my feet are still asleep

My feet have been asleep for the past 20 minutes and it is really putting a damper on my lunch break. All I wanted to do was come home, take a slab of raw steak, and reenact Planet Earth. But instead, I had a salad. And I blame that salad for putting my feet to sleep. F**kin ranch dressing.

But my feet taking a nap is kind of like my life as of late. I haven't really been all there. It is like part of me is taking a nap, and the other part is mindlessly rolling through the ins and outs of the working man in his day to day. Coffee, copies, casework, print. The CCCP of my life. Somewhere, a historian is flipping out that I used the Russian acronym for the Soviet Union. But who doesn't like a cute little play on Soviet history? Lenin would have laughed. Stalin? Eh, not so much.

But back to the mindless repetition, it really is a bummer. I've lost that urge to create and design, and it has been replaced by an unwanted need to eat and sleep the second I hit my own door. It's almost pathetic to watch your own childhood dreams fade to reality- like a monochrome rainbow, with a pot of news papers at the end. All is not lost, my friends. As i am hopeful that this is merely a temporary slump.

Hell, I can feel my big toe already.

© blake jackson

Goat Farming Techniques of the Average Schmo

My brain's been smattered up like lightning in the lemonade.

If i could hold a steady thought for more than a few seconds, I'd stop. I'd press pause to this fast-forward hustle I've lived the past few weeks to smell a rose or someone like it. Maybe if I obsess myself with thought after thought after thought I won't have enough time to realize what has changed, what isn't here. So that's what I do every morning I wake up to try and escape the odorless creep that no one sees resting on my shoulders.

I thought about buying a goat today. Mainly because I love goat cheese. But everyone loves to rain on my one horse parade, and I forgot I'd need a few goats of several genders... and probably need to know how to make cheese. So is life. You can take one little thing that will make you happy, but once you have it, you realize it takes so many other things to sustain that happiness. I can't stop thinking is the problem. I want the clapper for my brain...

Clap- Clap.

© blake jackson

A metaphorical cloud of nails...

Somehow the swarm of jazz clefs and neon vibes traded themselves in for, what i would metaphorically express as, a stick of C-4 buried beneath boxes of 3" framing nails.

Last night, I spent 4 hours cranking out songs reminiscent of Grand Funk Railroad and "She's a Rainbow" from the Rolling Stones. Just music that begs for a united chorus of "La la" hippies. There was a looseness in my joints, a lightness of my brain, and all of it was ripped out in minutes by, of all things, words. The words that I have used in so many ways have come back to bite me square in the hind quarters and there's nothing I can do about it but sit and bitch in an online blog. Douggie told me to write, sorry it couldn't be a happier one bud.

God, I know I don't deserve it, but if you read my blog, would you mind sending me a metaphorical magnet for the nails?

© blake jackson

termites and tetherball...

The a/c is out.

Opportunity has presented itself.  And in 3 days, i will grab opportunity by the metaphoric testes and run until i fall down from exhaustion. Don't screw this up now.

  I have made a habit of striving to one up myself time and time again, the endless search to be happy that holds no end.  Regardless of me acknowledging that I do this, I just can't make myself not focus on the pressure.  Social studies fairs, you know it.  Golf lessons with Dad, you better believe it.  It was always in my mind that ,'I could have done that better.'  And the worst part about that statement is the truth that lies inside.  I can always say I did my best, but somewhere, one tiny corner was cut that could have made the difference.  (Namely my stubbornness in thinking that my way will be just a little bit better.) Even the tiniest corners.

With so much worry about failure, I hope my running skills have improved.  

Aside from that, it is toasty.  A nice screened in porch to sleep on would be amazing tonight.

© blake jackson

Bonzo's Montreaux

‘Sanctuaries’ 

Inspired by a line in TS Eliot’s “The Hippopotamus”

I.

