The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite – The Inner World – Joey Kantor

Welcome to the inner world. I used to think that I wanted to be an expert on the inner world, went to college for an esoteric inner world degree, wrote words, read books, did everything you’re supposed to do to come to know the inner world. But I can honestly say that I know absolutely nothing about the inner world. With this disclaimer, I will continue to be your guide.

You might ask me why I would want to write about something that I know nothing about. Well, there is really very little else that interests me. It is like fine music, you hear it, but you don’ t know why you love it. I always wanted to know what I was doing when I was dreaming, but it just didn’t work out. After all of the books and all the study, after all of the writing where I journeyed into the inner world, after all of it, I am no closer now to knowing what it is about than I was at the beginning of my trek and this is, well, actually a little embarrassing.

Yeah, embarrassing. Who do you know that spent $30,000 to learn about the inner world by studying mythology and depth psychology only to say these pitiful words about knowing? What is knowing? Sure this is a question that many philosophers have continually tackled and this could be advantageous to the rest of us if we could actually muck through their explanations. Who really has this question in the back of their mind?

Very few people. Not many people sit around wondering about the nature of knowing. When I tried to join the pros I always failed miserably. My questions were my questions and their answers never really did it for me. If I tried to memorize their answers then all I really had were memorized answers. They weren’t the answers to my own questions and my own questions were, I think, much more private, wordless, unconscious.

But like a good fisherman I tried to pull up out of the deep murk all of the answers that I could. I had the impression that the inner world was the same as the outer world. Big mistake. It is nothing like it at all. YOU, the all big YOU of YOU-dom (you know what you are and who), think these same thoughts all the time. You too find it hard to put any of it into words and if you’re like me you want your thought to be eloquent at least, perfect would be fine, like having the highest quality mental state which can only lead you to good things, easy answers, knowing the ineffable. Doesn’t happen. Once you learn something it is swallowed back up by unknowing until you don’t even know what the question was. After all is said and done the old pleasures and needs seem the most reliable. I should have had a family instead of dedicating myself to spiritual pursuits. No, I really should have.

But I can’t sit around and cry over spilt milk. I was taught that the inner world is important and I went down a winding and windy path only to discover, well, nothing. I don’t know anything more now than I knew at any other time of my life. This may be untrue if my mental stability is a sign of having conquered question after question. Knowing became for me a way to be strong and if strong now then I can take comfort in knowing that all of my attempts were not in vain. I am here because I ventured towards the inner world. Just because I cannot see anything of the inside world doesn’t mean that it is not there. It can only be seen through the outer world. Go figure.

If I am to know then I can only know through the reflection of what is in front of my very eyes, for the inner world is invisible, dodgy and unknowable. I think the inner world is what people are talking about when they talk about “God.” God is unknowable. Too vast. Too grand. Too fill in the blank. A flower. A feeling of love. An example of love. You can call God just about anything, choose any nice picture or feeling and you’ve got it. The inner world is the same way.

I could not begin to talk to you about it right now. I guess I could tell you about feelings. They are supposed to be the telltale signs of the inner world. You feel love and the inner world is “blooming,” a metaphor for a state of being using the image of a flower. There it is again. The inner world being described by the outer world.

Why does the outer world always have all the fun? Why can’t we just call the inner world “things” what they are? I suppose that is what poetry tries to do. Finagle words around feelings in the hope that you will show something that will prove that higher thought, an actual wonderful inner world,exists, that there is something under the feeling, the image, the thought, the poetry, and that something is either “you” or “God” or simply the inner world.

Fantasy. It is a need for fantasy I guess. I want to live with invisible toads in something something gardens. I want to mess stuff up, let errors reign so that the invisible world can be exposed as faulty. That’s okay just as long as it is exposed. There is something to that I think. Letting the real inner world poke through. You tend to think that this is the real thing. Just maybe you will find a reason to live. Not that I don’t want to live, but meaning is so important to everybody. Beauty in one’s own soul may just be a proof of meaning as a human being.

I get lost just surmising what the invisible world inside actually consists of. Perpetually the phony. Never have the full on conviction like the others that things are this way or that. Always have to use asterisks to explain everything, have to say, well, I don’t really know, but this seems like the way that it is. I know I want to try and pinpoint these things, but once you bust through and start to use poetry to do it then you are sort of lost. It’s sort of like giving up. But the poetic voice does seem like the truer voice when you are writing about this subject.

How can you know about the inner world unless it tells you about itself? This is assuming that there is a self to the inner world. If so, is it your self? My self? Is the inner world all of the swirling emotions and thoughts surrounding your very core which is just a swirling mass of unknowability? Probably. Sounds right. If so then what do I continue to write for? Seems inane to keep going. But if this were to be a book I would have to continue on and on. My publisher would demand it. So what would I say? The inner world is shown through metaphors from the outer world. Enough. Done. The inner world is a mass of thoughts and feeling which represent the moments of the real ineffable you. Or maybe God. Hmm. Back to being unknowable. So I will continue onward with the trek and find new things to write about. Poetry. Always falling back on poetry.

