Cafe At The End Of Time (9.0)

Yes,,,. “AAAAAAA ect.”  is the National  Anthem….and it

goes something like this:

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAA(merica)”

And while vocalizing, instead of purple mountains or

patriots with gleaming eyes, visualize getting a blow job,

because that’s what America is…a big blow job. As

Richard Dreyfuss put it in the sixties: “The reason why

there are no revolutionaries in America, is because it

would be like being a spoil sport at an orgy.”

The way it works is simple: you play the game right

and you get the best blow job…its as mindless as a

slaughterhouse…..

Why did it have to be “the pursuit of happiness”?

Why couldn’t it have been “the pursuit of enlightenment”…

(they at least had the concept back then),,.,or “the pursuit

of wisdom”? “Get on the wrong bus and every stop is the

wrong stop.”

                                               ****

The notion of “epic”, in the positive sense, is over…

we started loosing our taste for “epic” during the

twentieth century…but it took two “epic” wars 

for that to begin to happen.  Space exploration could

have been “epic”, but it feels now more like

desperation….the quest for truth has become a sitcom about

nothing that takes place in a diner. I think mankind is

embarrassed about what it has done and is now trying

to remain anonymous but is afraid someone is going to

come up to it and tap it on the shoulder and say: “You

fucked up, George.”                

                                              ****

Lunch with Joel at “The Last Dagwood”….a diner right

as you enter Brooklyn from Manhattan.  I love American

diners…you can still drive across America and run into

them wherever you go. The cooler they look on the

outside, the better the food on the inside,  generally …

diners and family run restaurants in small communities

across America….true American treasure.

This one had a juke box and stations at each table

where you could put in your quarters and listen to

the music from the next Tarantino  movie…you know…

it’s going to be from the fifties and sixties rock genre,

so, they had groups like  “The Chiffons”,  “The Four

Tops” and “The Marvelettes” , “Randy And The

Rainbows”,  “Tommy James And The Shondells”

“Just A Mirage” was playing as they dug into their

buffalo burgers and curly fries.

Joel took a pause between bites: “ So, do you want

me to ask?”

“Isn’t that what you just did?”

“Well, it was a question, but it was more like a pre-

question…and since we know what that answer really

is, you are right.”

“Kansas City” by Wilbert Harrison was playing now.

I was getting in a groove…we didn’t talk  for a while…

just ate and listened to the music. ...clack of pool balls

from a farther room…waitresses slinging the hips and

the hash…dirty deals going down in this or that booth…

lives were changing all around me, and everyone dug

the food….it was a good place to die.

“Sometimes I obsess about a particular piece of music…

I’ll listen to one song over and over to the nth degree,

like I’m trying to absorb the music into my being. I’ve

listened to one version of “Cream Puff War’ by the

Dead 630 times….I can dance to each note.”

“Yeah,”  Joel was just finishing his sandwich.  “I like

making models of WWII airplanes. I put bullet holes

in them with a red hot needle.”

“Media is like a giant eye look for and picking out the

latest extreme tendencies to feed to the people…anybody

who is extreme about almost anything that isn’t violent

(although that has its own niche) or disgusting gets

airtime!”

“Of course….who wants to know about their own lives?”

Cafe At The End Of Time (8.0)

They call it waiting because something’s supposed

to happen…but what if you’re just there, not doing

anything, but not waiting for anything either...what

do you call that?  “Hanging out” doesn’t seem to do

the trick, because it implies waiting and laziness….

same with other terms like: “chilling”, “cooling one’s

heels” and so forth…they all define the process of mere

being by implying it has something to do with inaction.

People that meditate have lots of terms for that state:

“one pointedness”, “clear seeing”, “cool boredom”…

lots of them…..like the Eskimos have many words for

snow.

                                           ****

“Heavy air” is when you’re in a situation where

something terrible is likely to happen and the tension

fills the space almost tangibly.  The opening scenes of

the movie “The Balcony”, by Gene Genet, show news-

reel footage of French collaborators surrounded by

liberated French people. Nothing happens in the

footage…but you could feel the emotions from the film. 

I was watching the film because my Japanese buddy,

Roland Fujiyama, took me to the movies to distract

me from the bad LSD trip I was having.  It was a double

feature…the other movie was “No Exit” by Sartre. For

some reason, these two utterly depressing and shocking

movies did the trick. I came out of the theatre a new man.