The BROAD-BACKED hippopotamus 

Rests on his belly in the mud

and there are no golden reeds, flailing and

floating in dry winds. Nor the anomaly of such a 

beast silently stalking Nile waters. Only

the sounds of a man with shovel and pail, scooping his dung away. 

Tarka: the show pony ‘potamus. He tromps, stomps, dances,

stares, growls and grins.  Because it’s all

he ever knew. 

Wallowing the rust bucket current

like concrete pillars driving through

slush.  The elephants take note of

his graceful water waltz.  Tarka rumbles, bellows, spits,

smiles, trots and takes a bow. 

But all as it seems is not, some how.

In a 20 X 12 pen, no place to escape,

a chrome barred sanctuary for those

with no hope.  

II.

and there are no people in the stands, cheering

on tomorrow’s big leaguers.  Nor little boys

in left field making daisy chains. Only

clip-on ties and stained khaki slacks.

Impatient little hands pick their noses, ears and gum

from underneath the pews.  One 6 year old boy

on bended knees joins his hands, imitating his father.

He asks the Ceiling to forgive him for breaking 

a bathroom window with a baseball,

wondering if Jesus is listening now.

But all as it seems is not, some how.

On a long cushioned kneeler, he stares up above,

a stained glass sanctuary for those

with no hope.

  'Sanctuaries' was a poem I wrote in one of those spurts of voyage, where I felt I was caught somewhere, like Ms. Spears, between a boy and a man.  I could not make myself realize the importance of having the great Ceiling in my life.  I chose to post this work today, because I felt quite the opposite.  As I took the jeep on a 4 hour spin through backroads and unknown streets, I felt the smiley faces in my head take over.  With a heart of relentless loving and a stomach full of Ferttita's deli, it would have taken everything I had to restrain the grin on my face.  No particular reason, it just felt like a great day to be alive.

  So in this sanctuary of the hopeless, I cracked a beer and brushed off the notion that I was lost.  Maybe not found, but certainly not lost.

© blake jackson

the rediscovery of charted waters

  And at some point in time, it was just me, and the dirty red...  

  dirty red folded in 1/16ths, strapped tight to my forehead.  A bandana that has made voyage after voyage.  Revolving rainbows strobing in the glare of my half drunken eyes.  Somewhere in the experience, I just couldn't help but think, that in these Oxford streets, I was a King.  I had my friends, my health, my laughter, my half empty and luke warm brew. I stood on top of a falling mountain but if for only one second, I was a King.  

  Look in to the face of any man or any woman and find out who they are and then find out who they were or maybe who they want to become and if you fall in love then turn and walk away.  A pretty shitty philosophy but one I always find myself following.  Because I don't want to love and not be loved.  Probably the abyss of any ship is a long voyage that ends in nothing.  No treasure.  No amazing discovery. Just sand and palm trees and a parrot who is better off eaten than running his mouth.  (Not to glorify pirates, Somalians.)  But to take the voyage and find nothing is absolutely the worst.

  So i sailed off in a different direction.  One where I don't know if the treasure lies, but it would be better to stumble upon the 'X' than search and never find it.  And who knows, maybe a treasure once-found will find its way back to me.

dirty red was not retired, but is taking a hiatus.  saving energy for the next exploration.  

© blake jackson

it came from the sky...

     And I looked up, and I'll be damned if it didn't hit me square in the lightly flattened bridge of my nose.  

     I had kept the Big Man busy with a whole lot of request and He picked one, ran with it, and dropped the news on me just a few days ago.  The job market woe was put on pause for a bit of good news.  Problem is, I'm just comfortable.  I came back with intentions of leaving as soon as I could, but came to a point where I was comfortable.  I was comfortable surrounding myself with my family, even if it meant taking on the problems.  I was comfortable being with two old high school friends, years later, trying to find ourselves in the happy medium dividing reckless and responsible.  But trading my comfort in for a pair of walking boots is somehow exactly what I need.

     Life has proved to be a search for security.  I want the blanket.  And I will move ANYWHERE to find it.  But now that I've found it, I have to let it go.  