What is this thing poetry? Most people would say it’s purty words. Others would say it is hyper intellectualism. I guess it can be both of those things. It is definitely an exercise for the mind which is supposed to have importance to the soul. (I guess we’ll get to the soul later. I guess we’ll have to). Obviously we are not very pleased with things if we don’t have some way of registering understanding. Words do that for us.

When you discuss invisible things you of course must find words to express those invisible things so you say things like “the monkey face of the aqua worlds twirl grasses in the welknit of the mind…”you know, crazy things. Why? Because you don’t know! You don’t know what you are doing. You don’t really know of what you consist. The thrubbing and pounding of feeling but not knowing can be way too much for mortal man. The only way to throw off the coil is to face it and come to know it, but when you look, you guessed it, it’s not there. That’s what I mean about the inner world being dodgy. It dodges forever your attempts to throw a good beam of light on to it. Instead it releases little messages to you in code and your brain has to decode those little messages and sometimes it is “aqua worlds twirl grasses in the welknit of the mind.” No really. I really mean it. Then you must decipher that code with another line. Perhaps it can be done. All I know is that you don’t really have much of a choice. You’ve got to do something to come to an understanding of the whirlpool which is your “soul.”

So here we are where I promised you earlier. We’re at the notion of the soul. I could try to remember all of the people who had written about the meaning of the notion of the soul, but being a desperate member of the human race in need of understanding Now, I will not google those things. Instead I will tell you what I think.

The soul is the quicksand in which you drown when you are confused. The soul can be darkened like a burnt piece of toast. The soul can be drowned in all sorts of bad metaphorical liquids, the soul can be burnt up, can be on fire. I’m just guessing here really. But it seems like the soul can do just about anything. The soul is the center of the middle of all that is mysterious. It is where God has coffee with the invisible inner world which is you (but because can be considered a place where God has coffee is possibly a part of God Himheritself.)

Have you noticed that it’s really difficult to talk about the concept of “God?” Have you noticed that yet? Especially as somebody writing to an audience like I am right now. I know how people feel about “God.” But I hate having to do that dance. “God” is simply a part of the equation when it comes to soul and the inner world. Hesheitother is just there like an answer beyond an answer. It is the million trillion mile perspective. The notion that inner world is so inner that ever trying to get to the bottom of the notion with our peanut minds is absolutely ridiculous.

Maybe this is why I have such trouble with this whole inner world thing. I am faced with the idea that at the very end of the line itself is “God” Hesheitorother (according to the beliefs which might make you mad at me if I put it in too awkward a fashion). I don’t know. Even agnostics deal with this. Atheists don’t, but then again, why would they have to be atheists if they could not at least conceive of the notion? It must really drive them crazy, plus all the crap that has entered the world through saints and martyrs and prophets, the loons anyway. You get one good prophet for every twenty loons it seems so you wonder whether any of it is worth it. Atheists have a good point. Let’s just call the whole thing off. But if I am to go into this notion of the inner world I can’t do that. “God” may just be looking over his paper at me right now and I have to say the right thing.

So what to say about God? He lives in the soul. There I said it. If Hesheitorother actually lives then Hesheitorother is housed in the soul. That is the importance of the soul. The house is bigger than the self and the sky where “God” lives is bigger than the house and God can make himself really small and join you in your soul where your inner world lives, I mean self, where you live. You, soul, and the big ol’ Sky.

But of course all of this is invisible so you don’t know who you are in relation to the soul or God and after awhile, well, you guessed it, you try to figure it out poetically or you read book after book or you keep your nose in your holy book in hopes that it will keep you alive through osmosis. Invisible is invisible. “God” doesn’t send emails. Your soul house is a nice little idea and you, once again, are a swirl of emotions and thoughts that will only really let you know what they consist of if you beg them nicely by placing them into words, rather, allow them to be placed into words that sound like, you know, the grasses of the welknit thing.

Isn’t it funny how knowing becomes unknowing in a blink of an eye? We can say that we know something, but the next minute we realize we have no idea what we’re talking about. We might go around for awhile proclaiming that we learned something about ourselves, but then it doesn’t even matter. We’ve moved on. What was the question again?

After awhile, especially if you are losing on the regular playing fields of regular everyday life, it seems to be a nuisance. You wonder why you have to be cursed in thinking the way that you do. Nobody else seems to be that way. Of course, other people also seem to be able to handle the outside world, but you can’t. Your inside world is too vast, too important to you. So you begin to fail. You lose. You can’t join the fray and after awhile you realize that you are sleeping on the ground with a stone for your pillow. That was once claimed as likely to happen for playing this game. But is it really worth it?

