I used to be a writer. Now I’m a “content provider.”

Published in: on May 6, 2012 at 5:39 pm  Leave a Comment  

the first the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsite’z advertisement

Hello, welcome to the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsite. Get a space at the institute for very large art, coming soon to the new katherine gianaclis park for the arts. Four renters who want to do big art.

Or go hang out in large art row, where you can paint art outside against a very long and rather tall wall. Art is always best in camaraderie. Cool summer nights are on their way. Hot Artist Plunge.

Getting ready for burning man? Give Joey a call. Have we got a deal for you! Call now! Expert advice awaits!

Published in: on April 7, 2012 at 2:18 am  Leave a Comment  

The Second Literary Campsite

Welcome to the second literary campsite. I promise that it won’t be any better than the first, but I never promised anything about the first either. I get tired of competition and I’m not about to introduce it to myself as these damned missives to the world continue. You can go screw yourselves if that’s what you want.
Some time ago I got sick of being slick. I tried so hard to be slick for the sake of selling my words that I started hating myself. Now I just want to write and if it comes out as appearing slick (of quality) then that’s a good by product, but I won’t chase it anymore. It’s putting the cart before the horse when you do. That carrot ain’t so tasty anyway.
A lot of people know I’m a writer and they ask me how I can do what I do. Well, I would like to address that question here on the campsite today. First of all, for all of you who don’t consider me a writer, I welcome you to the campsite. Please stop reading now. For those of you who consider me a writer because I am writing now and you are a writer because you write I also offer you a hearty welcome, but writers are few. So for that one percent of you who are still reading because you are a manic word gobbler I will say this: I don’t know.
John Steinbeck, one of my favorite authors, said he had learned a lot of technical tricks on how to be a writer, but once he sat down at that blank page was as lost as anybody else as to how to do it. The process begs questions, unanswerable questions, to produce answers. What part of our minds actually does the writing? That’s a biggie because it asks you to look at your very process of thinking. That’s one that makes us lose fifteen years to the study of ourselves. If you pick up an addictive habit add five to ten years. To get out of it I went and got a graduate degree in a subject called “Mythological Studies with an Emphasis in Depth Psychology.” That added five years to my dumbfoundedness in addressing this question.

Now, having failed miserably in answering the basic question of how do we write, $30,000 poorer for asking, too, I come up with the same thing that your high school teacher came up with who didn’t get lost in the world of reality questioning, got a good stable degree, made 30,000 the same year I lost it: Writing itself is the answer. Put the seat of the pants on the chair. The answer comes in the process, the feelings you discover during the process, the uncovering of the mysteries.
The question cannot be addressed empirically unless you want to enter James Hillman Hell. This is a place where seeking types try to become scholars and yet the scholarship consists of believing that unreality has in its kernel, its core, the notion that it is just as real as the real. God is as real as Bread. The inner is as real as the outer. This is exactly what I believed as a child of an artist and spiritualist type mother. But you can’t just take it in. You have to forget you know it in order to know it. It’s all confusing and barely worth your time that Buddhist monks must say over and over for twenty years before they kick aside a pebble and for some reason gain enlightenment. In our society this is not practical. Trust me I’ve lost many very marketable years chasing after the answer.
In sum all I have to say about this particular question is “don’t ask.” Get a business degree, soup up your Chevy, get laid and please, find a pot to piss in.

Published in: on February 4, 2012 at 5:32 am  Leave a Comment  
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I Dream of Oceans

I Dream of Oceans

Man, 20s, sits alone at a bus stop. After awhile another man, 60s, walks up and stands nearby. Voiceover, live or recorded.

A little about myself, I thought that the world would go away today, but it stayed like an owl on my shoulder reminding me that I would know what I know tomorrow as well as today. These things must be reckoned with in some way or you will be chasing the wind and losing ground and most of all time.

It’s good to try and do new things that challenge you. I am a writer, but I am shy. Still, I must go out on readings and sell my book. I must accept the role of a public speaker (figure) if but for a brief time in order to hawk my wares. Mostly, though, hopefully, the experience will be a good one for everybody involved. All it is is what I did at the Carpinteria bowl but with my own work. I can read other things as well.

Other man enters.

But I always fall away. I never really want to do it anyway. Either the money doesn’t add up or I think that its just not worth it. Mostly I want to disappear and go sit by the beach. I walk too and would like to start boogie boarding again. Get in shape. Would like to live by a boardwalk too and ride my bike a lot. Get in shape. This seems the truly most important thing for my happiness. Longevity. Knowing that I give a shit again. Good sign and good karma (popular with the girls too.)

