Friday, February 22, 2013

A CONCLUSION OF SORTS

      So I've come to the conclusion that I use more wet wipes than Henry and I don't even like being around the people I like to be around anymore. I'm afraid to cut my toenails because I think they may simply shatter. Do any of the Oak Ridge Boys watch Girls or Enlightened on HBO? How in the hell are there enough sardines and tuna in the world to keep packing all those little cans? When will the act of typing on these keys be enough to power this computer? What's the rate of suicide for toll booth attendants? Why are Republicans completely incapable of producing comedy or art? I love putting epsom salts in my bath but whenever I'm at the store, I always find myself looking down at that big carton and I am simply unable to convince myself to reach down and pick it up. Do most people watch mass hangings and aftermath footage of suicide bombings on their computer nearly every morning while their kid or kids eat organic Fruity Os and watch Thomas The Train or Dinosaur Train or Super Why? Remember Eddie Rabbitt, I Love A Rainy Night? The movie, Convoy? What about Hooper? Come on, Burt Reynolds! Did you know Tiny Tim was a genus? I remember a golden sheet of light once shooting in through the sliding glass door onto that itchy orange carpet in front of my bare feet upon the floor and there was something on tv about some people traveling around in the future in this caravan on some desolate planet and they were completely alone and this movie or show or whatever the hell it was had an enormous affect on me but I can't for the life of me remember enough about it to Google it to try to figure out what the hell it was. And today we may have another baby or tomorrow but no later than Wednesday. How the hell do we go on with a straight face in this world? It is so utterly comical and yet so horribly sad. Would Orson Wells have simply Facebooked? I know James Baldwin would've. Bukowski for sure. Was there really a Superbowl? Did Beyonce really perform? Can such things really happen? How in the fuck can we justify these things? Babies are exploding in Syria! I mean, you may read that or hear me say it, but seriously, listen to me, take a moment and think about it. Envision a perfect little baby girl in your mind. A sweet, innocent little soul, smiling and blinking at you. Maybe you have enough imagination to hear that little voice. Can you smell her? Can you reach out and touch her arm? Her hands, her tiny fingers? Now realize that there is without a doubt a little girl like this over there who is just about to hear a horrible sound and see a burst of light just before she is turned into fresh dripping hamburger meat! Now THAT is the rotten truth of this world, the disgusting reality. Ah, yes, the gruesomeness is always there. The energy that creates such things never goes away, it simply moves around this withering world as easily as the weather. This is why I must laugh when I hear a godawful song by Kenny Chesney or John Mayer. This is why almost nothing works. Are we really going to make another movie about a goddamn superhero? Another season of Dancing With The Stars? Jesus Fucking Christ, this world and its people! Its pathetic. It is exactly 10:48 a.m., Friday, Feb 22cd. My name is Philip Adam Bram. I am 41 years old and nearly everything I hear and see is an abomination to all I believe. Ya know, I was born in Florida, in Jacksonville Florida. I was... Oh, shit, Sarah just pulled up with Henry! I was supposed to put on some laundry and clean the kitchen. I better go! If she finds out I've just been sitting around on the couch, Facebooking, I'm fucked! Okay, later!

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

DEAR PHILLY (SET FREE)


DEAR PHILLY: You're right. We have to lie. It's part of surviving in this world. We lie everyday . We make decisions every day that are lies . We lie mostly to ourselves. And we are idiotic to think anyone else is really speaking their truth. We don't know our ass from our heads ultimately. And we're all just going along, babbling like chickens about our lives and none of it means anything. All of this is an illusion. SET FREE, Beacon NY.