Perhaps it is if you are the type of person who might go a little batty if living any other way. Sometimes we have to deal with who we are. Our attention is where it is because that is where it is. Because it is where it is doesn’t mean that we are bad or unworthy or losers, no, but it does mean that it is where it is at and you might just be a candidate for the role of starer into the void your entire life. That’s okay, but you’ve got to be aware that maybe it won’t be all peaches and cream for you. You’ll keep going for as long as you need to and one day you might wake up and realize that you have grown a long beard, have no money, no family and everybody else does and they’re all long long gone. Boo hoo. Navel gazers or star gazers. They don’t know which one you are and you don’t either. You are just who you are and you’d better accept it because at some point you are going to need to pull out of it and go back. Just like the Boddhisatvas in the Buddhist philosophy. Do it and then go home. Give yourself a break and be an all around good guy or gal. That’s your mission. It’s unfortunate in a way because you miss out on a whole lot of things, but some people just don’t have a choice. Often society will reward these people. Maybe it will be you. Most likely not, but maybe. Maybe you too can have love. Stranger things have happened.

Published in: on March 9, 2013 at 6:35 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite – Albert

Welcome to the world that I know. Am I alone in the world or just alone now? When every thought must ring of some philosophy then that philosopher is living wrongly. Although pleasure should not be the end all of existence, a pleasureable moment should be expected, a breeze, he sounds of birds chirping, the passing over head of an airplane. Too often these sounds make us sad if we are all alone. Loneliness is the biggest problem. That and misunderstanding.
I have spent all of my words. A word has become a dollar to me and I have spent them. And yet I have received no compensation. I have let go of these dollars and allowed the words to remain. Surely words must have some value inside of themselves, maybe even more value than if they were paid for which I no longer for them to be. So now that I have back the useless, monetanetary free word what do I do with them? I suppose they can bring back memory. If I feel that by writing them I can go back into memory and revisit feelings from my past then maybe I will bring back some of that to my life. Those words are valuable because they can present emotions and feelings that money couldn’t have bought anyway. I guess letting go of the hold of the dollar upon my words could have a lot of positive effects. I’m sure, though, that the next time I start to write” seriously” that money will grasp the throat of my words once more and I will lose all joy. I am a failed writer because I cannot help but want to turn the words into cash. I am impure. I am desperate. I am inauthentic. Inauthentic words do not sell.
Maybe some day I will be lucky and have somebody read my words and, although they won’t give me money, they will read them and get something out of them. I am not talking about what I have written in the past. All of that is tainted by my desire for success. I am talking about my future words. Maybe somebody will read them and feel something. Maybe somebody will even pay me for the words, but I won’t have received the money because I was writing for them, but because it was an accidental repercussion of having written honest words. By saying this I presuppose that I am capable of writing honest words. I would like to think that I am. I admit that I am a writer but I have very little to say. I write mostly of moments. I write of where I am at the moment. In society nothing changes. I have no interest in writing about the moments of society. I have no interest in writing about the hysteria of modern man and throwing my two cents in and acting like it matters. It is all a flurry of activity like a bees hive. When the uproar has passed the bees settle down. I don’t need to be a bee. I would rather contemplate on the state of my existence. I first recognized this when I was a young writer, sixteen, when I noticed the way of things. I noticed the breezes, the temper of an afternoon, the sounds of distant dogs, the squealing of children and the silence. That was when it seemed that the spiritual had more sway over who I am than this car manic perplexity we call society ever gained victory over my soul’s needs and fears. I was purer then. I had not given up. I had not transferred my words into slashed s’s, I had hope that the words that I created mattered.

Then I saw the way society takes ( or doesn’t take) our words. I looked at who the stars were, the sixteen year old sex-pots. The wise eyes of seventeen year old heart-throbs who pretend to be saving the world when all of those over thirty have dropped off the face of the earth or at least lost their significance because they could not give the impression any longer of being Barbie’s dream date. Back then I never hoped that I woulde be one of them as I do now, sitting here, realizing that the bee swarm dictates whether or not I am a fruitful member of society or not. This is especially hard knowing that I have a desire to produce a family, to continue my trek in the manner it is meant to go. Having failed to sell my great American tale of love, daring and angst all to be played out in the hip mind of a young American male I sit here and what I think of can be thought of in terms of others, others much different from those who rule the world now, those who the world forgets as soon as they are forced to stop thinking about them: Thoreau, Gandhi, even Christ. In a world where man is not living on bread alone but on every word that comes out of the network’s mouth I feel a readiness to pull back from the electronic words and re-enter the soft spaces, the quiet spaces, the spaces where I used to feel. Where I didn’t ask so many questions of my worth according to mhy profitability prowess or lack thereof. Words, failures of transmissions, emptiness, these are pulling points for those of us who need to be extricated out of the morass of mass communication, those of us who bought into the hype of selling words for fame and money. Those of us who sold out I say forgive yourselves. I’m going to. Now, maybe I will be able to write, be published, maybe even be paid someday, but never again will I strive for those dollar signs if I have to gut the integrity of the words that originally were held so sacred by my naive yet wiser younger self.

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Published in: on January 25, 2013 at 11:37 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Really?

Really. Really. Really. They say it isn’t the thought, but, think about it. It Is the thought. It is the very thought of the very moment of the very real you of NOW! It’s all that matters and this isn’t a new age tract. Now is the moment that you hold as you read these words that I wrote then, another now, one for me, but now for you. That’s the way writing works. Face it. You are reading. I was writing. Who knows what I’m doing now, but I know what you are doing. I totally know what you are doing.