     So if you are reading, Big Guy, thanks.  You know how I like to keep it interesting.

© blake jackson

Vino Tinto

Fine wine.  Never heard of it.  But nothing beats a $11 magnum of merlot (pronounced Mur- Lot in Kathryn's world).  Something about the added sugar and expected hang over that I just can't stray away from.  Its not really the wine that makes the night so good, its the conversation that comes from cheap booze that makes life grand.  A few old friends are in town for the week and reminiscing always puts a smile on my face.

But with every funny story comes some memory of a stupid moment in time when I had those Oh so dreadful "temporary lapses in judgement."  So some of those lasted several months, who cares right?  But as I thought about these, those old words of wisdom popped up, "Let the past be but the past."  Which is great philosophy.  And I only wish I could follow it.  Challenge: "Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it."  Damn it.  The past is a two faced woman.  I know, I know, that sexist pig just called the evils of the past a woman.  Well its my words so deal :)  Truth is, I am just confused about what I should and should not remember.  

So the good times.  Try to focus on the good times.  But the bad times, forget those.  But don't forget them.  Learn from them.  If you weren't confused by the last four sentences, then you should be writing, not me.   I don't understand what I am supposed to be keeping track of.  My mind is like an accounting book, full of credits an debts.  I can't really say  how I prioritize my thoughts, but I think of bad as often as good, think of childhood as much as adult.  I'll figure it out one day. Start to mature, handle how I view the past in a grown up way.   Not hold grudges, and quit making the same mistakes over and over.  But I better change.  A cheap wine doesn't get better with time.

Off to bed, not much to do when the bottle runs dry. 

© blake jackson

If you wanna grow up to paint houses like me

"Don't call what you're wearing an outfit,

don't ever say your car is broke.

Don't worry bout losing your accent,

cause a southern man tells better jokes."

        As a little boy at a loss to define the word "job," I have found out that this ain't no cake walk.  I keep on searching for something that was molded by hand with a place card in front with my name in cursive.  A place setting that will last until my days are numbered and I'm forced to live out my life on this old porch.  But as with anything that takes a decision and persistence, time is a som-bitch.  The longer I am forced to sit and wait for responses, my head fills with second thoughts and the fear that maybe this just isn't what I am looking for.

        Escaping the mundane is my plan, but then I sit and think about work.  The word itself, terrifying.  From what any greying man or crows-footed woman has ever told me, work isn't supposed to be fun.  It is some absurd situation where everyone thinks they have it the worse, where other people's 'work' is way easier.  Some always threaten to quit, other always talk about how much better life would have been had they chosen a different career path.  Needless to say, it is these folks that have cast a shadow over my optimism.

Now I'm not sure if I'm just a spoiled little child, thinking that things are going to happen, and life will grace me as opposed to everyone else.  But at this point, why bother to care.  Its tough to be the one guy dumb enough to sit back and let life happen to me, but right now, its all I can do.  Maybe I'm afraid to take a step out, too worried that the first step will be in a big pile of shit.  Maybe I'm worried that if I spend all my time worrying about a job that life will slip by.  As with every maybe in life, its probably a combination of the two. Somewhere in this mangled mess lies an answer.    

And if anyone finds that place setting, let me know.  I'll be waiting.

"Have fun and stay clear of the needle,

call home on your sister's birthday.

Don't tell em you're bigger than Jesus,

don't give it away."- 'Outfit' by Drive by Truckers

© blake jackson

3 Days with Noah

     In my short lived tenure as a high school math teacher (so far three months), I can say that what ever comes next in life just won't surprise me.  Cat fights, streakers, and just an outright lack of respect for each other makes me wonder what has happened in such little time.  Now we were by no means angels, but it was almost as if we knew better and did it anyways.  I just don't think these kids know any better.  

     And there seems to be one irritant that makes it all worse.  Just add water. 

