Appreciable Hurdles

Vincent got really pissed when people gave him cameras as gifts...

I have "Starry Night" stuck in my head right now, so I give you a classic painting, "The Cafe."
I woke up about 6 this morning. They (the city mainainence workers who make pretty good money, have all kinds of benefits and whom you never see covered in their own sweat) were already cranking up the lawn mowers and the weed whackers, at the front end of the graveyard.
I hurredly stashed my sleeping bag in a patch of leafy plants the same color as the bag, and then I bagged up all the trash that I could find, and left, to go get my hard boiled egg.
Getting my laundry done is still at the top of my list of things to do.
I went to Save-A-Lot and purchsed two large plastic bags for 22 cents. I then went to the graveyard and stuffed them full of clothing of mine that I could find.
I then removed it from the graveyard and placed it in another spot, which should be a safe place for it; at least until the sun goes down, when the likes of Richard and Thomas come out.
Today, I might try to go to the music store. I want to ask them about technology which is currently available to facilitate the recording of music and the posting of same recordings onto the world wide web.
I still want a huge backpack, and a copy of my Alabama State ID, but will have to wait on the ID, and am being patient in the acquisition of the backpack. Jeff, the Potter had said once that students abandon backpacks at the school where he teaches, and that he might be able to get me one. I would hate to spend 90 bucks on something that I might have gotten free by excersising patience. I want to be able to carry everything that I own on my back, and to thus safeguard it and allow myself to be mobile, in case I want to leave Mobile to partake of the bonanza which is New Orleans, or of any other happening spot, within reach of one with a hugh backpack and a guitar on his back.
That is the order of the day; to clean and dry all my clothes and then neatly fold them and place them in a warm, dry safe place.
Pants Of Death
I am working on a story about a pair of pants at the Wings Of Life rescue mission thrift store that have paranormal powers, so that whoever purchases them for 5 dollars and dons them, falls under some kind of spell and begings murdering and raping (and posessing child pornography) all around Mobile, Alabama. The people all have no criminal histories and are model citizens when not wearing the toupe colored Dickies that they got at the thrift store at Wings Of Life.
That is the premise of the story. Wait until you read about why the cashier at the thrift store always grins maniacly after the pants are re-donated, and after yet someone else, buys them for 5 dollars.
I could go and eat at Wings Of Life rescue mission right now. All I would have to do is sit through a 45 minute church service, where someone on a microphone would talk about how they used to have to go to Wings Of Life and sit through a church service, just to eat, but now they have been saved and delivered from all of that, because they prayed to Jesus, and the very next day a check came in the mail for $118 thousand dollars, and they got a car and a house, not just a cheap car, either, and now they don't have to eat at Wings Of Life, though they are offered plates in return for preaching.

"Settle down, everyone, I'm almost through...you'll get to eat in a minute..."

I am using this writing session as a way of dissociating and keeping my mind off of the daunting task of doing laundry.
I've got the soap and the clothes bagged up. I could wash it myself in a bucket and hang it all night in front of the hot air that blasts out of the Church of Christ air conditioning units. I have wondered why the air conditioner seems to run night and day there. I have concluded that it has to do with the issue of humidity. They probably have priceless spiritual works of art in there, like paintings, which would be depreciated more by a humid atmosphere than the cost of 10 identical air conditioning units.
They are extremely wealthy in that church, so much so that they are very suspicious of outsiders even coming near their sanctuary.
They are the ones that put down straw on the ground where us homeless sleep, around last Christmas. We were sleeping like Jesus in the manger that week.
Wall Rises To 8 Feet
I might move back to that spot, because the wall at the graveyard is a full 8 feet high now, with bricks being added even as I type. It took me a couple of leaps to pull myself up and catch and perch myself at the top of the wall, balancing my body weight, so as to swing myself over the wall last night. And, as usual the silly riddle was in my head, as I went over:
Q: Why are there walls around cemetaries?
A: Because people are dying to get in.
I hadn't expected to see any of the less athletic homeless guys sleeping in there, and I didn't. They had to walk on down Government Street, past the Hardee's, which is intrinsicly tied to this particular problem of theirs, and sleep at the Christ Church, or somewhere else which has no appreciable hurdle in front of it.
I don't think I will, because I have a huge responsibility to supply my body with exactly what it needs to endure as a temple of the Holy Spirit, and that specialised knowledge has been hard learned, and shouldn't be wasted.