So where does that leave us? Is it unfair? Of course. Why? I don’t even know. It just seems unfair. Why or how can I leave you with these thoughts, this thought that is, and not even be present at the moment that you take them in? I guess you wouldn’t want me to be there. I guess you don’t really want to know me. Do I really want to know you? It’s hard to say. Maybe. I feel I know a lot of writers that I like. The problem here is that you don’t really consider me a writer that you like but just a writer who you are reading at the moment. Still. Where am I in all this?

I’m away. I’m gone. You ask me about what I wrote and that you read, this line here, and I will say, ah, well, that and this and this and that and that and that and this and you will smile or laugh or take it in and soon all will be forgotten. You live with your thoughts in your moments and that is all that matters.

Published in: on December 18, 2012 at 10:39 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Poem – Albert

Poem-Albert

Needing to know beyond what knowledge,
needing not me,
lays down like rags before me
I feel again instead of see.

Having always seen, always supposedly known,
knowledge anew tells me I’ve not but been tethered
to a big brown ball lowing groans and smoking,
rounding the linelessness of what-might-be illumination,
sun gowned, maybe, real perhaps, or just mimicking
the word beyond the word where the word supposedly lay

at which destination I cannot see anyway so I don’t
instead deeming it right to feel only
watching not watching while the gazeless codes enrich me,
and feed my blindness something of something
at least to the point of wanting hence feeling.

so I smile at the absurdity of longing
to know the meaning of to know

Published in: on December 1, 2012 at 2:08 am  Leave a Comment  
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Query Letter (never sent) – Albert

Editor (XXXXXXXXXXXXXX)
XXXXX madison avenue
new york, new york

January 21, 2012

Joey C. Kantor
Fargokantrowitz.com
Thefklc.co.edu.eu

Dear editor,

Has love been abandoned in American Christianity? Let me explain my personal conundrum. I am a 47-year-old writer from Las Vegas, Nevada. In 1973 my mother opened a store called Alpha Omega Bibles, Books and Art. My mother became “born-again” in 1973, the same year she opened the store. When Jesus’ love walloped my mother, boy, did it hit hard. I grew up with a mother who praised Jesus all day long openly. She was a beamer, a woman who shone with the love of the rescuing power of Jesus Christ. Hence, being 8 years old at the time, I was introduced to the Christian religion. I was immediately saved, of course, and Jesus took the place of my saying my “word” which was a part of the practice of transcendental meditation that my mother had been involved with just the year before.

It became Jesus Jesus Jesus. Jesus loved everybody. I mean everybody. He loved His enemies even. When people got mad at Him for telling the truth for some reason they actually put Him on a cross, hung Him there to die, and He still asked God to forgive them. He had a lot of patience, this Jesus. There are many more examples of Jesus preaching love in a way that most people would find difficult to follow. I learned them all. Because Jesus was such a nice guy I thought nothing of being a Christian too. I prayed and took the Bible seriously. It was all good until my first bout with His followers “other side.”

When I became a teenager I went to a non-denominational church, one of those big ones. The pastor was really cool and really smart. To this day I think that, but I remember one day an associate pastor telling us something that just didn’t jibe with what I thought I knew about Jesus. He said that unless you became a Christian, you were going to go to hell. He mentioned Hindus. Gone. Buddhists. Finished. Muslims. Forget about it. Hell! Pure fire for eternity. Pretty harsh. He wasn’t the only pastor who had said this. It just took until my teenage years to finally feel uncomfortable about it. I had heard it my entire Christian life.

Think about it. You’re going along love love love when suddenly, boom, hate. Okay. Now, did Jesus say this? No. He didn’t say it. But all of the churches believed it. If it were true why didn’t Jesus Himself say it? The philosopher child grew confused. God is love, but hellfire actually hurts. Hmm. Okay. Keep going, I told myself. Jesus loves me this I know…

This started a journey of many years which eventually led me to take a Masters degree in Mythological Studies with Emphasis in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute. This school promised to teach me all about the beliefs of other religions, since religion for one is myth to another. I was somewhat of a renegade for going to this school or even having these sorts of thoughts. Most Christians wouldn’t look at a Buddhist text for fear of Satan himself jumping out at them from the pages. I knew I had to take the chance, but what I found was quite different. Time after time the religions that I studied did the same thing, they said the same things that Jesus said but in different ways. I saw the game clearly. There is one God but different masks, just like Joseph Campbell proclaimed in his work The Masks of God. All of the Christians in the churches were throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Jesus’ kind words were also these other religions’ kind words. I realized there was no way that they could go to the Christian hell. The loving God I had known wouldn’t be so stupid as to do that just because they spoke a different language, had a different mythic vocabulary.

I was saved. I could believe in the love of God again. I went on to become a reporter, then a writer of novels and stories. All was going well until another conundrum appeared. George W. Bush.

George W. Bush was the salvation of the evangelicals. All of the work put into the process of making Christianity a part of politics put forth by people like Ralph Reed and Pat Robertson had paid off and here was the result. Bush was a no-nonsense kind of guy who was also born-again. With him in office the country would finally become a Christian nation once again. The game had been won and the liberals could go take a hike because Jesus was coming to town. But was He?

