Why So Little Production, Lately?

I've gone back to writing poetry, rather than writing musical passages and then trying to fit lyrics to them. This is one approach to writing songs. I will probably combine this with just fidgeting around with different chords while humming melodies that come to mind with the intent of fitting actual language in place of the humming later.

Other than that, I am working on a way to be more productive, which would mean being sober and following healthy practices which might extend to jogging a mile every morning to the outdoor gym which is along the bike trail about a mile from here, doing a workout and then jogging back; basically going back to a lifestyle that I adhered to when I was, say, 36 years old and in better shape than I had been at 22.

It's going to be a long climb and the immediate obstacle is to find a way to fall asleep in the next hour or so, so as to get to the plasma place and make 40 bucks and then recover from that in time to go out and busk at night, as the Mardi Gras season is approaching with its traditional 90 dollar nights just for basically being there and doing something for any 3 given hours during it.

So, here is something on this blog to prove I'm alive; and now to some poetry; and perhaps the ingestion of some sleeping pills that my friend Bobby gave me about 2 years ago now; back when I was sometimes depressed enough to want to swallow all of them at once; something that worrying over the well being of Harold the cat gave me pause from doing, as I recall.

Playing Marbles In A Chess World (revised)

 

I can't wait  until the sun comes up tomorrow; when I will go and sell my plasma and get the money and then come back here....

I will probably find a little baggie somewhere and put some white substance in it that looks like crack and then finagle a way to reveal it to the "unfortunate" people that hang around the front door of Sacred Heart, skeezing people as they come and go...

I will pull my key card out of my pocket to let myself in the door, after none of them had assisted me in doing with their own key cards, and while doing so, let the fake bag of crack (Parmesan cheese?) accidentally fall out of my pocket and land in front of them in full view...
Then, I would have the vindictive pleasure of rebuffing each of them, as they trailed  me like starving dogs following a guy holding a chunk of raw meat in his hands; reminding them that, when I had stepped outside earlier, and picked a half smoked cigarette off the ground in front of them, their response had not been to offer me a cigarette, but instead, to pull a pack out of their pockets, (just purchased out of their monthly check) and light one up and smoke it in front of me.

But, they would hound me as I walked to my apartment. At least one of them might try to force his way into my place behind me, as soon as I opened the door.
"Just give me one hit; just one hit, OK?"
"Dude, you wouldn't even give me a cigarette when you saw me scraping tobacco off the ground this morning!"

That would teach them...I suppose...

That is the frame of mind I sometimes get in when I have just sold my plasma for enough money to keep me going for a few more days.
Or after I have busked for a few hours on a given night.
Or basically, whenever I am broke. There is some Freudian stuff going on there, I would imagine. When I am broke, I am reviled by beggars. Probably because I am genuinely broke in that moment, whereas they are begging all the time.

I know that the traditional wisdom is that, to get love you have to give love, and this is counter to that. But it might also be me projecting my anger over being addicted to nicotine onto others.

Open Your Eyes And Read Your Screen!

News 

We went out and played for something like 2 hours and 27 minutes I think it was, Saturday night into Sunday morning.

The very first song we did earned us a ten dollar bill; but after that, the bucket kept coming up from the well empty.
It's hard to complain when the most important thing -how we played- fell into the favorable category.
It's just going to take going out there more; maybe during the daytime one of these days; to turn the tide of the numbers game that busking is, around.

Jacob said that the stereo recording he made using 2 phones came out sounding good. I could post a song or 2 to Soundcloud and then link it to tomorrow's post...
Or I could play around with my audio editor program and add an orchestral instrument or 3.

Having the vocals loud and clear leaves a lot of sonic room for adding other things. At least a timpani thumping out an accent here and there might be tasteful...
The Hamlin Injury

I think it was the right decision to suspend the Bills/Bengals game after that Hamlin guy's heart stopped and he collapsed on the field.

Sure, players die in car crashes and other accidents off field and the games still go on. The players might wear arm bands with their fallen teammate's number on them; but the game still goes on.

Brought to you by Fye-Zur

In this case, though, it would have been awkward.

The Bengals would have been in a position to take advantage of the understandably distracted Bills. And if they ran offensive plays designed to target the 3rd string guy who would have been replacing Hamlin; that would have been uncouth to say the least, and probably downright cold-blooded. At least give the Bills a week or two to fill in the void left behind by Hamlin...
As for the "experts" who immediately declared that there is no way that the injury could in any way be related to any pharmaceutical product that the players were mandated to take; what part of "nobody knows for sure," are they having trouble wrapping their minds around?

There are perhaps ways, barring the performance of an autopsy, to investigate that potential link; but I don't doubt that the whole matter will be swept under the Astro Turf, so to speak...

They Wouldn't Print It If It Wasn't True

Myself, I have been steering clear of as many political discussions as possible; taking Russell Brand's "Stay Free" podcast as my sole daily dose of news.