Tuesday's Gone

The "Squid" Omen, Again
I met a guy at Serda's last night, named Christopher Noerr, who drew the illustration to the left. I chose this one because of the giant squid, obviously, and because he told me it would be OK to post his stuff, as long as I credited him with it.
I think it is Jules Verne, but am not sure; I've never seen Jules in person or photo.
I was at Serda's after I decided not to play on the street. It was 36 degrees, according to the thermometer on Water Street. There were few souls treading the sidewalks.
I struck up a conversation with Chris, which started with a comment that I made about the "closed captioning" adorning the movie, which was silently playing on the large-screen in Serda's back room; the "bags of coffee beans" room.
I thought it comical that one of the captions read: "fife playing," as if the deaf person's enjoyment of the feature would be thus enhanced. "Why don't they put "birds chirping in the background; horse's hooves clopping on ground," I said.
The captions were sometimes scattered across the screen "To let you know that the sounds are coming from all around," said Chris.
"Stereo for the hearing impaired," I added.
We talked about the fact that we are both working on Children's Books. I outlined "It's The Hat That They Hate" for him, which met with his encouragement. He told me about a project of his, which I will not detail here, due to possible copy writing issues.
The first part of the day had me sleeping in until 11:30 am., going for an energy drink, and then spending a great part of the day at the library, where I delivered myself of yesterday's post, and then read more of the idiots guide to publishing book.

The hardest part of being published for me, I anticipate, will be following the "rules" of the editors and agents, and not sending a manuscript with a coffee stain on it, for example. Rules, rules, rules!!
And, now, I am going to cut this short. I have a busy schedule, with the children's book, church service tonight with Jeff and Jennie and family, and then, possibly playing at Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic. The song will be called "I'm Giving Up On Music"
This morning, I slept until 11:10 am, because it was too cold to get out of my sleeping bag when I first awoke. So, I am behind "schedule.'
To compensate you for the brevity of this post, here is another giant squid, enjoy!

A Prayer For Guidance

I sometimes feel like I will die in a spot like this; just looking, and thinking.
This morning, I vacillated between feeling despondent, getting over it, and then feeling despondent, overwhelmed and lacking purpose; and then getting over it. These emotions have rarely been visited upon me since my becoming a street musician.
It is already 1 pm., and soon the temperature will plummet into the range where playing guitar on the street will not be a viable option. Going to The Garage for their open mic night would put me in a warm place, but I wouldn't feel entirely comfortable, (having only a dollar and seventeen cents,) when the waitress comes to ask me if I "want anything."
Neckbones With Terry
My friend Terry wants to cook some "neckbones" in some kind of fryer type thing, which he owns and plugs into a certain socket outside the U-Haul place. I still have "food money," and I may just buy some neckbones and let Terry cook them up for us. There is that feeling of despair, again.
I feel like I could and should have entered the "Kingdom Of Heaven," but am stuck here on earth, where Satan is jerking me around, and mocking me, because I didn't quite repent enough or have strong enough faith. It's like I am in a coma and angels are around me, shaking me and trying to reach me, saying "Wake up, Daniel; you can do it!" Yet, I remain unconscious, dreaming about stupid things that will never matter, ultimately. 
..neckbones; stupid??...
God only reveals Himself to certain people (that's somewhere in the bible,) and it is crossing my mind that my whole spiritual journey to this point may have been an illusion, born in my imagination. It's hard to be absolutely certain about anything, by my nature. I have total faith in "blind faith," I just wish I believed that more strongly.
It would be a shame to think that I wound up in Mobile totally at random and that there is no significance to things which seemed God-sent at the occasion of them.