Along came 9-11 and then Iraq. Suddenly, for the first time, I again saw that “other side” that I have mentioned. Now, as a writer, I follow the news. From day one the push to go into Iraq smelled like a dead carp. I believed that you should do anything that you can to solve a problem in at least a sane way. You can at least go out of your way to avoid doing something tragically permanent, but they pulled back Scott Ritter who wasn’t even finished searching for the nuclear weapons there. It was a mad rush to war, and who was cheering it on the most? The Christians. The good Christians of America were shouting for the death of innocent men, women and children because their Christian leader said that they must. I guess they thought it was a new form of Christianity or something to kill innocents. I don’t know. I truly don’t know and that’s what I want to find out.

Would you be interested in an article on this topic as I embark on a journey of discovery through the land of fundamentalist Christianity? I will look into how they can continue, to this day, to vehemently support notions of violence against anybody they fear. Could it be that they are so trained to fear those of other religions that it is merely a natural next step to wipe them out, a notion as richly disturbing as the Muslim notion of the infidel?

As Republicans choose their candidate and applaud such bold statements by people like Newt Gingrich that you are to kill your enemies straight out, I will seek the answer to how they square this with Jesus’ command to not kill but to love your enemy. The fundamentalist world is filled with fear that things are changing in a way that will ultimately wipe their brand of Christianity out of the picture. Homosexuality and Abortion are two of the issues that scare them. Is paranoia the driver for abandoning love altogether? Is the siege mentality of the Christian right responsible? Is it what makes them rife for being used by others who seek power by any means necessary?

I am not a pacifist. Being half Jewish on my father’s side, I recognize the need to sometimes fight physically against tyranny as proven by the necessary war called World War II, but today’s fundamentalist Christians don’t seem to mind what the cause is anymore. They will be for war no matter what, it seems, and that stance shows anything but the love of Christ. Do they even notice their brethren’s perpetually bared fangs? Has love died in the American Christian church?

Sincerely,

Joey C. Kantor

Published in: on November 27, 2012 at 12:50 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Barky Concept – a short,short story – Albert Jones

This is the story about my dog, Barky, Felix, Barky, Barky never shutups. Barky barks 24 hours a day and we, get this, we Keep him! Keep Him! My mom loves Barky. So this is the story. This is the way that it’s gotta go. Barky’s got to get famous. This is the only way. Barky must be famous so that my mom can be rich and I can get my own room on the other side of the mansion that Barky is going to buy us. Because, trust me on this, Barky can never be quiet. Barky can never Shut up.

This was the plan. Make sure that my mom didn’t find out, but sneak barky out of the house between two and 6 oclock when she got home everyday. I would have to buy my own carrying case. I’ll take Barky to all of the agencies. Everything. He’s real tame. He’ll let me hold him, which is a plus. A plus so far. So Here we go. Get that perpetual barking on command harnessed into a few dog food commercials and we’ll be set. I’ll keep the money quiet until Barky’s really famous and we can get that house and then I won’t have to listen anymore to that dog!

2.

this is the plan. 3:30 got an appointment with Alpo. I know, I know, Alpo. What’s the odds of Alpo wanting Barky, but they need Barkies and I got one. Put out a few fliers and some other things and got a nibble from Alpo. So I take Barky in and they put him on the floor and first look to see how he is around people and he’s good on a leash too. My mom trained him, she wouldn’t take no shit. And here was my mom on the end of the leash right now, going through all the best motions to impress these people and wouldn’t you know it, through her dog of all things, all of my mom’s stuff, right here.

Anyway, we got through that one. That tall guy was the one in charge, I know it. You can never be sure though. Barky did alright. He barked of course, little son of a bitch, on cue, but that’s what he was supposed to do and it didn’t sound so bad once it was put on full form for the cameras. It’s like putting nickels in a slot machine, each bark a nickel, a chance at the big jackpot on a national Alpo commercial. Christ, they need new dogs all the time!

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get in get out. That’s it. You make sure that you get in fast get the sound guy and the camera going. In the mood, barky! Rawf! Trademark! Another 2 grand in my pocket. Fifteen thousand short of getting the house and this dog out of my life forever!

4.

Barky did it. A Lil’ Nibbler’s Chunky Treat gig with two other dogs, not the best scenario, the one of the lap and the smile, but I’ll take it, $1,800 to the broker tomorrow and we’re in and that dog can go to hell.

5.
Been in the house five months. Can’t hear Barky anymore. Thanks God. People tell me to use Barky as my money making scheme in life instead of doing what I do. I tell them look, I could be living the high life with that dog there. We could easily pull down another five or six hundred thou together, but you know what? Fuck that dog.