I believe that U.S. politics is like a theater production that's purpose is to distract the masses, by dividing them and pitting one tribe against the other; so that nobody is asking any questions about the elephant in the room. I wouldn't be surprised if the politicians meet behind closed doors and rehearse their antics; the way that professional wrestlers will get together and run through the program a few times ...I'll clothesline you; and you fall right about here; and then my partner will get up on the top rope and leap down, making it look like he landed right on your chest, and then...type of thing. Once the bell rings they become "mortal enemies," with their hatred of each other on full display for the audience -they who were sipping coffee together that same morning while choreographing the "mayhem."

As long as Americans continue to believe that "they wouldn't print it if it wasn't true," then, oh well, the liars will be effective and that "big club that you and I aren't in" will prosper, and I guess the common folk will get what they deserve.

This Biden guy has been caught in lies red-handed; but anyone who points that out; well, that person is lying...see where we are at?

Instead of shaking my head; I'm trying to go back to a life like I had when I lived in the woods and wouldn't even have known about "911" had I not a little transistor radio that ran a very long time on just 2 AA batteries. What I didn't know never seemed to hurt me. Simply by tuning that radio to the all-sports-all-the-time station and ignoring the newspapers at the beer and cigarette store, I wasn't burdened with a point of view; and that was quite liberating. There were dumpsters to dive into and fires to cook over, and songs to sing for tip money. There were hardly any divisions in society because the machine had succeeded in making 98% of the people of one mind; one narrative.

Now the cellphone is both a blessing and a curse. I might get randomly attacked while making a run to the corner store by someone whose phone has convinced them that I am the white oppressor; and probably voted for Trump, the worst president ever and the biggest white oppressor of all.

Joe Biden is the best president ever. It's all right there on PBS and NPR and CNN; all one has to do is open their eyes and see the screen! Everything on Fox News is a lie; as CNN has been diligent in pointing out...

A Comedy Of Errors

I set my alarm about 8 hours ahead, hoping to leave for the plasma donation place shortly after it went off; but then lay there, unable to go to sleep until it was almost noon and the alarm was set to ring in just 3 and a half more hours....

"Maybe I'll just stay here and get a fresh start in the morning," thought my sleep deprived brain...before it decided that I should just go there, after being up around 12 hours.

It wasn't until I was all the way over to East New Orleans and in a half intoxicated dreamlike state that I realized: "Wait a second; I've been up 24 straight hours, not 12..."

An energy drink only had me on nervous energy when I went into the plasma place, where I found out that I couldn't donate because I had been there the Thursday before, and then Monday. The holiday had confused me.

It was one of those times when I had gambled by using the last of my cash to ride the bus out there; and when none of my plastic cards had the minimum amount of cash on them to get cash back; not after making the requisite purchase of "something," in order to get cash back. Where is Walgreen's, with their .39 cent caramels when you need them?

I was so tired, and it being 76 degrees out according to my phone, I went into Homeless Mode, and scanned the horizon for some place where I could just lay down and sleep since, even if I were to bum $1.25 off someone, I would have to do the same the next day at the other end of the line, in order to return..

There was a strip mall with most of the businesses shuttered within sight of the plasma place, where I found a dry grassy patch in the sun, right behind a concrete slab which looked like it had been an outdoor eating patio for the defunct restaurant of some kind that it was attached to. It had a roof overhanging it, propped up by a few wooden supports, where ceiling fans hung, but no visible cameras. The fans had been out of use long enough for bees or wasps to have attached hives to several of the blades. Turning on the electricity and switching them all on would have been "kicking the hornet's nest," indeed, I thought...

As tired as I was, the small adrenaline rush that I'd gotten from having sneaked onto someone's property had me awake enough so that I sat down on the patio to read "Bel Canto," the Ann Patchett novel that I had brought with me to pass the plasma donation time. I noticed a spent rifle casing on the concrete not far from me, and briefly wondered if someone had been brought back there to be executed and then their body dragged into the scrubby woods that was behind the whole row of buildings.

After reading for a while, I decided to lay in the grass to see if I could drift off to sleep, hoping that I would wake up with only a few hours to wait before the plasma place opened. had only my hat on top of the book for a pillow, so I scanned the trash and debris that seems to be scattered throughout every wooded area of New Orleans, as if the receding waters from hurricane Katrina had deposited it all there.

I saw one potential pillow in the form of what looked like a wicker chair, half buried in the dirt. I though that I might be able to break off a piece of it to use; but my attempt to do so only produced an explosion of motion as a rabbit took off from underneath the thing as if shot out of a cannon. That gave the spent rifle shell another possible meaning.
Thinking that, If I was indeed tired enough, a book with a hat on top of it would make an adequate pillow, I laid down and was just starting to drift off while my mind started coming up with other options to sleeping there.

I could wait at the bus stop and see if any of the drivers would give me a "complimentary" ride after I explained about the plasma donation miscalculation. Or that failing, could go into the Wal-Mart to see if I could find someone that I could trade a food item off my EBT card to, in exchange for $1.25 -an item worth twice that, or so...