Then, we went to the burlesque theatre to watch the old

strippers.  There was a three piece band…horn, bass, and

drums…but they didn’t have much trouble keeping up

with the dancers.  Many of these women were probably

there to supplement their social security checks. But they

shook themselves in ways that were marginally

entertaining for us. After that, we just walked around

the rest of the night.  As the sun was coming up, I realized

I had to pee really badly.  I went up to a building and

started to piss….it went on and on. Rolo was jumping

up and down  “Hurry!  Hurry! Daijobu!?”:  I took all the

time in the world.  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!”

Since the sun was coming up,  I felt like I was singing

The National Anthem…. and I was.

                                             ****

I was sitting in the bus station in Minneapolis with some

friends. We were all high on LSD.  We were blowing

bubbles from one of those little plastic containers.  After

about ten minutes, the stationmaster comes over to us and

says:  “Stop blowing bubbles. The old people don’t like it.”

Of course we stopped, but, wow…

                                              ****

I can’t remember how I did anything…how I did plumbing

for thirty years….how I taught…how I acted in plays…it’s

all vague memory…I can’t do it and don’t need any of it

anymore….it all had its purpose…to keep going, I think…

but now, all that’s over, fini, done, gone, because the deeds

have been done in their time…..in the maze of space and time,

and done again:  “In watermelon sugar the deeds were done

and done again as my life is done in watermelon sugar.”

Dwight Eisenhower must have been in watermelon sugar…

in fact, he must have been watermelon sugar because of this

quotation of  something he said in a  speech:

“Things are more the way they are now than they ever

have been.”

…and that was in the USA in the Fifties when the United

States was in watermelon sugar and about to go into the

greatest period of watermelon sugar in the history of the

world in the Sixties….when the world freaked out about

the amount of watermelon sugar there was, and,  could

this really be the world?  Well,  the world couldn’t handle

the freedom…as Robert Anton Wilson said:  “Nothing

scares a person more than the thought of watermelon

sugar.” Of course I’m distorting what he said….so? 

Work with me!

Cafe At The End Of Time (7.0)

I’ve been walking around a lot lately…aimless wandering…

the practice of purposeful purposelessness. Most people

move to get from point A to point B…what’s in between

has little relevance. Walking around with nothing in mind

or on mind shows meaning to mere being. When our heads

are full of thoughts, we’re not really there.

I was meeting Jerry at “The Lemon Drop Saloon”.  Jerry

had a lot of great ideas and schemes…none of which went

anywhere. You’d think he’d be depressed by now in his

life,  and he was.  I didn’t know if he was going to cheer me

up, or the opposite….I was about to find out.

“Everyone know the Jews were a persecuted people…

but did you know the Jews produced more comedians

than any other ethic group?”

“Why?”

“Maybe because they get the jokes, or maybe because

the joke’s on them?”

“ I think it’s because they learned to tell the truth through

humor…like Shakespeare’s Fool…truth to power sort of

thing.”

“Yeah…ok…”

Another line of conversation fell off the cliff into oblivion.

We didn’t seem to get far with a  topic theses days…this

discussion called moot due to a lack of interest….is this a

symptom of why old people sit on the front porch and

don’t talk?  Do we run out of things to say, questions to

ponder? Is it because we’ve got the answers, or, because

the questions themselves were irrelevant to begin with?

“They say that truffles are irresistible because they give

off a mammalian pheromone scent…”

“So?”

                                          ****

I remember the Tibetan monks watching professional

football on T.V.  for the first time. When the two sides

would crash into each other after the ball was snapped,

the monks almost burst a gut they laughed so hard.

                                            ****

Someone in the pueblo is always sharing their music

with  those that live around them….sometimes the

churches have music on their P.A. systems…sometimes

it’s the one in the zocalo…”paraiso”,  “paradise”, is a

common name here for shops, salons…people here have

a sense of what paradise means:  it means finding

yourself in a place where you can be yourself.

"Darwinism stresses conflict and competition; that doesn't square with the evidence. A lot of organisms that survive are in no sense superior to those that have gone extinct. It's not a question of "better than"; it's simply a matter of finding a place where you can be yourself. That's what evolution is about." Brian Goodwin

                                   ****

My dad was like that coach in “Rocky”:  “You gotta

be tougher than the rest of them,  Johnny…”

I really could see the world through his eyes. And I really

thought his view was narrow…distorted because of the

personal causes and conditions of his life. There is no

doubt that he was a compassionate man and helped a lot

of his kin….

….I remember when I was four helping my dad take

the trash out back to the can….he was tipsy, and he

fell down and he laughed. I was shocked, because at

that age I thought when you fell down you were

supposed to cry.