DEAR SET FREE: As you near truth it is as if you enter a new dimension with its own set of rules. You become overwhelmed with the horribleness of it all and yet you see more beauty than ever. People never change. The blood is always right there, ready to be spilled. People are beasts which can turn on you instantly. The successful artist must learn to protect himself. You are out of orbit, out of step. And so like an astronaut, you must have that suit. I have so many problems as an artist I might as well just give up. I know I have the rare gift but I was born too dumb and I learned too late, too slowly, too clumsily; it's as if the Gods have made a drunken wager on my worthless ass. But I guess that would mean that at least one of them is rooting for me (haha). Anyway, it helps me to think of lies as more of an avoidance of truth than an outright manipulation. If you are truthful with yourself then the lies of other people can not harm you. Lies actually become part of what's interesting about humanity. One of my favorite quotes is "You are only as sick as your secrets". Lee Stringer quoted it but I'm not sure where he got it. So listen, years ago, a certain person in my life, let's just call him a good friend, once lied to me, right to my face. We were alone and he knew I knew the truth but the pressures of his reality were such that the consequences of my truthfulness had overwhelmed him and he reared up like a cornered animal, hissing and snarling. The specifics are not important and like all conflicts, the facts and reasons become too contaminated to sort out. The only thing to learn from these types of situations is to pay attention to the clues that lead to such a tripwire of atrocities. I will just say that I had simply reminded him in conversation about something he had once told me and he outright denied it. I mean, venomously denied it! Right to my fucking face! It was obviously a threat, a stated regret for him having ever allowed me to get so close. Anyway, I learned more from the failing of that friendship than the relationship itself. It was one of my greatest gifts as an artist, much like my first marriage or my mother going crazy and always trying to kill herself. The problem with most artists from what I can gather, and especially around here (Beacon), is that they consider themselves artists and surround themselves with artists. They live and breathe art, think and speak it, endlessly, religiously, which is the surefire way to destroy any chance for what I consider art. It is like some meathead frat-boy always talking about pussy but then you shove a big round ass in his face and I promise you, before he can even get fully hard, he's gonna cum in his pants, whimpering and drooling, longing for mommy. He is a coward just as these artist types are cowards. Their lives have little stake and therefore, neither can their "art". They spend most of their energy becoming characters in their silly little art communities, taking their rightful place in their neat little circle of chairs where everyone applauds one another simply to get the applause themselves. God, I hate them. I hate them more and more each day. Fraudulence at its worst. I bet they hardly know how to shit authentically. I would much rather hang around a bunch of Republicans any day. So, you know, I have a deep desire to take them down, to pop their pathetic balloons. The endless flock of the pseudo artist, the hipster. It's exactly what Bukowski would often talk about. These people will only allow themselves to get so close. They can only stare at the sun so long. They don't have the stomach. They're like moths fluttering around a porch light. And then LOOK at their "art"! It is more revolting and meaningless than the very things they're supposed to be rallying against. Anyway, I've gone on long enough about those creatures. They're really not worth my time and I had better start learning to just ignore them. So listen, here's the thing, once you realize what those old blues guys meant by the "crossroads", you know the terrifying reality of becoming a true artist. You know the real stakes, the true cost. And it is never worth it for you in your lifetime. But by the time you make your way up to that counter, you really are fucked either way, whether you move forward or fall back. It really is as brutal as anything which takes place in the animal kingdom. Wildebeests at the watering hole. There's absolutely no getting around it, we all must drink. So you wobble in with the herd, down that dirty bank. The crocks dive in. The water swirls with movement. But your thirst is already a death. You have no choice. Two sets of bubbles are heading your way. It doesn't matter, you must drink. You must lower your head and drink. It has always been this way for us all. None of us want to face it. Most of us refuse to even look. We would rather lie. But in the end, we all must drink. 





Monday, February 18, 2013

Saturday, February 16, 2013

I DON'T CARE

Look, man, no offense, but, ya know, I just don't care. I don't care about any of it. I don't care what you do or where you're from or what you're into. I don't give a shit where you live. I don't wanna hear about all the shit you've been through or where you're going. I don't want to hear about your kids or your wife or your girlfriend or your friends or your family or your goddamn dog. I don't wanna hear about any of it. I mean, seriously, man, I just don't give a shit anymore. I've heard enough. Basically, I don't want to hear anymore stories from anyone about anything anymore. I don't care. It doesn't mean anything to me. I mean, let's face it, if either one of us died tomorrow, all the other would think is, "Holy shit! Really? That dude died? Man, I just saw him yesterday!" Ya know, all I really need or want from anyone anymore is to just be able to look over at them from time to time and know that they are as hopelessly baffled as me. That's really it, ya know, that's all I need.