Published in: on October 30, 2012 at 10:23 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Babel

Babel.
It’s all babble.
I mean Babel. As in Tower of Babel.
We’ve built our tower and the higher up we get, the less we understand one another.
The thieves have taken up roosts in the new nesting places.
Come on in. They look just like the honest ones before them.
That new website and service. Oh, that’s Johnny’s new thing,
something he does when he gets home from elementary school.
He’s made ten bucks this month faking his way through the adult world.
Good for you, Johnny, keep up the good work.
Babel. It’s not what you say, but how you say it.
Babel. It’s hardly worth talking about because any talk at all just adds to the confusion. I’ll be the one who explains it, each writer writes.
Add the solution to the billion other solutions and we’ll see if he or she is right.
Or simply lost.
Babel

Published in: on August 2, 2012 at 1:02 am  Leave a Comment  
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Is it Halftime yet? – Albert

It is very important to know whether or not it is half-time yet. Is it half-time yet? Is it? Is it half-time yet?

Given over then, livened over then, this other thing, crabdaplinar in scope, noodles and whey, won over then, thos slope, this gibletted…
nownownow…no need to get crandiplaplicler now is’it? Now now now.

– from the poetry of nobody no longer doodling series by Albert Jones (never printed).

Published in: on July 27, 2012 at 9:45 pm  Leave a Comment  

Session (fin)

Session 5

Welcome back.

Glad to be back.

So?
So.

Did you ever figure out what you’re going to do?

Not really. Things are getting fuzzier. It’s like I’m traveling down this road and letting shit go. I want to let everything go. I don’t want to die, but I want to let everything in my life go. I want to believe that there are other things that I should be thinking about and dealing with and doing those things. I want to lose interest in everything from before. I want a newer and better life and just chuck the old one. It’s too full of shit.

How so?

It just is. All my dreams that I went for were all vanity. Solomon was right. Even if you do succeed the heartbreak that you get in knowing that everybody then wants to see you fail brings you down. You wish that you could see according to the old way that you saw the world, but the old way is gone. People are animals and there’s nothing to allow you to overcome this fact. A smiler will kill you the next second. Some people perfect the process. Smile their way into your life and continually play the game so that one day they succeed and you lose. You can never go forward with people expecting there to be an even transaction. Everybody seeks superiority. It’s as simple as that. There is no other game in town. We all seek status and if we don’t get it then we can’t rest. We must win. There is nothing to strive for anymore so I would rather lose all signs of the game and, I don’t know, walk the earth.

Walk the earth?

You know, look at the world in a new way. Find something else to do. Maybe make glass and forget about being a battling ant for a crumb that is huge only to us ants. Sick of it. Tired of it. Done with it.

Well, you can’t just disappear.

No. I can’t. I will always be here, but how will I be here? This is the question.

You can get a new job.

Maybe.

You can get published and have success as a writer.

More judgment. The issue is lost. The salvation from the writing is hidden. I’m sick of dedicating my life to one or two readers who may or may not understand what I was trying to say. I thought I wanted to be heard and then found that I couldn’t be heard because everybody else is trying to be heard. We are throwing our best, truest stuff out there and it is being lost in everybody else’s best and truest stuff and in the end we don’t know who to believe, what to believe, or even what the issue is anymore. It’s just a bunch of us struggling to be most authentic so that we can be heard and eventually make money from being heard. We know this is the solution to our particular careerist illusions.

Wow. You are really hard core.

I’m not hard core. I’m not beginning to be hard core. I am mild and meek and have a lot to say, but I don’t know how important it is anymore now that I know that most of it has an undercurrent involved that is desperate, that the words have been shared under less than auspicious reasonings. We all want success. This corrupts us all. It means that there was a possibility that our truths did not contain real care. If you are selfish you cannot care. My whole life has been this balancing act, trying to be selfless and then to be selfish (since I matter too). The selfish part always seems to make me ineligible for the selfless role, like I am a phony and a fake and I’m starting to believe that I am. A true person doesn’t chase after success, but the one who doesn’t get it regrets it later. We are animals and it is better to be honest about this, make our nest egg while we are young, and live as long as we can because here comes death…

So, death is involved in this thing.

Yeah, death is there. Most people hear me talk and can’t stand it, think that I’m a major complainer, that I should just forget the bullshit and get on with my life. Well, that’s what I’m trying to do. Get rid of the bullshit and get on with my life. Get mine and disconnect the getting from “true” things that could be searched for and given to the masses to heal them. Altruism is purposeless anymore. Google for help and you will get many more better put together and researched answers than I could give. I would probably go off on the color blue or yellow or purple or something. Poetry. Nobody told me that us poets would be dealing with economics on the level of pennies. But that’s what it is. Pennies.

So, you feel as though you donated your life to the arts and life never gave you anything back?

Sort of. It gave me pleasure in a job well done. It gave me a sense of meaning and purpose, but when it is all said and done, the philosophical road that it places you on makes you lose everybody in the world that matters to you. You cannot have money, basically, so you cannot have a wife and children, hardly even friends. If you try and replace your moneyless world with friends then you are with other moneyless people and you begin to eat each other up with your moneyless problems, the havoc that moneylessness reaps on human beings in general. A soap opera. A big soap opera.

Like everyone else, I am silent and perplexed somewhat. I don’t know how to answer you, but I am sure that you get this response from just about everybody. You get it as complaining or thought processes gone too deep for your own good. The only advice you probably ever get is to go outside and enjoy nature.