Letter #1

This is a letter to un-named people about the so called
"Cafe At The End Of Time"   piece:


"I really don't know about writing prose....if it has to be structured and outlined...

I'm not even trained as a writer....or as an anything, for that matter....mostly,

I'm an auto-didact....plumbing, acting, writing, teaching..............

I could rehearse a play for six weeks and perform,,,,I could study and practice

to prepare to teach a Shambhala weekend ...for a month beforehand....

I spent ten weeks building four buildings at Shambhala Mountain Center,

and we got done in time.....

....but prose....structuring my thoughts even into a narrative that has a time sequence

among other forms of organization just does not seem to fall within my ken....

....so, I might just plow forth until entropy takes hold....

I might just inner tube down the river 'til I make it past the rapids or drown....

I might wander out into the streets of Tepoztlan late at night, drunk,

whining for a diner where I can get a hamburger and a malt....

......I'm just saying...."

Cafe At The End Of Time (5.2)

                                               ****

I saw the first replay on television. It was the replay of

Jack Ruby shooting Lee Harvey Oswald. It was a Sunday

morning when I was at boarding school. There was live

television of the police taking Oswald from the Dallas

Police station.  It was the first replay….’til we saw the

Zapruder film. That goddamned shit needed to be burned

into our minds forever. …you don’t need to tell me about

anything….and it’s all about time.

Cafe At The End Of Time (5.0)

I always led with my chin in relationships. I’m

a real nice guy, but a drunk…so I achieve a certain

balance.  I asked my Buddhist teacher once what the

difference between men and women was, and he said:
“Men are stupid and women are crazy.” He said it…

I just wrote it here so you could read it. But I loved 

women…a lot of them…what are you going to

do when you’re alive? Work for the future?  You can

only do that now anyway…

                                            ****

I don’t see how I can write prose, because I don’t see

any reason for anything happening, except for what

happened just before it…I don’t see any development

at all…that’s why I write poetry…that’s why I like

photography. The myth of “progress” was the greatest

one perpetrated in the history of man. It goes against

every ancient wisdom. It was a whip in the form of a word.

It replaced “slavery”, which became a bit too obvious

and embarrassing. …and it did the job just fine.”

The Scene:   Bob’s “Televisions-For-Chains” outlet.

Peoria, Illinois….”Come On Down and cast off those

chains for a fifty inch,  HD, flat screen TV, computer

ready, and a years FREE satellite hook up!”  

It’s really great that we won all those wars so we could

finally have peace and freedom….wait a minute…

                                       ****

Pierce Arrow could have gotten any job he wanted. It’s

not that he was highly accomplished…it just seemed that

he must be. He and his buddy, Lance Bruno, started a

consulting company in San Diego. They took money from

people and told them they could do anything they want.

That was it…it was that simple. And hundreds of people

paid for what they offered. They called their franchise:

“Yes,  I Am” It was bought out and changed it’s name

to “Disney AM…(a wholly owned subsidiary cartel of

Scientology  @)”

                                          ****

Don’t get me started about Scientology….a religion?

made up by a science fiction writer?   Isn't that already

redundant?   Please…..

                                           ****

I had to pause. I needed another drink for one thing, and

the writing wasn’t coming that easy. I had just watched

the first part of “The Hobbit”, a bootleg on my computer,

and I was feeling a little over stimulated.

Karmaflage….just a word I made up now…might come

in handy…or in colors everywhere…

maybe I should just time myself at the key board…two

hours a day for x days….then I could just title the book:
“2000 Hours Of Writing.”  that’s a grabber…

Cafe At The End Of Time (4.65)

When I woke up, she was gone. I knew immediately

that she couldn’t have gone far…oh, I waited, soaked

up in bed before I got up, oh, yes, I tell you.

There was a note in the kitchen, written on paper

towels in crayon

“I’m not sorry I have to go, otherwise, I’d still be here…

I’m not sorry I was here, otherwise, you wouldn’t be

reading this. I’m only sorry I didn’t tear your clothes off

with my teeth.”

I thought that last sentence positive enough to warrant

no further need for analysis.

Cafe At The End Of Time (4.5)

I finally understood what it was about Natricia’s name.

It bombarded me like a shower of coconuts….and, it

was quite simple really….but since if I write more words

it might be better for me, I’m going to do that….

T.S. Eliot taught the concept of the “objective correlative”,

which was that words could be put together to completely

capture an experience so that an other person reading those

words could have that exact experience….well….