He opens a notebook and writes quickly. He mumbles aloud without being aware.

What I really want to do is:

Be by the beach
Preferably not too crowded
Find a career

Again, what do I want to do?

Go to the beach

What else?

Fall in love.

To fall in love by the beach?


He slams the book shut then realizes he was talking aloud.

Man: You’re an old softie
Yeah, I guess so.
Its not going to happen
Why not?
Because you’re not attractive
I will be if I am by the beach. I will get in shape.
You don’t believe me?
No, I believe you.
Then what? What should I do? If not go to the beach and get in shape and fall in love, then what?
I don’t know. It’s your life.
Well, you seem to think you know a lot about my life. As much as me.
Maybe I do.
You’re a thinker type, from around here probably, the college, something like that. Or you read a lot. You read everything. You think a lot but you’re never sure what you’re thinking about. You, nah, I can’t go on.
Well, what do you think about!
Me, nothing. I just stand here.
What do you think about when you stand there?
I think about Louise. She’s my wife. She’s trying to see about the tortellini tonight. She told me. Broke down and took my son’s mobile phone. Free, some special plan. Eh. I call Louise to cheer her up sometimes. She’s not sad, but she’s not as young as she used to be. She likes the tortellini. I didn’t mean nothing about seeing into your head.
I know. I get…
Yeah, confused.
Yeah, well, I think the first thing you figured is probably the answer. Go to the beach and get in shape and fall in love and then maybe everything else will fall into place. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

Bus comes. Young man jots one more thing down. Tape of the words.

I haven’t written a real short story in years. In fact, I haven’t written much of anything substantial in several years. I don’t know why I stopped writing. I know why. The world wert too much with me. Simple.

What to do:
Go to the beach, get in shape and fall in love. ☺

Published in: on February 5, 2011 at 3:23 am  Comments (1)  

The FKLC – Albert

The fklc


The Brighter Side of Existentialism

A short story by Albert Jones to be read on Thursday night at the Riverpark Theatre on the river.
7 p.m.Picnic lunch, bring the kids. Then watch the moon come up while listening to the rocking and fun sounds of Texa till midnight.

As always, absolutely free.

Everything ever almost sent

Everything ever almost sent
by Albert Jones


First of all, I’m tired of thinking about the art of writing as important. It is not important. It is pain. It is not to be striven after.
I am not a good writer and no longer wish to be one. I do however desire to be a truthful writer. Therefore, from this moment, the aspiring writer in me dies. I am re-born as a man with a different mission, other than the one who puts down for others the best combination of words.
The trouble with writing is that I never have anybody to write towards or to. This makes the act too solitary and slightly ridiculous if you think about it since at an acorn level I already know the entire unwritten story. It is in my latent emotions. Perhaps my very genes.
Bringing it to fruition is for you, gentle reader, and I’ve lived long enough to know that most don’t read anymore. I don’t know you and if I did I don’t think our communication gulf would be bridged by any attempt at words. I won’t slave for you and if I want money I’ll get a job. So why does my desire to write continue?
I sit without an audience wearing a label I placed upon myself years ago: writer. I am, by all accounts, a failed one at that. And yet I find there is some reason to write each next word. As if the words will take me to where I want to go. As if I know where there is to go. I think I know now that each next word is there only for itself. Each one is a particular designation, a pointing finger, a chalice holding truth. Each encapsulates in some way the untouchable essence of often distant emotions. Words en masse form landscapes of soul, thousands upon thousands of symbols forming mood and sometimes knowledge. The landscape is of the inner world. I am a child crying to be allowed to cry.
In the solitary place of writing, the inner moonscape where neighbors don’t exist, friendless is taken for given, cognizance of death is as common as that of life. All moments are as if listening to themselves. I sit waiting for realization, no longer expecting the almighty dollar for my efforts, believing that if there is a God he pays the writer in full at the time of creation.

