pastime. He could keel over ( most horses sleep standing up) and snooze for hours on end. While other race horses at the track raised hell demanding breakfast, he slept long and late, stretching out over the floor of his stall in such deep sedation that the grooms had to use every means in their power to get him to stand up."

"He may have been a amiable little horse, but his career prospects looked dim. He was as slow as growing grass, he barely kept up with training partners, lagging along behind in happy ineptitude. "

Seabiscuit went on to become da winninist horse is history. His story is one of great heart overcoming mental and physical handicaps and patient trainers who took time to understand the sleeping colossus of a horse, bringing out the champ that lay waiting inside da Biscuit.

Maybe there is a "champ" in all of us really, maybe allot of us were knocked down by mean trainers or keepers, parents, institutions, jobs, systems or just bad luck. Certainly for those who have charge of or take care of others, a little tolerance, love and understanding can go a long way to pave a future.

The stuff of Seabicuit is the stuff of big hearts and cruelty! Man on the moon size hearts and cruelty. If you look at the day to day dynamic of the human and animal world it is gut wrenching. The cruelty and insensitivity, people to people, people to animal, it is enough to fill Niagara Falls with tears. And on the other hand, you have all of the nurturing and caring that goes on in this world, maybe in the future kindness will replace cruetly. This is the stuff that heart is made of!

The quotes were taken from "Seabiscuit, A American Legend" by Laura Hillenbrand

Carl Sandburg, dated, but at the door of new stars!

Washerwomen

The washerwomen is a member of the Salvation Army.
And over the tub of suds rubbing underwear clean
She sings that Jesus will wash her sins away
And the red wrongs she has done God and man
Shall be white as the driven snow.
Rubbing underwear she sings of the Last Great Washday.

Grieg Being Dead

Grieg being dead we may speak of him and his art.

Grieg being dead we can talk about whether he was any good
or not.

Grieg being with Ibsen, Bjornson, Lief Ericson and the rest,

Grieg being dead does not care a hell's hoot what we say.

Morning, Spring, Antira's Dance,

He dreams them at the doors of new stars.


If I was Oprah when reading ole Carl Sandburg I might say " go boy go"!
Help route this burdensome journey of mine, with all of its aches and pains to the door of new stars supreme!

Lying in Media, Industry, Church and on your own!

Today I wrote a comment at E Online in reference to a story about the Rolling Stones switching music labels. I basically said I have been a fan of their music since the 60s. But as far as Rock Bands in general, fuck em (self censored using fu*k), Aerosmith, The Bloody Beatles, any of em, who cares! a bunch of androgynous minstrels performing for your benefit when you tune in, little puppets on stage. And from my end, without much pay going their way. Since I have bought bootlegged DVDs for the last ten years living in Asia.

I then went on to say what pleasure I get out of pimping Rock Bands and the Record Executive pussies (using pu*sies to self censor) out of their royalties by buying bootlegs. E Online took the comment off the page as they censor most of my post. E Online is hardly a forum to pimp the Recording Industry and brag about buying bootlegs!

Another thought on censorship is in reference to a story told by Peter wolf about Keith Richards, how he pulled a Bowie Knife on a DJ playing mostly Disco and not much Rock n Roll at a party in the 80s. He was right to do that, but he is Keith Richards and I am not, so he can go uncensored through life (I know I have done more time than him). Bands like the Stones fought against censorship and look at em now, pandering to superficial social rags like E Online.

Sometimes it feels like history leads us nowhere, it just doubles down! So cut down the mother fucken Cherry Tree Abe and do yourself a favor, lie about it, cause if you can't lie you will never make it in America or the World for that matter. Even the Pope is a good liar, he bends Biblical Truth to benefit the Church right? And the bloody tent preachers in America, Billy Graham, Jerry Farwell and that lot, total bullshit, total grap, turning good people into Ugly Americans to make a buck. Predators praying on fear. The Liturgy of Lies goes on and trust me it's endless.

Just a personal note here* Even though I haven't lied too much that I can think of, oh maybe I bend the truth once in awhile. I do buy bootleg, so that makes me just as bad as any of the bad guys who lie (I know what the truth is, it frees me). I am worse than the liars and like it, I am shameless and without guilt or remorse, I can screw my brains out all night long on crack with a crack ho, and wake up and go to Mass (just kidding there, just a "Bad Lieutenant" movie fantasy/dream) . Screwing your wife or long time girl friend involves much more lying than screwing a crack ho. And it sure as hell cost more! There is allot of lying incurrent in traditional button down screwing, screwing is all about lying on every level, and is a bootleg proof industry.

Watching Jim Cramer last night on CNBC railing on the CEOs of City Bank and Merrill Lynch for being a bunch of fucking liars. Saying that he could car less if he loses his job over it, and that he was sick and tired of watching these people lie. Cramer went totally off the edge, falling off his chair (I loved it because that kind of behavior is so rare with the button down geek set).

Jimmy Cramer, GOD BLESS you son , you are a true American Hero! The Rodeo Clown of Wall Street!

Bumble Bees and Baseball Glove Romney

,, Bumble Bee Days


The bumble bees clammer on the saw edges
of gladiolas.

Lemon-rusty honey bees drone in the ears
of hollyhocks.

Two leaves of a poplar drift among the
watching asters.

Carl Sandburg


I gotta tell ya folks about the empty feeling I get when one of the "league of clowns" running for President of the United States, Mitt (baseball glove) Romney prostitutes himself to his own constituents, lies to the jobless to better his own lot " we will bring back the jobs in Michigan if I am elected!" Both "Mitt" and the jobless who believe his lies deserve their fate. Mitt will be blown out of the race by next week, and the jobless will stay on Welfare watching their wives get fat on handouts amd bio genetic food substitutes.

Dear jobless in Michigan, don't believe the hype, just wait for the spring and focus on the stuff of life that will calm you aching heart; bumble bees, gladiolas, aster and hollyhocks!

Maybe thinking about Bee Keepers and field Hippies in clover and poppy!


Look to the truth of Woody Guthrie, Paul Robeson and Carl Sandburg!

Touching the Sky

Visiting a Cha'n Master Among
Mountains and Lakes

Like Hui-yuan fostering Ling-yun,
you open the gates of Ch'an for me;

here beneth rock and pine, serene,
it's no different than Glacier Peak.

Blossoms pure, no dye of illusion,
mind and water both pure idleness,

I sit once and plumb whole kalpas,
see through heaven and earth empty.

Li Po

Ole Li Po, saintly wino, breathing mountain air and touching the sky.
A bit of Gary Snyder up in Big Sur bathing in a hot tub fired by spruce,
Or Dylan Thomas falling down drunk in snow through pine needles.
Maybe Mick Jagger reciting Browning in Chelsie Park, singing Mary Jane.
And Allan Ginsburg reading Howl for the first time in a basement on Grant St.
As well as Jack Kerouac with his head twisted into a bulb radio, speeding through the universe, criss cross yogi, listening to Sun Ra!

How in the hell can I get back to kalpas, blossoms pure, Mary
Jane, pine needles, Big Sur hot tubs, Spruce, Sun Ra?

Even I can remember sipping Stoli in Central Park, on a mountain top, infinite, tasting cool air, sheltered, rich, broke, touching the sky!