The problem with predetermination for people is simple, why bother?

If every thing that happens can be traced back to a cause, the train of causes can be ridden back to the big bang. If the train of cause/effect can go back – it can go forward. Truly, everything is written in the book – just like Bob Marley said a couple of scores ago.

If everything and everyone is living in a meat DVD, and nothing is choice, the true choice involves whether we want to do it or not. Keep in mind; part of the DVD is a requirement to do it is the default setting. No one wants to leave before the end of the show, with apologies to Sartre.

Einstein believed that all is predetermined. His solution, and mine, a little, is to accept the illusion of free will. Without free will, there is no morality other than Nietzsche’s – and his will to have morality, or not. Murderers, child rapists are all just victims – they were born to be bad. The solution is: Knowing we have no choice, we choose to believe in a concept bigger than ourselves (illusion of free will) that we know is not true, or, simply, God.

I think that maybe the definitions are too narrow and we have made our tent too small.

The science model we use to measure small things these days is a statistical one. Gone are the days when we pictured an electron rotating around a proton/neutron like a planet around the sun. We now see the electron as a cloud of possibilities that could be anywhere. We can predict with pretty good accuracy, but until we look, we don’t know.

The easy way to see this in your head is to imagine this is just math – that the electron is actually in a place, but we are just using the math to see it. This is wrong, the electron can be anywhere – it can tunnel straight through the proton/electron – it could be in your underwear drawer. It’s probably where the numbers show you it should be – but it could be anywhere – and with trillions of chances, the chances are, it will be.

This isn’t theory – the sun would not ignite in a way that allows us to exist if not for a few, very special, stray electrons that tunnel in a statisticly unlikely way. (I attached a link for this)

And that’s how I see free will – I have free will, we probably don’t. In me, all is possible, but as a species, it can plotted out through entangling cause and effect.

Be the strange, the outlier – make the weirdness real.

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I have had a bunch on off centered compliments in my life, most of them I’ve assumed to be positive. In moments of clarity I think that maybe some of these compliments are just requests to change from people that care about me.

I left some of my poems with a Poet I respect (Dan Langton) back in 2005. Dan read my poems, made comments on most of them with suggestions and warnings. He also sent me a personal letter, a piece of it in the following quote:

“Everyone trusts one sense above the others. In 80% of us (and thus poets) it is sight. But there is the other 20%. In Keats it is touch. In you it is smell. Be aware of that.”

I read the letter and the suggestions and put the bunch of it away. I don’t think I thought about it at the time, but after discovering the letter in a recent move, have had it sitting on my table, taunting me, for the last week.

Years of smoking, snorting and cleaning poop off dirty people in hospitals seemed to have dulled my sense of smell. Was it possible that in me this sense was so strong that I had subconsciously found ways to diminish it so that I could live among regular people?

That seemed kind of stupid.

Was my talent being ghettoized? Was I being put into the poetry world’s sub-basement next to the tasters? Was his last line to me, “Be aware of that,” a warning? Was I being damned with faint praise?

Even if true, especially if true – these thoughts seemed too paranoid to believe, but something to keep in mind for later, when alone…

Did I confuse him with too many smelly words in my poetry? Did the sprinkle of scents and flavor throw him off his game? I noted that I did use vanilla more than once, but I was in love and if that doesn’t excuse things I plead guilty. This seemed a small thing for a poet to note – more of a mathematics kind of observation.

There is certain fuzziness about the sense of smell. It’s the bad boy of the senses. Other than sight, it’s the only sense that’s hardwired to the brain. Instead of the eyeballs Ethernet like cord that plunges directly, smell works by stuff hitting a bone plate with holes poked in it. It's low tech, like a can with nail holes and dirt clods getting kick down a street, puffing out smoke. When smelling, the brain gets direct information much like a cheese grater get a pile of cheese underneath it. It’s the only sense that gets rubbed into the brain.

Now I may just be guilding the Lily on this, but I think this is what he was trying to tell me. Or, I could just call him and ask.

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Act of Faith (The dance mix)

1

A dissolute fool

Old in fashion, in sensed

Bound tight by the mechanics of lust

A slave made solid through the lash

Handcuffed to the bow of painted lips.

II

I recall in fumes

Staring out windows through closed blinds

Waiting for the burn of light and flash,

Of electric more,

You are bright tattoos I remember to forget.

III

I want to erase the stain of you

The silent storms, the coke binged nights

Of ozoned static, and fevered friction of time.

Tied to the mast on an sea without end

Adrift until breached onto half hidden shoals,

A rendered piling of offerings burnt.

IV

An old man

Slow and steady

The noise of movement

Pains me early in the day.

V

The marks you left on me remain

Felt in baths and on the touch of

A leatherback -- those uncut knots

Of livid scars … still you,

In-cripple my every breath.

Mike Brady 2004/2010

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Calvin and the Chipmunks

For some:

Life is about learning lessons;

Instructional videos carved in meat.

From a bone break of a father

To a mother who abides --

By tithing children for the sins of her flesh.