It was a few ants that kind of made the decision for me. What ants were doing back there, and what they lived off of was a mystery. Surely it wasn't biting the homeless guy who laid down there every few years, or so, that nourished them...

It was while walking the quarter mile to the nearest bus stop -the one across from the WalMart- that I noticed a text message from Jacob, about some music files he was planning to delete off his Google Drive to make room for the latest recordings of us busking on December 10th.

He wanted to know if I had downloaded them to my computer yet. I told him that I couldn't remember for sure, but thought that I had. Weren't those from the night when we had done a really slow version of a certain Grateful Dead song? I told him that I couldn't check my computer because I was currently stranded in East New Orleans and might have to sleep on the ground somewhere that night, waiting for the plasma place to open in the morning.

He responded that he was going to be borrowing a car later on and might be able to come get me, but that it wouldn't be for a few hours.

I told him that I would first try to see if one of the drivers would let me ride for free, given my circumstances. I was hopeful that if the lady driver pulled up who had picked me up that night a couple weeks ago when it was about 20 degrees out and I had my winter coat wrapped around a little old black lady when she arrived; she might let me ride. It turns out that little old lady rides a lot and is well known to the drivers and that the story of her having found a coat to crawl into on that frigid night, when the bus had been an hour late, had circulated. That driver, a black lady herself, inexplicably smiled at me the next time I got on her bus; rather than stare straight ahead and not even respond to any kind of greeting from me; like the rest of the all African American drivers do on that, and other routes. It's as if they believe I must own a car (because all a white man has to do is sign up at a dealership to get one) and that I'm only riding a bus to "deride" all the mostly black passengers -to let them know that I know that they "don't own no car," and probably never will, type of thing.

The first driver that pulled up, a heavyset black man, fell into the later category; barking "No," at me before I had finished explaining about my transfer having expired, and....

The second bus about 45 minutes later was piloted by a heavyset black lady, who likewise cut me off with: "That ain't got nothin' to do with me!" as I started to explain. So I started to walk towards WalMart, thinking that trading food for bus fare might be more successful; less like begging at least... How much more fuel would the bus have to burn to lug my 144 pounds the 13 miles to Canal Street? I wondered. But then I kind of forgave the drivers because I don't know how many people try to ride for free every day and how much of a problem their habits may have become and if the bus company itself hadn't had to "put their foot down" on the matter. I could have been an agent of the corporation, testing the drivers to see if they were adhering to the policy; especially in the often conspiratorial thinking that surrounds white people in the thoughts of a lot of African Americans.

No sooner had I decided to shift my attitude towards one of gratitude for all the things that I did have and take upon myself the onus of blame for not having paid enough attention to the calendar, causing me to show up a day too early at the plasma place...my phone chimed.

It was Jacob messaging me that he would be able to get the car sooner than he previously thought and that I should make sure I save the battery on my phone, so I can keep him updated on my whereabouts. I was in the middle of responding to that message when my phones screen went black, except for a spinning graphic telling me that it was "shutting down." It had gone from 72% battery charge to 1% all in the space of one text message. I don't know if this is because I was way out in East New Orleans and not close to a tower, or what...

The second person inside WalMart that I offered to buy food for in exchange of $1.25 was a Latina lady, who told me; "I can just give you a couple dollars," which she produced from a little purse that looked like it was stuffed with large bills.

Since I then had to wait about another 45 minutes for the next bus, I decided to take my time and shop for some food myself while waiting. I found that I wasn't hungry at all because I had gotten a nervous stomach from the ordeal of having had to ask strangers for help. Nothing looked appealing, so I just grabbed 3 cans of energy drinks and a couple pounds of tilapia fish that was almost $16. My biggest concern was getting back home where I could put a quick charge on my phone in order to alert Jacob not to start heading towards East New Orleans, thinking he would then be nearby when I turned it on to tell him exactly where I was...

I got back to the bus stop, carrying my bags from Wal Mart, a few minutes before the next #62 arrived, being driven by the first heavyset black man who had refused me. This time, he was just waving passengers past the turnstile thing, which had a little plastic "out of order" thing draped over it. Just enough of a frown appeared on his face when it came time for him to wave me past the thing that I wondered if he thought that I had phoned someone of my white friends along the route and asked him to do me the favor of getting on the bus and jamming a Canadian quarter or something into the machine, so as to render it out of order.

Or if I might not have called Donald J. Trump directly and explained my dilemma. "Don't worry, Daniel McKenna, I've got some amazing, loyal friends there in East New Orleans who will jam a Canadian or Mexican or some other foreign coin -they're all the same to me, but it won't be American; that's for sure- into that machine that will jam it like it's never been jammed before! It will be SO jammed...Let me make a couple calls; you won't have to pay a cent, there are some amazing, incredible people there in Louisiana, as you know because you're one of them; I'm looking at your name on a list right in front of me. You won't have to pay a cent, I guarantee it!" That's kind of the vibe I got from the frown he gave me...

I pocketed the 2 dollars from the Latina lady, glad that I wouldn't have to figure out a way to get back to the plasma place the next day.