So How Am I?

Yo:

I've been asked a lot, of late, "So, how ARE you?"

I appreciate the interest. I appreciate the inquiry. But, my friends, you'll have to excuse me if I don't respond with an answer that is anything within the realm of "typical."

For you, of all people, as my friends, must understand that -- despite my having appeared, of late, to have assumed a lifestyle that might be construed as "typical" -- I remain a soul that is anything less than (more than?) typical.

So how AM I?

I am fine. I am functioning. I am addressing all of the needs (and confronting all of the demons) that my New English, Lace-Curtian Irish upbringing might have led us all to expect me to eventually have had to deal with.

There. There was no other way to end that sentence than with a preposition. I suppose that says it all. How am I? "Well, I'm fine, thank you very much -- but, of late, I've been ending my sentences with prepositions. Do you suppose that means anything?"

Do you suppose? Do you suppose anything? Well, then, good for you. Because I, of late, have not been able to suppose anything. Anything at all. For, you see, being confronted with grief the likes of which relates to the loss of a parent -- I dare say -- renders one incapable of being able to suppose anything whatsoever. Oh, one might suppose this and that, but eventually (and quite suddenly), one must admit that one's parent is gone.

Gone.

Forever.

And because one's parent is gone, then the rest of how one related to the world (most often based within how one related to one's parent) is gone.

Regardless of what kind of relationship there was, and regardless of which expectations might have been raised and then realized, or (more often than not), not realized -- the eventual and sudden realization that the relationship between one and one's parent has ended emerges.

So, in case you're still wondering, that's "how I AM."

I'm still reeling in the shock that is having lost the 2nd of both my parents, within 2 years. I'm deep within the depths of discovering what life with real estate, property taxes, attorneys and financial planners is like.

I know that ultimately it doesn't sound like much. But when you factor in the fact that I never intended for this kind of thing to happen (e.g.: I perceived "their" mistrust of me as a reason to cut me out of the will), then it takes on a whole different meaning.

I'm a bourgeois kid from the suburbs of Massachusetts who was raised to be one thing, then rebelled against it (all the while still acting like it) -- who then finally wound up doing exactly what he was raised to do. I was raised to market myself. And that, my friends, of all things, is one thing that you can always count on me to do.

So how am I?

I'm fine.

I'm coping as best I can, and I'm continuing to market myself.

What else is new?

It Finally Came to This

It finally came to this, where "my" tenants here at 92 Moore St. are concerned. After several of the semi-privileged idiots called 311 in order to file complaints against the landlord, several City Inspectors have since shown up. And that is NOT a good thing. To learn why, read on. This is the pseudo-anonymous letter I just left under their doors:

The Thing About Calling the City

The thing about calling the city, here where you live, is that: Even though it might appease your feelings of frustration about the circumstances under which all of this building’s tenants live, it ultimately threatens everyone’s ability to live here.

Each time a complaint about the building is called in, and subsequently filed, the city builds a case against having ANY tenants live in the dwelling.

That means, every time you call the city in order to fix whatever your apartment’s current problem is, the Landlord gets hit with a fine AND the city becomes more and more curious as to exactly what is going on here, as far as dwellings go.

You were all informed, at the time of your lease signings, that this building is in transition as far as city codes go – and that the only reasons you were allowed to rent here were because: a) you acknowledged that fact, and b) you had less than the standard personal/professional backgrounds that would have been necessary to rent any of the majority of other New York City apartments. (E.g.: There was no credit check, no background check, no calling of your previous Landlords, and no Guarantor required.)

Yes, this is written evidence that you could possibly use against the Landlord if you really want to choose the legal route to getting your immediate needs met while you live here. But lawsuits take years to process. The odds are you will be far gone from here by the time any lawsuit you file meets its docket date. That means it will be years from now before any Judge will listen to your complaints.

So you options are:

Either keep calling the city every time something goes wrong with your apartment, thereby eventually having everybody in the building evicted; or, cooperate with the Landlord in finding more immediate solutions to your problems.

If you want all the tenants in this building to wind up on the street, keep calling the city.

If you are truly unhappy with your living situation, the Landlord will let you out of your lease at any time without incurring any penalty. Please don’t make your problem every other tenant’s problem.