And there is nothing to hold and say “Here It Is!” All attempts at grasping fade. Each emotive high an illusion. The words down, but the eyes again ever wandering for more of something not yet named. The bane of the writer: always wanting more. No outside world sways me. No inside world is believed in by a “single other human being.” We saddle our minds to ride, but are bucked. Our unities fall away dismembered and we see no reason to piece them back together again since we’d already seen them and taken note. That is what we do best: take note. But then the pain becomes real again because we didn’t “know” what we’d “seen.” The emptiness, the “void” becomes real again. We begin to write around everything that we thought we’d attempted to write about before. We write around everything which we believe is not yet born. With words whose meanings we barely know and we hope or we pray. Some believe writing is prayer. Maybe.
Some believe writing is a hope for dreams to become reality. This is obviously true. But we shouldn’t hope too hard for then we break into the worlds where we do not belong. Imagine a ship leaving a harbor with nobody aboard but never stopping. We can ride that ship in our imagination, lose ourselves to the swaying of the seas until when land appears again we do not know how to use our feet to walk upon it. We write, instead, in order to leave that ship, in order to grow up. We need out of the prisons of our hopes. We don’t want words. We want keys to open doors. We only use words. We seek to understand each word, but we want even more to know the world which the word suggests to us. We want golden palaces in the ether. We want blue air beneath us. We want dolphins and adventure and the forgetting of needing to use words as surrogates for our lives.

Published in: on December 3, 2010 at 4:24 am  Leave a Comment  


Two cavemen, a man and a woman, sit next to each other in a cave. They sit by a fire. Suddenly, the man’s arm reaches out and slaps the woman on the arm. She looks up from a bone she is chewing on and shrugs away and keeps eating. He does it again. She once again strikes back and continues on her bone.

Man: Aaaagh!
She looks up from her bone and at him.
Man: Aaaagh!
They stare at each other for a long moment before she goes back to her bone. They sit in silence.
Man: Aaaaaagh!!!
The man explodes, stands up, takes the woman’s bone from her and flings it.
Man: Aaaaaagh!!!
The man stands over her as she continues to sit there, boneless. The woman then stands and calmly goes and retrieves her bone. Sits back down and starts eating once more.
The man is disturbed, but does not react again. They sit there while she eats.
Man: Aaaaagh!!!!!
The man once again stands up and goes for the bone. She runs from him. He quickly catches her and he grabs the bone once more and flings it away. This time he has the woman in his arms. She flails wildly. He lays her down and stands over her.
Man: Bumba!
Woman: Ba!
Man: Bumba!
Woman: Ba!
Man: Bumba!!!
Woman: Ba!!!
Man: Bumba!

The man jumps on top of her and tries to take her clothes off. The two fight viciously rolling around the floor until the woman gets the upper hand by hitting him in the crotch with the recovered bone. He rolls off of her in pain.

Woman: Ba! Ba! Ba!!!

The man writhes in pain. The woman takes her bone and continues to eat in the corner. The man looks at her, but does not attack again. After a moment he stands and begins to walk around the cave looking for something. The woman watches him. He exits and returns a moment later with a small flower.

Man: Bumba!
Woman: Ba!

She takes the flower and tosses it aside.
The man scratches his head. He then quickly stands up and begins strutting around the cave like a peacock trying to impress her.

Man: (in a singsong manner as he struts around) Ah bah da bah ah dah bah bah…

He finishes with his arms on his hips and his loins thrust outward.

Woman: heeheehee.

Man (now angry): Bumba!!!

The woman senses the impending violence and stands up and begins to run away. The man chases the woman around the cave until the woman stops in a corner holding out the bone that has once again become a weapon.

Suddenly another man and woman enter giggling.. He carries this woman, lays her down and they begin to roll around in each other’s arms. Suddenly this other woman notices the couple in the cave and rolls away from the man.

Woman 2: Ahbaba ah ba na!

The two run out of the cave, but the man’s wreathed headband made of vines and flowers is left behind. The man goes to the headband and picks it up. He then once again begins to strut around the cave with newfound aplomb now that he is adorned with the fancy headdress. He once more finishes his prance with a flourish.

Woman: heeheeheee
Man: Aaaaaagggh!!!

The man throws the crown from his head and chases after the woman once more. He gets her and this time holds her as she kicks.

Woman: Ah bah na bah ah bah nah ba. Bah ah bah nah bah ah bah bah nah. Ah Bumba!

The man puts her down.

Woman: Ah bah nah bah ah bah bah.

She motions for him to walk to the other side of the cave.

Woman (waving him away) Ah bah bu.

The man does as he is told.

Woman: Ah banna ot a banu…ah, na…

The man reluctantly places his hands over his eyes and turns around.

She sneaks up on him and jumps on his back. He begins to do movements around the cave with her on his back. They both sing unintelligible words together. After a moment he drops her on the floor.

Enter Another Caveman

The caveman enters the cave in a fury, looks around, sees the cavewoman on the ground ready to go, picks her up and they go off happily together.