     Coming off of a three day downpour, i have felt so very Noah-esque, two of every type of animal running around the class room:  two quiet brainiacs, two 'can't shut their mouths' brainiacs, two raised on the hard streets thugs, two raised on the hard street bible beaters, two raised on the hard street and thinks the lifestyle is garbage, two rednecks, two pot heads,  two artsy la la land lovers, two preppy yet brain cell- free jocks, two perky yet brain cell-free future sorority girls of America, and finally two average kids with average hair and average clothes and average grades.  And by far, the average kids are the least predictable.  All these other little rascals can be defined to a T.  The two quiet brainiacs will work until their finger are chapped, the two loud brainiacs will argue me on why why why, the hard thugs will act big and bad, the bible beaters will tell the hard thugs to change, the kids that want to leave the hard street will work hard to escape and won't really talk much with anyone (identity is hard to find), the rednecks will do work on Tuesdays and Thursdays after someone gets on their case (no rednecks in first hour of January/February due to impending hunting seasons), the pot heads nap and ask me about my short tenure as a band member, the kids in artsy la la land doodle and doodle and doodle, the jocks don't work, the future sorostitutes talk to the jocks, but those damn average kids- they change all the time.  They are some wild breed of untamed, average beast.  

     So the rains set in, and mild high schooler depression runs rampant through the halls (I guess its the lack of Vitamin D.)  The heads hang low, like the entire school had a pet cat, and i just backed over him.  But what do my average kids do,? They love it!  They stare out those fog laden windows and soak up all the grey weather like it was a breathe full of fresh sunshine!  These abnormal yet incredibly average joe kiddos seemed to have a bit of color in their faces, and an incredibly optimistic attitude.  I will admit, I was insanely jealous.  I was in a rainy day bummed mood. Something about the sunshine gets me going...

Ahh- and listen to Otis Spann: Best of the Vanguard Years. 

© blake jackson

Kitchen Greenery

I'm typing today with a bubbly blister on my index finger.  And since you're wondering, once again, I touched the hot stove.  Something about a road cone colored coil draws me in like stray cats to trash cans and I just have to do it.  But in honesty, I'm here to admit that I'm an idiot, wasn't paying attention to a hot pan of sauteed pasta and popped my didget on the stove.  So I, like any other self respecting male, waited until no one was looking and sucked the hell out of my finger until the pain was gone.  No tears, just a little lower lip biting and some gasp for air sounds (like the ones you let out when your mother would spray a cut with that damn antibacterial before the Band aid.)  I healed, this go around without a stinging mist of medicine, and continued cooking.  

But my kitchen cluster made me think of Mae Mae.  With calloused clay hands and hips wide enough to fit all three kids, Mae kept the peace for a family too on- the- go to notice how much they all meant to each other.  And good Lord could that woman cook.  My little blister brought me on that well needed day dream to cooking lessons in the summer, not really a structured education but more of a watch and copy.  It started with breakfast- essentials of eggs and grits and bacon and hash browns.  She'd hum some old tune that I could only make out as years of repeating the same simple menu, but somehow only getting better rather than monotonous.  I caught myself, from time to time, trying to hum something I knew.  Maybe some Billy Ray Cyrus.  George Strait even.  But I didn't seem to have it all down like her.  Something in her song made her food all the more wonderful.

She was a cook.  Not the next Top Chef, no competitor for the likes of Iron Chef.  Something more than that.  In all this commotion about chefs I just don't see where they went wrong.  In my opinion, the chef goes out to please the pallet.  A cook aims to please the heart.  The way Mae would drag her finger through seasoned flour and sprinkle the mix on her tongue just says more.  It would fall down her shirt and across her brown hands and she left it all there because that was her.  She didn't watch for trans-fats and caloric intake, she watched for color in the face and a grin, and most importantly, she didn't want the recognition.  Because that is her job.  Not to putting food on a plate, but it is almost like her divine career of feeding the well being of those she knows.  Her work with the human spirit is not comparable too many other things.  She is a healer. In my South, that is what people do.  They feed each other.  

© blake jackson