And that's how I left it. We'll see what results from it...

[Ed's Note:]

The Editors of Moore and More would like to apologize for the printing of the mere first draft poem in the last post's poem. Somewhere between when Suzy, our Summer Intern, dropped off the submission and when she finally left, there was a mix-up ... G&Sp

The Father, Son an' The Music's Ghost

OMG...

You: You who've been readin'
Thus far;
Thus far int'a' m'readin'
Of matters thus far

You: Who've b'een a'long w'ith me
Ever s'much;
S'much as s'much's might'a 'been
A'llowed as t'come
Along jus' s'far.

S'far as s'far's been allowed
T'be...
S'far's 'been allow'd t'be's
'Been allowed t'be.
S'far.

You: who doesn't know much
About m' journeys
B'fore here;
M'journeys heretofore,
Or 'm'journeys here t'date..

You' jus' don't know..
Y'don't KNOW;
An' f'er that,
I can't help but f'er ya,
I can't help f'er ya

Not hate.

F'er t'hate ya'd
T'mean...
Mean 't'meant ya'd,
Quite mean.
An' I can't yet quite
T'mean ya...

'T mean ya
So mean.

And Now, for the Next Step

"You only call me when you're high," a friend of mine just told me over the phone. And he was right. I've taken to Drinking and Dialing. You've all been on the receiving end of it, if you're on my celly's call list.

Sorry.

I've taken to drinkin', snortin' and dialin'. Sorry. But it's how I line up all the personal calls I want to return. As the weeks progress, and as I work (and work and work), and as the personal calls that need to be returned pile up, I wind up scheduling time on the days when I "partake" to return those calls. See, I want to enjoy them. I want them to not feel like the kind of calls I have to make 5 days a week at work. I want the calls that I make when I call my friends to not feel at all like the calls that I make when I'm calling on prospects for business.

That's why you don't hear from me until late at nite. When I've been drinkin', smokin' and snortin'. I know I must not come across at that time as altogether together. I know I must sound fucked up. Well, that's because I am.

Friends: I'm fucked up. I'm riddled with fear. I've allowed myself to slip back into the bourgeois sensibility I was raised to have. I've let myself go back to the pseudo upper-middle class consciousness that I was bred to live and replicate. In a nutshell (and wouldn't it be great if I could indeed harbor myself in such a place -- in such a safety cone as a nutshell), I've regressed from a consciousness-raising self-employed San Franciscan to a Live-by-the-Clock, "Attend Multiple Meetings and Schedule Yet Even More" New Yorker.

Thing is, I don't think this transition is all that bad.

I don't think it's all that bad, although it is defintiely scary to me. That's why I drink and dial. You see, when I drink and dial, that's when I'm most vulnerable. As much as it must suck to be on the receiving end of those drunken calls, I beg you to understand how lonely a place I'm coming from when I make them.

I'm lonely. I'm alone, with the exception of having a loving dog, and I'm scared. True, I've managed to carve out a domicile in the curious up-and-coming roughneck neighborhood of Bushwick, Brooklyn. I'm doing the best I can, and indeed, some certain forces can be said to have been working in my favor. I can't ignore that. In a lot of ways, things have gone very well for me since I moved here 6 years ago carrying a suitcase and a bunch of unfinished business from L.A.

But now I'm plateau-ing. All the emergencies have faded into just plain middle class responsibilities. I don't know how most folks do it. I don't know how you guys with middle-class lives -- replete with middle-class kids -- do it. I was raised middle class. I always thought I'd escape it. For a while, I did. But lately I haven't been able to.

I'm relatively content in the life that I've worked so hard over the past 6 years to create. Even if it does involve living in a ghetto with a live chicken store in my back yard and crack heads and junkies smoking and shooting up in my hall. It's not at all the middle-class existence I was raised to have. But I've managed to make it as middle-class as possible.

There's no mistaking it. I'm a Bohemian. No matter how much or how little money I bring in per year, I'm still a Bohemian. My goal, socio-economically speaking, is to earn middle-class earnings whilst retaining a Bohemian lifestyle. So far I'm doing that. And that's why I'm so depressed.