True. Nobody knows how to talk to me. We immediately go to too deep modes of thought and the next thing you know. Poof. It’s done. Intellectual people can’t talk to me either. They can fake it pretty well, but only age can take you to a certain depth and all the reading in the world isn’t going to get you to the place where you can understand another man’s travails who feels them deeply and is perhaps older than you. We are all on a trek to death.

There it is again.

I guess so. But I’m not hooked on death. I’m hooked on the fact that life isn’t so great until death and I can’t ever figure out how to fix that. I know there are a lot of things that I should do, though. I’m not stupid. I didn’t just fall off the chicken truck. And that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to clear the slate.

Maybe we should end it here.

End what here? Do you see? There is no there there. There is nothing to wrap up. I don’t know the metaphysics, but I’m pretty sure that we are not talking about anything of substance. Thoughts? Phtth. Call all talk complaint and excuses. What else is there any reason to communicate for? I’m not on to your pop rock trip and you don’t want to splice hairs about morality and the nature of mankind. Ehh. So let time roll. It’s going to roll anyway. Nothing is going to change. After 2000 years after Jesus we just had our bloodiest century ever. Man learns, but man forgets just as quickly. You can’t take the animal out of the man.

So how do you get through the day, not believing in thoughts.

I believe in thoughts, but the transfer of them I don’t see as having any value. I can change you a little bit by changing your thoughts maybe, but so what? Who cares? Do you really need to be changed? It seems to me those who keep change away are the happiest. They get everything they want. They can kill for what they want. It’s easy. It’s easy to be a non-thinker in this society. It is geared for them. Lucky bastards who never believed in morality or the humanities, writing, art, music. Lucky bastards who can just see what is acceptable in their head and say no to everything else. If only I could be like this, then I could get in the game. Be loved. Be respected as strong and forthright, as being a person who knows what he wants and goes out and gets it. A success!

But only if they have money, right?

Yeah, I guess so. If they’re broke they’re just considered assholes. But when you have this type of attitude you’re going to find a way to get money.

Prison, maybe.

True. Maybe. Not everybody is smart enough to parlay their meanness into cold hard cash, but it certainly helps if you are ruthless and can lie in the name of apple pie, the American way and Jesus Christ Himself.

Your trajectory is set and you can just go…

Yes, something like that. You don’t have to mill around sticky moralistic questions and ugly reactions from ugly facts about mankind and whether or not you want to participate. You will want to participate in anything that will get you closer to your goals. You can fake all the other shit, all the moral shit, all that shit is easy to fake. You did it every day growing up going to school. You play that shit. Just play it. It’s easy to make it big if you don’t have a conscience. I wish I didn’t have a conscience basically, but I do, so I can’t get into this competition bullshit that they keep telling me that I need to embrace after filling my head for eighteen years with the notion that it’s about helping and sharing instead. Get out of school and you will see that the Pollyanna eyed doe-boys like me are the first to be placed on the platter to be picked clean. The luckiest people are the ones who drop out of school at thirteen with a strong work ethic. They beat the rest of them by 10 years. By the time the others have graduated college they are skilled in the game. They are the masters of the universe. Bow down to them. If you drop out at thirteen and are not work oriented you can kiss the baby just like the others who don’t care about things, but if you have a work ethic…

Scammers. Get connected in scams young?

Pretty much. Figure out how everything works, parlay your youthful charms into better pay and more connections. Play the adults for everything they’ve got. Youth rules. It’s just that youth doesn’t know this.

You sound exasperated.

It’s played out. I’m grasping at straws now. I don’t want any of this thought.

You think of what you say as mere thought. You don’t really think much of a real world do you? Everything seems to be philosophy with you.

True. Maybe that’s because I don’t have something better to do. Maybe I am complaining, but this is pretty much the way that I was taught to live. Think all the fucking time. Be a thinker. Be a critical thinker. Think about this that and the other thing and when you have thought a whole lot then put it on paper and let other people read what you thought and wait for the applause, smile, and continue on thinking and thinking until you write something else down, put it on paper, wait for the applause, accept it, and then go forward. All the while money is coming into your coffers because of the thoughts on paper and you are slowly rising in self-esteem, and your eyes clear up and you walk a little taller and you get a mate and have children.

Nice dream, huh?

Yeah, it is.

Tell me about your childhood.

Good.

What else?

Bad, good. Whatever. Pretty good. Imaginative kid. That’s why I’m a writer. In the sixth grade I got a lot of applause for some stupid stories I wrote. I included my friends in them. Second grade, I won best haiku poem by a Japanese judge, the uncle of a student. So I carried that forward as excuse enough to say that I want to be a writer. Good luck. Anyway, that was then. This is now. You don’t see yourself and all that and blah blah blah.

Blah what? What was that last blah.

Blah.

That’s what I thought. Depressed, huh?

I guess.

That final blah always tells it.

What about your adulthood?

Pretty good. Not too bad.

What was good?