I was warm and snug in my sleeping bag last night, with a fleece blanket wrapped around me, under the trolley with my radio on, as I listened to the re-capping of the games which were played, which I missed because I can't be in several places at once, and can't prioritise, nor manage time. I am standing at the foot of the signpost, as its shadow grows long. 
It is time for a period of fasting and prayer...after the neckbones, that is...
That's the only thing which has never failed me.
I Went To High School With Mike

ON A Different Note, the picture to the right was posted by a guy I went to high school with. He was a rather shy and reserved kid, not known by me, at the time, to be an artist nor musician. But, it's hard to know what a quiet, reserved kid from a small town has going on in his head, and I guess he was/is an artist, at least (see right)
I found this post this morning, and am putting it here because it is pretty similar to something that Jared, son of Jeff The Potter and Jennie, drew Sunday.
It is possible that Mike Feeney (as that is his name) was drawing this at the same time, 1,200 miles away; tapping into some collective, subconscious well of creative energy.
I now go to contemplate what to "tap into," myself. I'm reading 3 books, writing 3 books, working on 12 songs, and trying to "improve" myself in general, and little appears to be getting done. I am haunted by people who would tell me that, maybe I wasn't meant to do the thing that I am trying to do, and that accounts for my lack of progress.
Maybe I will just work harder, like the Donkey in "Animal Farm," by George Orwell.
I know that my life can change in 48 hours, thanks to U-Tube...
I could be just a few neckbones away from self-realization...

Secret, Undisclosed Spot

I Move to Where Neither Alan Nor Thomas Can Find Me
Yesterday, Tuesday, was spent mostly in moving all my stuff from the railroad track spot, to a spot which I will not divulge, especially to Alan or Thomas.
I went to the laundromat and washed everything which was worth washing, but especially my sleeping bag, upon which Thomas, and I believe, Alan, slept.
The thing needed a good washing, anyway.
Leaving the laundromat, I went to the secret, undisclosed spot and stowed away most of the clean laundry. I forgot that I had taken my money out of my pocket and shoved it in one of my bags, amongst the clean clothes. I did this because the laundromat is in a neighborhood where "they'll kill you for three dollars," according to people who seem to have knowledge of this fact (and yet, are still alive.)
Arriving in town, I found that I had just enough money for a blue Mountain Dew, which I purchased at the Dauphin Store, before venturing forth onto the sidewalks of Dauphine Street, where I saw very few souls, as I sat down to play for my own amusement, and in celebration of my having successfully moved out of the railroad track spot, and to the undisclosed, secret location about three quarters of a mile away.
Sunday

A good part of Sunday was spent in church; the Fellowship Baptist one, where Jeff and Jennie's family go, and where the bible is pretty heavily leaned upon.
We listened as those who have been appropriately educated, dissected the verses of that all-time best-selling book. (The last time I checked it was, though some of Steven King's may be creeping up on it, at least in paperback. [I predict that, if that ever happens, the world will have seen some kind of sign manifested])
That particular church maintains that those who are not "registered" members of a church, (flock, congregation gathering) are committing a sin.
They append to the definition of this church "family," one of its functions, by which its members "take responsibility" for each other.
Whether or not this "responsibility" entails just the keeping of one another in prayer, or the knocking upon doors to ask: "Where were you, we hope everything is alright," if ever a member misses a service, I am not really clear on.
They are a congregation of very nice people, even as they are preached to that such a quality doesn't amount to a hill of beans towards their salvation, and that there will be a lot of "nice" people in hell. (It's right there in black and white; and red)
There is such a preponderance of families with children who attend the Fellowship, that one can't help seeing it as a church "for" families, just as The Cave (click on "The Cave" in the "for more information on" section to the left for more information on The Cave) is kind of a church "for" ex bikers and others who used to do really bad things, but have turned their lives around by asking God into their hearts, and now just smoke cigarettes, drink a little, and will take a few hits off a joint every now and then.
The men of the Fellowship Baptist are pretty uniform in outward appearance regarding attire and grooming, sporting short hair, button-up shirt and tie with jacket, and for the most part having a wife in a dress by their side and having children in tow.
The children are dressed in like fashion, with the absence of a tie for the boys, and the addition of ribbons or other frilly things to the girls.
The preaching is done by someone who speaks with authority. None of the congregation add to nor question the sermon. Questioning can be done after the service, by merely approaching the pastor, and asking away, though.
The preacher does the praying for the flock also, in a sort of "class action" manner, whereby he speaks to God for everyone present, which I find to be consistentent with most churches. 
They are in contrast, in the manner of delivery of sermon and prayer, with the Downtown Fellowship, where the preachers periodically stop to allow feedback from those in attendance, and individuals are given opportunity to voice their "personal" prayers.
This is lent more practicality there, given the fact that their gathering seems to average only about 30 folks, on any given Sunday. This is not including those of the Muslim faith, who are invariably there, who publicly denounce Christians and their church, calling their God a "white man's god," but who probably thank their own god for the warm room, and the chance to sleep in it for a solid hour each Sunday morning.
Saturday
Saturday was New Year's Day, and I woke up at Jeff and Jennie's house. We had been up the previous evening with company.