I'm getting what I wanted, and realizing I need to want a heck of a lot more in order to get more of what I need. I need to raise the stakes, even though my middle-class job leaves me exhausted each week. I hate -- I simply hate -- that the answer for us working-class folks always seems to be, "Work harder."

Well, I'm going to work harder. I'm woring hard right now, and it sucks, and it's depressing me, but I'm going to work harder nonetheless. Until or unless somebody presents me with something more worthwhile, that's all I can do. So if you're worried that I'm too busy right now, working, you can be assured it's only going to get worse.

And so, the drinking and dialing might continue. I'll stop it at your request, but in the meantime, it'll go on. It's all I've got to connect with you. If you want to arrange some other way to connect, by all means, let me know and we'll arrange it. All I want is to connect.

I'm staring down the barrel of 45. My stage and writing career snuffed themselves out when I hit my mid-30s and settled down in Los Angeles with a man who would prove himself to be emotionally abusive. Yes, of course, I let him be so. I know. I know. But knowing so doesn't bring back all that lost time...

All this moving about. All this relocating. It has to stop. I have to put down some roots. And so I have. In an up-and-coming neighborhood in Brooklyn called Bushwick. But it's come with a price tag. A hefty price tag. 6 years, from age 39 to 45, have been sacrificed in order for me to merely start pushing out some roots.

I don't know how many of you have had to "go it alone" the way I have. It's not easy. I do my best to refrain from becoming a burden on my friends and family. I grew up young. At 19 I was working 3 part-time jobs and going to college full time. Despite the slacker days in San Francisco (during which I still maintained my own lifestyle), and despite a few slacking months here in Brooklyn, I've always worked. I've always, with a few exceptions, been my own man. And the time whe I wasn't were miserable for me. Absolutely miserable.

All I'm asking for is some understanding. It I call you late at night, drunk or buzzed or high, well -- can ya just cut me some slack? You don't have to pick up. And you can tell me how fucked up I sounded on your voice mail. That's all part of the deal.

But the deal is, I gotta hear your voice. Even if it's your voice mail.

I've Lost My Voice

OK, Truth be told? I've lost my voice.

I've lost the voice that was once the source of my musings. See, once upon a time, I used my voice to articulate all that was on my mind -- and in my heart. But somewhere along the line, I lost touch with my voice -- because I lost touch with my ability to articulate it.

Once upon a time, I was a brave young man, fearless and unconcerned with how my words and actions might affect those around me. Once upon a time, I was obsessed with truth -- and how it must be spoken.

And so I spoke the truth. And I made for myself a name that became associated with speaking the truth. But the truth of which I spoke back then was entirely personal. Such was the luxury of being a young man. To be able to speak of truths entirely personal.

You see, for the young man, the truths that are entirely personal are exactly that: entirely personal. But as that young man grows (if the fates would have it) into an older man -- well, then, all bets are off.

All bets are off, you see, as a young man grows into an older man. Because, as a young man grows into an older man, he accumulates relationships. He accumulates relationships that define the transition of his growing from young man into an older man. He accumulates relationships that define what separates his youth from his adulthood. He accumulates relationships that, at first, defined who he was, but then eventually came to define who he was to become.

And it is within this accumulation -- this accumulation of relationships -- that it becomes more difficult for the Romantic young man to continue to articulate his true feelings.

For if this once-young, now older, man were to articulate his feelings in a manner just as he'd articulated his heretofore youthful articulations... Why, then, he'd proceed to offend many, if not most, of the persons who now constitute his heretofore recently acquired adulthood.

In short, it gets harder to remain honest as one gets older.

At least, publicly.

So if you're wondering why you haven't heard my voice lately, it's because I've realized I've lost it. I hope not to have lost it forever, but for the time being -- well, I don't know which of you to praise and which of you to bash.

At least, publicly.

And so for now,


Ta,

I'm a Bit Concerned

I won't lie t'ya... I'm a bit concerned.

I'm a bit concerned about this Generation Y (and beyond). On the one hand, they have the world at their fingertips (or, at least, the world according to Google) -- yet on the other hand, that's all they rely upon. Google, Yahoo, and Wiki.