The First caveman sits on his haunches. Unhappy.

The couple comes back. The Second caveman drops her on the ground, turns and exits also in a fury.

The couple sit on their haunches together. Silent. After a moment, a cold cavewoman comes in and sits on her haunches. She doesn’t notice either of them. After a moment she notices them and especially the man who sits in silence for a few moments rubbing the dirt, making the second cavewoman blush. He suddenly leaps up.

Firtst Caveman: Aaaaugh!

He picks up the woman who squeals with laughter as she is carted off to make bumba.

The First cavewoman sits alone. Unhappy.

The first caveman comes back alone. He sits on his haunches. Silence. After a moment he leaps over and sits right next to her. After a moment he quickly reaches out and snatches her hand and holds it just looking straight ahead. The first cavewoman smiles.

Published in: on August 31, 2010 at 2:35 pm  Leave a Comment  

Excuse me, but Israel (and America), wake up…

Israel has been a lot in the news lately, my news. I am looking into the Gaza Strip situation  on the internet and am wondering why we as a country are supporting them with arms after learning of what they have been doing to the people of Gaza, treating them like they were prisoners. It is called Mass Punishment, but I call it a shame that we are helping to support it. No wonder the Arab world wants us to wake up and stop supporting the Israelis with arms. Give protection to the Israeli’s from slaughter if need be, always; to Palestinians now and Israeli’s then, in some nebulous then. They do not need to incarcerate an entire population because the mouse at various times attacked the cat.  Innocents killed randomly. Homes destroyed. Families. Go ask your average American family who Senator McConnell is,  they will all stare at you with the same way before going back to hitting each other and screaming from the kitchen. We’re all the same. We, Americans, are helping fund the punishment of children along with their parents who are Innocent! We cannot continue to fund this sort of corporeal punishment. It is inhuman and unAmerican.  Check out some people who are really trying to do something about the horrible conditions being meted out by Israel in the name of safety. There is a peaceful rescue flotilla going into Gaza as we speak. They are doing live updates. There is a chance that the Israelis may shoot them out of the water. Worse things had been done. freegaza.org

Remember, violence only begets violence. Knowledge is never meant to be used to destroy another human being. Vengeance belongs to God alone or no one. All we need here is a little kindness and a little wisdom. The Good Ol’ American Way!  A good start to “fighting” terrorism, too. God bless all of the countries in the world and may their strong keep their others strong until the wise people of the world wake up and move their fingers like a wand and say “enough.”