Thanks

I Am Invited To The Cave
I was sitting in the park on Thanksgiving day, when some guys came around and asked me if I played my guitar. They asked me if I needed anything. One of them held a bible.
I hate that question, because the answers are myriad. Of course, I need oxygen, etc.
They gave me 20 bucks, and invited me to go to the church which is called "The Cave." That gave me about 24 bucks, total. There were hardly any people walking around on Dauphin Street.
Supposedly, there is great Christian music played there. I will have to leave here in a few minutes, if I am to meet them in Bienville Park.
I Am Invited To The Music Box

Last night, as I walked around in the frigid air, noticing that there were hardly any people on the street. I ran into none other than the nice Becca, and her friend. She invited me to go to The Music Box, to hear some band play. She handed me 20 bucks, to cover the entrance fee, which wound up being 12 bucks, although the guy at the door let me in for 5. I think he knew me from Serda's Open Mic Night.
The band playing inside consisted of members, all of whom I had seen at Serda's before. I knew their original songs already. I didn't see Becca there. I hadn't gone in right after my meeting her on the sidewalk, but sat and played for about 30 minutes and made only a couple bucks.
I did see Taylor, oldest daughter of Jeff The Potter, and was not acknowleged by her or her boyfriend.

Just A Nice Photo

This Is Just A Nice Photo

I haven't blogged all week. Things are different, now that I no longer have the songwriting contest to occupy me.
Serda's, Round Three
Wednesday, I went to see the third round of the competition. The performers were better than on any previous round, I thought. Maybe they had the same idea as myself, in letting people get knocked out in the earlier rounds, leaving less competition in the latter ones. I guess it backfired, because all the best competition seemed to have had the same idea, if that makes any sense...
Jeff, The Potter And Erin, His Daughter

Until I Get A Photo Of Erin...

I was joined by Jeff, the Potter, and Erin, his daughter.
We had come from the Fellowship Baptist church service, where pork and chicken was eaten, and the book of James digested afterwards.
There was a lot of jockeying for the seating in the music room, which was at a premium. Many people sat on the carpet, where they were able to get the camera angles that they wanted for their various devices.
Several people greeted me warmly, having seen me play there before, or at The Garage. They all seemed upbeat and to be hoping that I was going to play that night. It is encouraging to have the respect of your peers, if not of the judges. I plan upon asking the judges, after the thing is over with, about their decision making process, in hopes of finding out how close I came to making the finals, and whatever strong points that they may have seen in my songs.
Mornings On Royal
One of the reasons for the gap in this blog has to do with a change in my routine, whereby I have been playing on Royal Street in the mornings. Thursday morning, I managed to get about 17 bucks from the passers by, most of whom seemed to be "business" people. I sat next to the big clock, in front of the bank.
Friday, I only made about 11 bucks there, before a lady came out of the bank and asked me to move, because someone had supposedly felt uncomfortable using the ATM while I was sitting 30 feet away, playing music. I can only guess at the motives of that person, if he or she actually exists. It seems like some people just want others to be at their mercy, or that they get some kind of payoff by preventing someone else from prospering.
I went up to Cathedral Park, on my way to the music store to use almost all of my money for a new set of strings. There were several busses from different high schools, bringing kids to some kind of 'Internation" festival, or something. A group from Leflore High School, where Jeff, The Potter teaches art, asked me to play something. They gave me about 5 bucks, to go with the 11 that I already had, after I played something. This turned out to be just about enough to finance the excursion to the music store, with the cost of a pack of smokes and a couple of beers taking up the balance.
I got back into town and put the new strings on and sounded great for the handful of people who were there. People must be reserving money for the Thanksgiving holiday, which is approaching.
I went to sleep rather early (for a Friday) and woke up this morning with the battery dead on my cell phone/alarm clock, and about 90 cents in my pocket. I have lost my guitar pick, to add to my troubles.
I am keeping the option of moving from Mobile open.