Don't make me say it. Please, don't make me say it. I won't say it. Oh, Christ, it would apear as though I have to say it:

Google, Yahoo, and Wiki -- OH MY.

Did you know that the number of Google, Yahoo and Wiki (to say the least) searches are contributing to our present-day unnaturally excesssive additions to the Carbon Dioxide levels in Earth's atmosphere? Well, they are.

Exactly what was it you thought they meant when you first read, at the bottom of their emails, "Powered By..."???

Power takes money. And money takes power.

But most often, not for long.

I hope I won't have to continue to kill Polar Bears just to be able to put food on my table.


Signed,
Conspiracy-Theorist Greg

Here's the Thing (Or, at Least, One of 'em)

OK, so my last post was maudlin.

Know what Webster has to say about that term? Well, here it is:

"Alteration of Mary Magdalene; from her depiction as a weeping penitent.
Date:
1509
1 : drunk enough to be emotionally silly
2 : weakly and effusively sentimental"



Gads. I didn't even know I meant that. But apparently I did. See, that's one of the things my mind does. It refers to references far tucked into the dictionary -- or into the encyclopedia -- of "Modern Man [sic]." Believe me, when my mind talks to itself, it uses all vocabulary: All tenses; all prepositional phrases; and all potential grammatical potentialities, including the past, past-participle, conditional past-participle, conditional past-past participle, and so on. Indeed, my mind utilizes all the potentialities of the English language (or so it hopes), be it scholastic or vernacular, whenever it thinks.

But it isn't always sure of what it speaks. That's how my mind works. It speaks first, somewhat linguistically, or scholastically, or within the parameters of the vernacular -- and then it goes backwards. It re-traces. It, after having spoken, re-traces its steps. My mind, after having spoken, re-traces its linguistic steps -- to make sure it has meant, or at least meant what it's meant, what it's said.

In this case, as I've already said, my said linguistics said exactly that which I intended them to have already said.

So what have I said? Simply this: Once Upon a Time, when I lived and produced writing whilst living in San Francisco, I had given myself the liberty to speak. I'd granted myself the honor of writing honorably. I'd allowed myself the occasion to be -- totally -- myself.

But since I've come to New York, all I've allowed myself are limitations.

I can't (/don't) write about my life as it actually is. Why? Because, as much as I'd lke to think my currrent cohorts would be able to digest where I've come from and where, as a result, I'm going... I know they can't. They simply can't.

How do I know? I know because, as a result of having spent 7 years in LA before I ventured into New York, I've recognized a rather simple formula: Material acquitisition = lack of Spiritual education. And yes, you Angelinos and New Yorkers can argue: Lack of material acquisitition most often = excessive, or at the very least, imbalanced, Pursuit of spiritual enlightenment.

I made my mark (if even it might be said that I even had) in San Francisco by being utterly blunt, and honest with myself. I haven't found the place in New York to be able to be so. I've come close, and I'm coming closer -- but the idea of being really real with East-Coasters has proven to be a scary concept.

And being really real with West-Coasters has proven to be tedious. Sorry to you all. But ultimately, everybody wants validation of their sensibility, don't they? Well, I'm sorry. I can't validate West Coast sensibility whilst travailing amidst the turmoil of East Coast sensibility in efforts to merely stay alive.

To hear it put like that, one might think nobody wins. But I'm here to tell you all, this is duality we're deling with. This is the physical realm. Comprised through the tension of opposites. An entire realm. The physical realm. Comprised of the tension of opposites.

So deal with it, my friends. Just live with it. Why wouldn't you? Why wouldn't you -- whether you're coming from the perspective of materialism or spiritualism -- eventually get to this point?

I'm there. I'm at that point. I'm at the point where I'm no longer going to value any material advice/perspective any more than I'm going to value any spiritual advice/perspective any more than either perspective/argument applies to my current situation.

Because, in the end, that's exactly what both persepctives are concerned with. My situation. Go figure.



You didn't think you were off the hook in this bi-argumentative, doubly-intended argument, did you?

So that leaves me with two options: Either shut up, or keep trudging along. But trudging along means maintaining integrity in what I'm saying.

I'm on the brink. I'm on the brink of falling forever away from the scene, or of falling into the realm of pissing you off.

History will tell.