LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

It has never been a matter of slaughter. The Title: Bob the Butcher of Bliss.

First off; I find that life is better when I say/think/dream things that feels good coming off the lips.  I also am aware of the fact that nobody gives a fuck about hearing “the message” unless they are damn well ready or you phrase it in a way that they can hear it.  There is a natural geometry to our cockiness as a species and I find that our talent for phrasing (be it pig latin or quantum physics) and the idea that you, me, and everybody we don’t know will benefit from the way we alone are aware that the end is near, the world is screwed, we have our finger on the absolute center of the universe, and where the rest of the j-holes failed in the pursuit – we are going to hit up raging waters with Sisyphus, pick up a case of Tecate, then take a pleasure cruise down the L.A. river and solve it; eg: The Riddle of Human Existence. 

Ah, yes.  Bliss. 

What, you don’t want to go to raging waters with Sisyphus, pick up a case of Tecate, then take a pleasure cruise down the L.A. River?  Weirdo.  How about we tag on “Make some delicious white cheddar grill cheese sandwiches with smoked apple wood bacon and a nice thin sheen of LSD?”

No?  Yes?  Have you seen my horse bite? 

 

No?  Yes?  Have you heard this one before?

They say that the secret to becoming a good butcher is not only being able to know what to divvy up for their customers (who go home to eat and have fun eating fish tacos with Sisyphus with a glass of Tecate, and some aloe vera on their skin because they have a substantial sunburn due to the fact that some j-hole suggested they eat grilled cheese sandwiches laced with LSD while floating down the L.A. River)  . . . it’s not only being able to know what to divvy up for their customers but the skill with which they do it. 

I say that it’s a wonder how anybody gets through this life without becoming a mean son of a bitch and, for some of us things make us really sleepy from time to time and want to take “vacations”.  These vacations take many forms but they usually pertain to the soul and where we go with that is what I like to call “personality”.

I for one have a lot of personality.  Are you familiar with the slow roast? 

So, keeping in mind “personality” and what not let’s get back to the butcher business – and the skill with which they do it:  A good butcher not only knows what to cut but how and where to cut – keeping in mind the longevity of his instrument; his knife.  Who wants to sharpen their shit all the time, right?  Personally, after a long days work – I just want to get home and anything I can do to cut out side work while on the job – I’m all for.  Butcher’s do this by cutting in between the joints and soft spots to keep their knife sharp longer instead of hacking through the slab of something laying on the block like their trying to stamp the black out of plague for love of phonics. 

They call this The Way of the Butcher.  I found this analogy comforting when I heard it.  And it has complimented the way I run beautifully.  It makes for smiles and sweet living for the rest of the bullshit of ache, pain, and rot is implied. 

For me I didn't see the point in trying to reach the unreachable and I feel we, as a species are ridiculous gas bags, brilliant and large, and the worst thing about stuff like cocaine is people keep repeating their god damn selves again, saying the same thing to each other like its the freaking crown of the atom bomb popping outta einsein's pussy, and i found that keeping in mind that its going to be a long haul if i'm going to make it so i better pick and choose my battles and who invest my heart if i really believe i deserve it and worthy of reach. 

(i'm not saying that i've been hoarking up lines, or this is about doing cocaine and what not, what i'm saying is that sometimes when out there in the wild with the people i feel like everybody's on cocaine and it kind of sort of drives me crazy)

so i hack.  so i strike.  with precision.  i played. and the way of the butcher blessed me. 

This past birthday a friend of mine made it possible for me to attend the Metalocalypse Smashing Party (a very spirited show on adult swim with a lot of personality) and I had at a computer monitor with a morning star.  I don’t have any images or video from that experience but its safe to say that it was feisty. 

I am not a survivor.  I’ll feisty their god damn face if anybody tries to tag me. 

(where am i.  what happened?)

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m hungry right now and I lost track of what I wanted to say when I began this.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m happy.  I’ve always been happy.  And part of that has been knowing that I have a lot of personality.  So, I’ve picked and chosen my battles, the relationships in my life (yes – I said that), and the desire to speak, explain myself, understand or be misunderstood, dance around like a monkey, take risks, drink water, eat taco bell, walk around bewildered and aghast, find the words, reconcile, create warmth, intimacy and love. 