Saturday Night Nothing Special

Where We Were, 6 Years Before We Were There

Dauphin Island
Yesterday morning, Sunday, I woke up under the trolley which I had slept under, the night before.
I had started to play, Friday night, and, seeing that it was slow, had taken a couple of breaks and sat eating peanuts and drinking beer and listening to the Alabama game on my cheap AM radio.
Eventually, I became groggy and wound up crawling under the trolley which I was leaning back against, and going to sleep.
I had thereby found a new spot to sleep at, which is waterproof, invisible and undiscovered. Still, the ridiculousness of sleeping outdoors is never more apparent than when sleeping in places like that.
The disappointment of having been too tired and having drank myself to sleep, caused me to feel ashamed and guilty when I woke up in the morning. I had gotten a full 8 hours of sleep, at least.
I went to the store and got an energy drink. It was only about 7 am.
I Repent Of My Trolley-Sleeping Ways
I decided that I was going to go to church somewhere, because I had hit "rock bottom" under that trolley, which was parked on a grassy lot, that was not totally ant-free, and I walked down by the Fellowship at 316 Dauphin St.
The Battle Intensifies

They hadn't opened the door yet. There was another guy waiting out fromt for a van to come and take him to "The Cave," which he described as a church which is set up like a bar and "in fact, it used to BE a bar," where there is a rock band, featuring a very good guitarist, and the congregation, made up of "a bunch of old bikers who have found Jesus," sit at bar stools and drink coffee instead of beer. The guy told me that I should definitely check it out sometime.

Upon my soul, I've never seen such bickering!!

Meanwhile, the pastor of The Fellowship had come out, and noting that the van for The Cave hadn't arrived yet, gently prodded us by saying that they were "just about to begin."

While waiting for the Fellowship to open, I had called Jeff, who informed me that he had matters with his family and wouldn't be able to come get me. So, The Fellowship it was for me.

The Fellowship has a big pot of coffee, which I mentioned in a past post. It also has a significant number of homeless people on any given Sunday, who seem to be there for the coffee, and to bum cigarettes off of the people who drink coffee, then step out back for a cigarette.

They are like starving fleas in a house where the family has been on vacation for a while, taking the pets with them, and just returned. (They make "flea bombs," maybe I could market a "homeless bum" bomb and set one off behind The Fellowship every Sunday.)

Clothed In Iniquity

One of the "worshippers" made a comment to the guy sitting next to him, as I walked past, of which I heard only "boots the same way, too." He was looking at my boots. I assumed he was remarking that I had on the same clothes as the previous two days. He had no way of knowing that I had washed them at the church spot and dried them on the vent, one of those nights. I thought that it was uncalled for in a House of Worship to make such a comment, or even to see the relevance of what he meant by it, and especially to say it loud enough to be audible to the person whom he is defaming, as if to direct it at him.

Blacks are prone to do this. I aksed (sic) one intelligent one once, why they are prone to do this. He replied that they are trying to "open the lines of communication."

I suppose the guy in church was giving me a chance to make a rebuttal, whereby I could have assuaged his fear that he was in church with an unsanitary homeless guy, by telling him that yes, I have on the same clothes, but I had washed them, (and then added "What's it to you, n*#&@!!")

Despite this negativity, I manged to come out feeling better, and only had a couple of beers afterwards.
Getting Away From Mobile
Then Jeff met me at the library. His daughter, Erin and son, Jarod joined us in a trip to Dauphin Island. Apparently, Jeff used to live there, and he and his kids hadn't been there in a while.


"Peeping Toms" carry stilts on Dauphin Island



It began to cloud up and lightning was visible as soon as we got to the beach (above) and so we only had a few minutes there. The lightning may have been aimed at me because I had the same clothes on as the day before.