Peace. Young peace. I mean real young peace. When I was very young and the world was a magical place although I could feel the pain. I could also feel the beauty in the quiet stillness. Peace. Gray walls watching the shadows of the trees blow on my wall. Day slowly turning into night. Peace. Sometimes you are too frustrated to write. Too bottled up. Anything that you say would be too much about a subject that you feel more than truly understand. You try to understand but you don’t and you won’t ever. You’ll never see it in the scope which some say that you will and can see in, their scope, no, not even really that, a more positive scope, sure, hopeful, yes, always looking for the right proper true answer? Yeah. Peace. Gray wall peace. Sleep and dream peace to wake up to a raucous world slowly, the smell of the food cooking in the kitchen, look down the hall at the old clock. My brother’s up. Action. Talk. Life. Slowly come to life.

coffee

Yeah. Slowly come to life.

How old were you.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Life. Grew up, was going to say “though.” Like life is the hard lessons of older age and not the innocent dream of youngness was a part of you as well. We are all on the continuum it seems perhaps some of us may match along the way and we may have families. The world needs to cater to these growing families by providing them with decent places to assemble and be themselves. Let’s take the scene back away from the drug dealers and into the hands of our kids where it belongs. Hamlet, orchestra, rock, punk, whatever, circus! They’ll do it all these days and I think it’s high time we listened.

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

Jed Jones

2001

Jed Jones was the lead guitarist for the grammy nominated band Moxy Priestess. In 2011 he put on Petals: A Rock Scenario. The American Tribute to Princess Diana at the Riverpark in his hometown of Millsville, Tennessee.

*****************above:

Stade Deakins

Interviews jed jones

s. Jed or is it Jedediah?
j. Jedediah, but you can call me Jed.
s. alright, Jed.
j. Stade?
s. Yes.
j. You don’t seem staid to me.
s. Thank you. Short for something.
j. Cool. Thankyou.
s. No, thank you for the interview.
j. Alright
s. Alright, let’s go. Moxy Priestess.
j. the love of my life.
s. Helen Capowitz
j. the mother of my child and the love of my life.
s. Moxy Priestess reunion?
j. I’ll talk now. Thanks, Stade, for having me. I got me right now a rock scenario on my hands written by my brother, Albert Jones, who I hadn’t even seen in over ten years.
S. Petals
J. Yes, that’s right, Petals.
s. is it sad? And about Princess Diana?
j. yes and no. it’s funny sad, but happy hopeful and musically astute…but anyway…
s. No, yes, I’m sure. And the music was written by yourself with your brother, Albert?
j. this is also correct.
s. I see. Well, tell me about this thing, this Scenario you call Petals?
j. Well, it’s like this, it’s one of those things. You ever pick up a rock on a beach or somewhere and looked at it and then kept it for a long time like it meant something to you until one day you look down and you see what it is? Well, Petals was like that. It was sort of an ode to my lostness in my daze of heroin addiction and running, petals, I remember ‘em in the fall in Pennsylvania. Petals. Petals. Petals. Falling Down. On the Ground. Petals. Knee deep.
Petals.
s. I see. Let me ask you, is the risk on the road rousing you, I know Rose had a problem earlier in her career…
j. No, not at all. No. I’m free. I’m free. There’s a real story I could tell you and it would have to do with this play and it is actually in the play because I told Albert to put it in the play and he did. It’s what Steve Merrick told me at Riverbend Penitentiary in Nashville, Tennessee. He told me to “love.”

Love. That was it. No room for hate. Just love. And Albert put it in the play and then we took this hike on the mountain, a sort of climb, tried to get to the top through the back way of Anna Belle Mountain, the same way that my mule Teardrop went up. We made it, but along the way there was a little accident. We fell off of a cliff, first me, then Dink, this is Steve Merrick’s son, I still hated Steve Merrick at this time, still had the hatred clenched around my heart, and there was his son and he followed me over and finally we all just stopped.

Blahmph. I stood there swinging from a rope by my neck, Dink spread eagle above me as if about to take flight and from out of his shoulder the steel tip of a blade and rising above his shoulder, like smoke, the clenching face of Albert reeling both of us in.

s. how did you manage to fall like that?
j. fate.

Published in: on June 15, 2012 at 7:41 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Poetry of fargo kantrowitz

ocean sounds
singing

as cold as the darkness at the bottom of the sea the day is bright and as unforgiving as the lost gaze of the sunken man. Dreams stripped away burst forth in air bubbles last wishes disperse popping upon seas never noticed, ever again.

Singing..i think i’m dead(sad)….

No jed don’t go there.
Moxy I gotta moxy I gottta do the song..
Alright. Diana this is jed’s song. He did it while we were running away to californnia. We’d been running a long time.
“Oh fargo please.
Fargo?, oh….sings…let me see if I can find the chords. It’s a real easy song.
“Oh I don’t care , fargo, just play it.:
Alright, mam, here it goes…
Sings “I think I am Jed..leads into hey hey whoa whoa (i’m free) pretty version.

…I never really told you what I was thinking about, albert, the day (interspersed with muddy cursing in background)…

Operatic singing…
“I love you, I do.”

Published in: on May 20, 2012 at 12:40 am  Leave a Comment  
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