I guess what I’m saying is that it has never been about slaughter.  It has been about longevity and sustenance.  And I think it important to state it plainly what this butcher business is and say that I am pretty much the happiest motherfucker you’ll ever meet with a lot of personality and that I’m here for you with a lot of personality and if you get sleepy that’s okay because that goes along with personality and that every need you have will be met, every crazy god damn thought in your head will be cherished, and all is well in the world because there is no approach to passion. There is no victory. 

And I’m there.  Right there.  It is and always has been about love.  Like a speeding ticket.  And a sharpie.  And some dank shrink in San Marino.  And the Wailing Wall.  And Nachos. 

Let me spice the message with a phrase to facilitate a soft exit transparently. 

Home. 

Patti Smith - Horses

Patti Smith - Horses

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DOES SPRAYING DANNON WITH MY PANTS CANNON MAKE ZEN POETRY

hey, so - it's been a second. 

i just wanted to let all five of you know that i have given up writing and have moved onto nothing.  nothing is a very exciting endeavor because, in the end there is none.  as far as nothing goes.

in other news, i have been thinking about stuff you can count on and stuff you can't count on.  specifically in relation to people.  myself included.  i was standing, waiting to pay a bill with my dad (his name is bill) and i was thinking about michael potterly from the anti-delicious society and i was like – “with mike, there are things you can always count on him for and there are things you can always not, and as far things you can’t count on him for goes you can always count on the fact that you can’t count on him so, for the most part – you can always count on him.”

yup, that’s how it goes while paying a bill with bill at a diner. 

disclaimer:  michael potterly does not exist and there is no anti-delicious society.

just in:  a special report from the la vista motel in westchester, california:

my new favorite phrase is:

"spraying dannon with my pants cannon."

i came up with that one while talking to my neighbor.  we were discussing very important matters regarding life and what not - probably the difference between running around softening edges and slamming tripping hazards flush with a hammer, adorning shit with tinsel and those amazing optical illusion light box waterfall setting things at car washes and psychiatrists offices – because if there is something wrong with you and you are at the shrinks you mine as well look at something awesome in the waiting room because that’s what men and women do: 

in other words we were discussing the vigil-hope-blight-expectation-blotter-quiet-bug-bite-open-apathetic-this is the way-this is the story-this is why-this is the inexplicable-the sand and sand traps-and other stuff like caddy shack was a great movie and so was groundhog day-as well as other variations of this and that and what not where in the end we agreed - or so i frame that we are not dead but watching . . . and as far as this process goes:  dragon style, monkey style, technical manual, flip books, paint pens, river dancing - yes all - each and everyone of us are still on the hunt.   

nothing to be alarmed about. 

i leave “hunt” to the definition of free will and the way it shares genes with time. 

illustration:  time and free will at thanksgiving

friends:

we get marks as we make our way - but there is no making it.

there are no rewards for your achievements.
your suffering does not make you special.
we get marks as we make our way.
but there is no making it.
it comes.
no matter which way we go
it comes.  no matter what
we do, our best laid plans get
lay to waste.

these days, i couldn’t be any happier with
this eye-less quirk. 

our world view,
our protestations,
for or against,
our defiance,
of or for,
as in our overtures.
our cons.
our games.
our lack of game.
which is a game.
our fine design
our orchestration
our time on the couch
in the shit convalescing
over goji berries sipping on
malt liquor on wicker chairs
eating crepes with something
sigh worthy in houston
texas
with device
feeling bright and alive
soon to be followed with
chemotherapy and karate
death.

holy smokes. 
e-gad.
you sank my battleship.
connect four. 
“there can be only one”.
there is nothing to be done.
then,
yahtzee. 

in retrospect, all is magic. 

i will take it bit by bit.
i will not shy away from any of it. 

there are no rewards for my achievements.
my suffering does not make me special.
i get marks as i make my way.
but there is no making it.
it comes.
no matter which way i go
it comes.

the process is not unlike buying a new pair of shoes with big
fat laces of amnesia.

or spraying dannon with my pants cannon.

for me

it is the thing that needs no-doing
and the feeling that comes when
the need to wrap my hands around
the neck of a heart (my heart) that needs
un-doing
gets un-done

and the feeling is fantastic

sometimes, like right now. 

like coupling yogurt with cock warfare. 