Mike Brady 2010

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I have never cared for the humanity of puzzles
The fit and polish of inspired conspiracy;
The welding of perfection from the whole of scattered bits.

To find the order from parts seems one thing,
When found in aimless walks
Alone, with a mind in geared stupidity.
To dream it another,
A lesser thing, found loose and unproven
In a thoughtful cloud of wished expectation,

In what place did we sit alone and decide to will ourselves to be?
What spark without form or function did we use without knowing?
And if heaven is perfect,
What train do we wait for in this station?

As we sit and plan our deaths slowly
Distraction and misdirection as our guide
We follow a path and rank ourselves in ordered growth.
Until confused, we walk alone into the dark
and leave our bones glowing pale in the tailings of a mountain
In a sunlight, reflected by the moon.

I sit in lost opportunity
Lost in order to distract
With complaints of being lost
To people I don’t care for.
And in this I make myself human
And bind myself to others on the wheel.

I have played the puzzle
Of the how and when
(Always with the where, the why--)
Be it tires for my car or styles for my body
Hoping it was just my way of looking sideways
At the other, and I was not just lost myself again,
To run free in the terrors of a German forest.

Mike Brady 2010

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A very nice poem for a cold rainy day.

"Puttanesca" by Michael Heffernan, from The Night Breeze Off the Ocean.

Before I gave up wondering why everything
was a lot of nothing worth losing or getting back,
I took out a jar of olives, a bottle of capers,
a container of leftover tomato sauce with onions,
put a generous portion of each in olive oil
just hot enough but not too hot,
along with some minced garlic and a whole can of anchovies,
until the mixture smelled like a streetwalker's sweat,
then emptied it onto a half pound of penne, beautifully al dente,
under a heap of grated pecorino romano
in a wide bowl sprinkled with fresh chopped parsley.
If you had been there, I would have given you half,
and asked you whether its heavenly bitterness
made you remember anything you had once loved.

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Asking for More

I am not asking to suffer less.
I hope to be nearly crucified.
To live because I don't want to.

That hope, that sweet agent —
My best work is its work.
The horse I ride into Hell is my best horse
And bears its name.
So, friends, drink your cocktails and wear your hats.
Thank you for leaving me this whole world to go mad in.

I am not asking for mercy. I am asking for more.
I don't mind when no mercy comes
Or when it comes in the form of my mad self
Running at me. I am not asking for mercy.

Sarah Manguso

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http://beta.stinkdigital.tv/work/carousel

Words fail me -- and that's the point -- very impressive clown work.

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Stripped of self
The connection to others
Is touched by god.

David eats old hamburgers the day after,
Still drunk and happy,
He looks to me and says,
“All I can taste is cold with pickles.”

Tommy lives to skate and fight
And live he does,
In a bruised and battered
Blur of every night.

Kirk barbecues at 4 a.m. in dark.
He eats nothing but chicken.
He cranks the sound and self to twelve,
And dances alone with his cats.

Michael works the nights at a hospital,
Nurse and addict.
He tells the ill the pain will stop,
But it won’t.

And stripped of self
The connection to others
Is touched by god.

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1. The cop that stopped me in Barstow needs more color. He was big in a fat kind of way, ugly with a steroidal acne blush, and scary on a Steven King travels through Nevada while dreaming of lepers tripfest. I kept thinking he wanted to pull me out of the car window in pieces, if needed. If I were a woman, I would have dialed 911 before rolling the window down.
2. Route 66 from the Bagdad Café to Golf across the desert is unrideable – the max speed is 40mph, and it’s a rough ride at that. It has obviously not had maintenance in the last 30 years. On the other hand, and meth lab, barring transportation problems, might find a nice home in the Mohave – and maybe you should think about that late at night while driving alone (see #1.)
3. As a child, I had three-year relationships with people (Army brat.) I’ve learned to keep the magic going as a n adult, with difficulty, but am learning that it’s sometimes more about my fear of being found out than it is timing and readjustment. I don’t fear rejection – I don’t care enough – I fear rejection after someone gets to know me and enough of the real stuff has leaked out to give an informed opinion. Not sure if it’s self-fulfilling prophecy, on my part, or just good common sense on the part of others – but some real patterns have developed in both work and play. I almost cringe when people like me at first meet – the same people reject me once they find out I’m not there projection of what they thought. The funny thing is – people who don’t like me on first blush, at time, end up big supporters. I’ve learned that other people can’t see me any better than I can – very scary, and I wonder how this has affected behavior – and more important, what, if anything, to do about it.
4. Different on this trip – small things, baby steps. I sent post cards to 3 people. I talked to people when I stopped. I stopped at places, and for reasons, unclear to me.
5. There are a lot of fucking people in California – only Las Vegas was anywhere close – but urban suburbia is non-stop in the Golden State, except for a small area around Stockton.
6. Beginning and end, and now for some plans – cut my hair, clean up my resume and look hard for a job. I have realized that I may not get a job quickly, and than I can continue to enjoy this time off without guilt – but I do need to do the footwork and keep the looking on the clean side of the street.
7. I may live in a world I create most of the time, but I’m going to start issuing more passports and travel Visas. I’m not North Korea, other than in my hair style and self sufficiency (jute.)