We rode around looking at the sights on Dauphin Island. Every house was on stilts.
The rain stopped, but then started back up in the early morning. I was on the porch spot, as were two other guys, whom John the preacher and I had talked to a bit and determined were pretty nice guys, who wouldn't steal our stuff in the middle of the night.
I was the woke up at about my usual time. Both John and a new guy were still asleep.
I woke them up, and informed them that it was probably time for The Coffee Club.
John was disoriented at first, and looked around for a few seconds at the marble porch in confusion, but soon recalled his immediate purpose (hard-boiled egg and blueberries.) and stood up and quickly packed up his bedding's.
I guess the overcast sky caused them to oversleep in the same way that some natural phenomena cause whales to beach themselves. I might hear higher frequencies than them.
We went en mass to the Presbyterian for our hard boiled eggs and blueberries.
Now, it is Monday. It is still raining, and there is supposedly some kind of tropical system in the area.

Mobile On Ten Dollars A Day

My Yolk Is Easy
It is Tuesday morning, I woke up with 32 cents, and the slowly dawning realization that if I want to make a living playing music, I need to formulate a different strategy, or stop spending 10 bucks per day on smoke and drink.
I have decided to pour more energy into my craft. I will try to cut back on the time spent blogging, and add it to the time spent working on songs. I have about a dozen "working titles" now, and it seems like the open mic opportunities come fast upon me, and I am caught with incomplete songs, which aren't "ready for prime time."
So, I shorten this post, which isn't a hard thing to do, since nothing of note happened yesterday.
I gave away my hard boiled egg, yolk and all.
I gave it to Daniel, the tall guy with a bald spot, who walks around carrying nothing at all except the clothes on his back. He doesn't smoke or drink, not even coffee. He always goes for "seconds" and "thirds" at the coffee club. Maybe his vice is "lust of the palate." Everybody has an "Achilles heel," even Achilles had one.
Daniel is always ready to talk at length about Government plots and dictators who are trying to recruit people into Satanic cults and use them to perpetrate crimes against the "good people." He said there is a "sameness" plot, whereby the dictators want everyone to of the same mind.
"They" use music as one of the means through which they attempt this. He adds that this is why they let heavy metal bands tour countries like Russia and sing about evil things. "They" try to quash music about love and peace, afraid that people will become free spirited and less easy to control, and turn into murderers.
I gave Daniel my egg this morning.
Dietary Cure For Sore Knee
The past couple of days, I have eaten a can of mixed vegetables, along with a can of either mackerel or salmon,. I have also noticed a vast improvement in the soreness of my left knee, which, only two weeks ago, hurt so much that I could barely walk.
The fish oil, along with the vegetables, may be the remedy at work. I am still walking the same distance every day, so I can rule out "staying off of it," as the reason for the improvement.
My Cereal Is Light
I gave my bowl of cereal to (name removed by request) I was still pretty full from the salmon and vegetables, which I had eaten pretty late Monday evening.
(name removed by request), is the guy who I referred to as "the guy whose name I forget," in a previous post. He, like Daniel, walks around with only the clothes on his back. He believes that his grandfather was one of, if not THE guy who shot John F. Kennedy.
The Three Tramps

He looks like he could be (name removed)'s Grandfather!

The man was the "Grand Wizard" of the KKK, at one time, and the head of some group called something like "The Christian Identity Movement." (name removed by request) told me all of this over an Earthquake Lager the other night. Supposedly, this is all documented.
He (his Grandfather) was very likely one of the "three tramps," of infamy, being an ex-military sharpshooter and one who has been placed at the scene through some evidence, and who hated Kennedy. He also has strongly implied to (name removed by request) that he harbors some big dark secret, and has made quite "a name" for himself in a huge way.
(name removed by request) also shares with Daniel a belief that there is a Satanic cult active in Mobile,
I gave him my cereal this morning.
I Miss Church
Saturday night, into Sunday morning, I played until 4 am. I woke up Sunday morning almost at noon. I realized then that I had overslept and missed a chance to go to church with Jeff, the potter, who I met at my playing spot and who offered to meet me at the library and bring me with he and his family to their church, which supposedly has a strong musical presence.
There is always next week.