Rani- Jed

I remember the first girl I truly thought that I loved. Rani was everything I’d ever wanted in a girl. She was tough and bad.  She sang and played guitar. A screamer.  First time we met she was up on stage in this bar. She was just rocking up there, her blond hair flying all over, covering her face. Screaming. She’s jamming this song, going nuts when she just finishes and looks like she’s going to pass out. She’s on her knees, her face lowered, but her eyes looking out at the rest of us from under that hair, she’s panting, and just staring with this evil smile on her face and the next thing you know she mouths a kiss and it’s right at me. I knew that for a fact.
Yeah, that was the first time I met that girl and the first time I ever got the clap too. I thought I really loved that one.
But she didn’t know what she wanted.  She strung me along for about four months before her wiggly little mind ran off its rails and I got the boot. I’m not sure why I got the boot. To this day, I thought I had a chance to have real love because it felt like love. I worshiped that one.  But I started getting the hint when she started getting restless, not talking very much, getting bugged at me for just being, and especially, for loving her at all.  There are some people who can’t deal with people being in love with them. It makes them feel trapped. I guess in this day and age that sort of psychological state has dire physical effects, hence the clap that I got.
What was it about Rani? I guess it was the fact she was as fucking lost and rebellious as I was. But when it came time for it to be the basis for a long term relationship it just didn’t work.  She was more aggressive than I was and very ambitious.  I’m a frog, a root. I’ll sit in my world and dream and when it comes out on my guitar, in my music, it’s a thousand times bigger, but it’s still not as big as the original conception if it could be tapped in a truer form.  This is the case really because I think all of my music is attached to emotion laid so far buried inside me that to discover a song, and that is what I do, is like being introduced to myself except only in symbolic form.  Rani was a lot like me in that she had a store of emotion that she needed to release, but for her the only pure enjoyment would be to erupt, explode, lose everything outer about herself, every way that she has ever been conditioned by the world, family or even men.  She just didn’t want to live in a world that didn’t have the energy of a volcanic eruption.  Everybody who didn’t aspire to her criterion for what real life consists of was left behind, she hung around for awhile, but, to be honest, without the funds to really finance her desire for a thermonuclear pillow, any suitor was going to find it difficult to get close, to have her fall in love with him, which, she claimed, never happened overnight. I don’t think it can happen it all.  But that doesn’t matter anymore. Rani is gone.
But that’s over. I’ve mentioned her to Moxy and Moxy doesn’t have much to say about it.  She was in love once too before me, to a guy named Brad. Brad was supposed to be the type for her, but then she met me.  We came to each other across different worlds, but our true spirits were too alike for us to be with anybody else. I didn’t think I could ever be with anybody else after Rani.  I’d never felt so betrayed and full of grief. I thought that I would never find somebody so wild, so filled with life. I honestly felt like I’d lost half of myself when she left me.  But now I see this wasn’t true.  I got enough of my own wild spirit inside of me I don’t need to be looking at it all the time. Besides that wildness is really just me filling a need for worship. I know that sounds funny to say, but I believe that if man don’t worship something, let his spirit go wild over something bigger than himself then he’s got problems.  He starts worshiping himself or something. I put all that church energy right in Rani and then it was proven that it is not meant for man to put such loftiness upon a fellow human being. She did all the accepting of love from me.  That was my job. After awhile she felt too distanced from me.  She didn’t reciprocate.  She wanted out.
Rani is a drowned man. She looks out at the world through eyes that are covered with water. She sees though, sees most clearly, clearer than most, but to see she must consume something in the way of her vision, something that the rest of us wouldn’t assume would need to be consumed, the ether of our personality, the build up of what we had become to that point by virtue of who we had been with and where we had been.  When she looked at me off that stage I was looking at a girl who was flinging away so much of the shit that had been put on her by expectation that I thought I was seeing a type of goddess. The reality was that I was seeing the drowning man accepting his state of existence, a wisp of a soul, alive, ever alive, but dying slowly  with a ferocity of everlasting vision that penetrated and taught whoever saw it.  I can’t help but say that Rani was as myth-like as Moxy, but myth-like in a spookier way.  She really believed everything that she did with her personality, all of the changes she enforced, changes that would take me or you years she pushed through so fast that it made her eyes like deep pockets, the orbs within hollow yet penetrating, lost yet found, seeing but blind as a bat.  Rani Anderson was one of the most intriguing people I have ever known, but she never loved me and Moxy did and the funny advantage, the one advantage that I had never before experienced in a my relationship was that with Moxy, she actually loved me back.  I can honestly say that this made my relati0onship 1000 times, a million times better than that one with Rani.  I thought I loved Rani, goddammit, I have to admit it, I really did love Rani, but I wasn’t in love. To be in love you need two people. With Rani I was all alone.  It took a long time for me to really accept that and now that I do, with or without Moxy, I realize that I wouldn’t go back to her for all of the tea in China as they say.  The reality is that we cannot throw ourselves away like that. We can’t afford to be in relationships where both people do not love each other with an equal force.  I’m still a little sad about Rani. Who isn’t sad when they are thrown away by somebody they loved? Yeah, I still get a little sad sometimes, but I don’t tell anybody.

Published in: on May 21, 2010 at 3:35 am  Comments (2)  

from Babybirds

All thoughts were my own now, all choices my own. Since spurned by the world for something higher within me, I wondered about that something. I could feel it in me and now, being like a newborn babe myself, the only outward form that I had to personify it with were these mythical baby birds. It felt like the Man was leading me to my own soul. It was a flimsy, utterly silly mental construct on my own part, but it was all I had so whether I actually believed or not didn’t really matter. The idea of the baby birds lived in the soft recesses of my mind. The baby birds gently destroyed the rough edges of the world’s sad truths, which had slyly maneuvered me into nothingness. If I were to deny the Man his quest I would be denying the only gift that God, who I had barely given a thought to over the past few years, had shoved into my hand, so to speak, right when I needed it, right when I was going down. Not only that, I think it gave me something to do. I don’t think I was suicidal while sitting on that log in the desert outside of the park, but I was changing. Hatred was washing around in my head, reforming it into something I’m not sure I would have been able to change. The Man pulled me up out of a nosedive and for this, I realized, I was extremely grateful.

Published in: on July 29, 2009 at 5:24 pm  Leave a Comment  


Perhaps we keep each other up, hence the world, when we are kind to one another.
Put away your wars.

Published in: on July 26, 2009 at 4:38 pm  Leave a Comment