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After wandering the desert for a few days, I’ve made it back in one piece, tired but unchanged in spirit. Wherever I go, I find myself alone in a place, and when I return to where I started, I find I’m back to the same place, with me. No gestalt, or awareness – and a change that will only be seen in time – or not.
Left Tonopah early and had a nice, non-stop drive up and around highway 95 (Nevada just has two roads going different directions with the name of 95 – it calls the one I’m on ‘Alt 95’.) I has been wonder getting off the freeway and taking 2 lane roads on this trip – most of my time is spent alone – if I get too near another car, I just pass them or slow down – usually I pass them. I don't like people in front of me when I'm driving -- it takes too much attention. People are unlike the road -- they can act stupid and surprising, even to themselves. The road gives notice that doesn't take a psychologist to figure out, and it can be guarded against surprise with only half an eye and a solid feel.
After 4 hours, I hit Carson City and switched to Highway 50. I went up and over the mountain and had a nice drive through an uncrowded Lake Tahoe. I had forgotten how big and pretty the lake is and how much fun highway 50 is to drive on a day with no traffic – just zooms and sweeps on a well maintained two lane – at least to Placerville.
Placerville to home – I could do it in my sleep.
No pictures, no highlights. Good to be back.
(I added a picture of the famous 'Sno-cap' drive-in -- Seligman and the view from my Hotel in Tonopah)

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At the crack of 5, I chose to sleep until 7.
Kingman to Seligman, with a stop at the Grand Canyon Caverns, was a smooth, magic glide of a trip. Even Hackberry’ ruins looked clean in the bleach of the morning sun.

I was the only one at the Caverns, usually a meeting ground for elderly Germans, and just sat in the sun for a bit – then headed to Seligman.
I’ve never seen it look better – painted, prosperous and unchanged. At the hotel right outside of downtown – where I spent a week as a child waiting for my mom to get the station wagon fixed – a new manager had redone the place. He said that, ‘the old ladies son had ran it into the ground’ until he took over. I estimated the room number when he asked me (memory only remembers magical thoughts,) and he opened it up for me – looked plain, but sort of like I thought it should. A nice guy with a clean motel – sans pool – which queers it a bit. I took pictures and told him I’d pass on the place to others.

Ate at place, ‘Westside Lilo’s Café.’ Great food – highly recommended for breakfast. If you meet the waitress Pam, tell her I prayed for her 30 year old son who has a seizure disorder, but is ashamed of it and broke his collar bone when he ‘felt one coming on’ and tried to run upstairs before it happened in front of his friends.
Next stop – Oatman.
The road from Kingman is awesome!! Back in the day, Route 66 was this road, a winding road up to, and down from, Sitgraves Pass – this must have been a scary highlight for Okies’s on their last rubber.

Oatman is an old mining town/tourist trap – it’s almost a carbon copy of Nevada City. The big draw is the donkeys – millions of them, all wild, free and existing like the cows in India. One of them bit my daughter (Allison) when she tried to pet him without a carrot in her hand – filthy cloven-hoofed devils.
From there – non-stop to Tonopah.
Tonopah is a mark on the weather channel that, I think, everyone in the bay area has seen over and over. It’s also a pretty cool mining town at 6,000 feet. This is a pretty place to stop for the night – and my hotel advertizes that it’s, ‘perfect for Grandma.’


I am tired – will get this blog out, and proof tomorrow.

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I am not that good at letting people know what’s going on with me – never have been; doubt I’ll change.
So – this is an update to all who read this, maybe not the stuff in my head that makes it smoke on cold days, but the where, and a few facts – hopefully illustrated with marginal pictures.
Fired on Friday last – for being me – the best me possible under extended exposure and grinding. Signed up for the State tit on Saturday, and on the road today.

Left early and zipped through San Jose. Stopped at Harris Ranch, off Highway Five, a couple of hours later – just in and out with Tri-tip. Noticed the Hollister cut-off on 152 had been finished – good work state.
Thought for the morning – “They torture wine to make it better – why not people”
(Well... because they are people.)
Cut over to 99 at the Lost Hills exit and managed to drive straight through to Boron.

Boron is a place that I’ve passed over the years on the Freeway—it always looked like a residential, planned community of flat topped houses from the Fifties – a West Coast version of Levittown.
I took the business exit through town and stopped at the Boron Museum – cool complete with blue haired ladies that liked to talk – I sort of listened, and then left.
I got off the main road to go slower and check out some old spots I half remember from earlier trips through Barstow. That’s what the cop picture is for -- 1st ticket in 15 years – time to pay for all my sins uncounted – though I was going slower than my dad at the time this happened. Bad work state.

I fumed to Needles – got some sugar and a coke – then off to Arizona.
I’m here (Kingman) and going to get my dinner – then TV, unless the fates arrange some other entertainment.

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"There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.And that, I think, was the handle - that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting - on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high - water mark - that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back." HST

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Only Until This Cigarette Is Ended by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The color and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

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