Like a dandelion getting its brains sprayed And the wishes that take root after blowing It. (another weird poem/blog/illustration)

Some time in the evening near the end of the night I turn in early and ask myself if I really just heard Howlin’ Wolf say, “You got the turtle-learn-ed-est wobble I ever did see.” 

Probably not.  Says me who draws a block around it. 

+

I am on fire and going nowhere. 

+

I feel like a fraud as I feel understood. 

+

It stings when I say, “From them the only enduring love is “exit only.”  I am not build to believe this.  But belief is blue pencil and the rest is gravity.  My heart still responds. 

+

RT:  Fiction fucks Rosetta.  Rosetta precedes the stone.  Film at eleven.  But first, a word from our sponsors. 

+

I am grateful and I love you and someday my family will thank you but in the meantime I’ll have moments like these and moments like the other night where I was standing in the dark, naked (of course), post thought-bomb-finger paint-ash-on-floor-scraps-and-tape-full-heart-fest, looking at the linen cabinet thinking about the “ticket” and saying to myself where my son lives but does not exist that I stand around naked in the dark with music and turtles finger-fucking each other in my hair because I’m full, and this is what its like living with me and it took a long time to feel this way and if my son ever comes it’ll be because of right now and if anybody asks I’ll say, that I did my best to set a good example.

(The opinion is the victory, so he says, namaste. Like gravity.) 

Gravitational force = (G * m1 * m2) / (d2)

Like a dandelion getting its brains sprayed
And the wishes that take root after blowing
It. 

Illustration of the process in an effort to be less cryptic: 

Have a nice day, 

Bob

FUR: i must above all things love myself.

REALITY SANDWICH (with diagram)

Hello Friends,

This morning I woke up with a lot of uncertainty and stuff skulking about beneath the surface.  Personal relationships, challenges, financial survival, grand ideas, dreams, ambition, stress, life story, experience, all that stuff. 

So, like me, your friend Bryan Price (aka: Bob the Butcher - such a silly name) likes to do.  I scrawled it out.  A poem.  That became a diagram.  That started all glum.  Then made me whistle. 

For those saying WTF:  Whatever the fuck that may be.  This is for you. 

<begin poem/thing now>

REALITY SANDWICH (with diagram - written while eating an everything bagel after a nice nights rest)

While alive  I will. 
We are fragile.  We know this. 
There is nothing tragic in this.  Nor mystic.
Unless, of course you wake up that way. 
On any given day.

With or without the black ribbon that
Brushes up against everything. 

Son of Mangle.
Son of Protest.

Their hearts are in as much peril
As yours.

Scattered.  Spraying.  Dropping beacons.
Playing.  Praying.  Laying traps.  Lining
Shoes with litmus paper.

They’ve got their finger and thumb
Clinched down on something as the
Sun and their eye try to make a
Reality sandwich.

(insert diagram)



Where does certainty live? 
Have you noticed that when you hold
Something up to the light like that
It already says okay? 

(yahtzee)

I just discovered this while writing this.
And I find The Discovery both comforting
And hilarious. 

No matter what the specifics of the schism
That woke up with me, this morning. 

So: 

Butcher breathe.
Butcher be bored.
Butcher be calm.
Butcher be brave.
Butcher be thinking.
Butcher be love.
Butcher be strong. 
Butcher be red.
Butcher be blue.

Butcher be smart.
Butcher be true. 

Draw your diagrams and shine your pennies.
Splatter the days with sliding forms.

As uncertain as you are and as full or bankrupt as you feel internally or about the world you live in with black ribbon vision or bleaker precision:

a)    Step back.
b)    Relax.
c)    Pinch the WTF of the moment between your fingers.
d)    Hold it up to the light.

And 
Remember:  The answer lives within the gesture not the sandwich. 

Enjoy.