My “objective correlative” for the name “Natricia” is

that it is like an article of clothing where the stripes  are not

vertical nor horizontal, but at a 45 degree angle. I haven’t

seen many pieces like that…only owned one shirt myself…

but it is true that, aesthetically, there is something not quite

right about that, as there is something not quite right about

the name: “Natricia”.

So, that’s a lot in a name, and I am in no way suggesting

anything about the person “Natricia” that relates to the

name….although. oddly…and somewhat snarkly, it does…

although Natricia masks her great wisdom and beauty in

sarcasm and shock….she’s a work of art in a name….like

“Beefheart”  and “Zappa”….it’s not just PTS…it’s a

living.

Cafe At The End Of Time (4.0)

It was a fine evening. I could see Natricia and I

were going to become pals, but couldn’t see how

she got her name, and I didn’t ask. I left after the

first set. The music was unearthly…gamelan  rondos

infused with eclectronica signatures  and Bengali

vocals. The eschaton  must have happened…at least

in the music industry. 

I walked home slowly…feeling the night air on my

face…the evening sounds of distant vehicles… I had

work to do that I didn’t even know where to begin.

It was going to be a long night. I got to my place and

went in…threw my jacket over the back of a chair…

went to the fridge and made the honorary first drink…

my desk was in front of a window looking out at the

street….the Venetian blinds were raised….there were

no street lamps directly in front of my building, so the

sidewalk was slightly more in shade right there. I

turned out the lamp in my office and looked out into

the ambient night light. The window was half open

and you could hear leaves swirling in the street….

…there was a sound…”tock”…”tock”…tock” of

a person walking down the sidewalk in a steady,

slow measure, getting closer to my building. I loved

sitting in my chair a bit back from the window, just

the glow from my cigarette visible from the street,

like Jimmie Stewart in  “Rear Window”.  observing

the flow of life of the city.  The “tocks” got louder…

he was probably about 6’3”, wearing Florsheims.

He stopped in front of my building. He was looking

away from me. He had on a fedora of some type, and

a long raincoat or overcoat. He took out a cigarette

and lit it with a zippo. By the clicks it made as he

opened and then closed it, it sounded new.

I was watching a man smoking a cigarette at night,

standing on a sidewalk. What else could I say about

that?  I could invent that he’s in some kind of plot to

get me…but that doesn’t really seem to be writing as

it does hallucinating.

“He took a puff…he took another puff…click, click,

click… he moved from side to side.”

No, I could see that shifting to writing prose wasn’t

going to be easy.

The man had finished his cigarette. He was still

standing there, his back to my window. It was late...I

couldn’t figure out why he was there….the bus stops

were at the street corners….there was really nothing

to wait for there.

                                      ****

…the man suddenly was not there. I heard a key in

my front door…the next thing I knew I was on my

back, the man on top of me, one hand over my eyes,

and a gun barrel in my mouth.  His voice was a

whisper in my ear:  “Just be glad you subscribe to

the Times.”… then, he was gone.

                                       ****

…the man walked up to my building and buzzed me.

“Yes?”  “It’s Joel”  I buzzed him in. 

“Why were you standing out there for so long? And

why did you come by so late?”

“I dunno…I felt like walking by and seeing if you

were up….when I saw your cigarette glowing through

the window I thought I’d hang out here and be mysterious…

maybe give you something to write about.”

“That’s very kind and so silly and completely useless,…

but, thanks.”

                                           ****

…the man walked up to my building and buzzed me.

“Yes?”  It sounded like “Joel’, but the voice was muffled.

I buzzed.   The person came in and it was Natricia! She

flung the overcoat open, and, there she was!  I stopped

writing for the evening…(she did leave her hat on).

                                           ****

2012…what a joke….anyone else notice nothing happened?

Let’s put it this way…no one’s come up to me yet, asking

what dimension I’m from…except Charley, and he did that

before.

                                            ****

                                     

     

Cafe At The End Of Time (3.5)

                                          ****

Joel showed up with an actress from a show uptown and

a dealer from the Bowery about half past almost too late.

The dealer left after about five minutes…obviously he was

on the clock. Where the clock was, was anybody’s guess.

“Frank, this is Natricia…Natricia, Frank…”

“What do your friends call you, Natricia?  Nat?”

“What do your friends call you, Frank?  Fran?”

“Nice…”

It was love at first sight, but there were too many lifetimes

involved to pay much attention to the flash that had just

happened. I had to play it quantum.

“Where are you from, Natricia?”

“Charleston”

“Cool…you like beach music?”

“Of course…you like proctology?”

“Of course…mostly when it’s practiced on

someone else.”

“Cool…where did you grow up?”

“A suburb of Chicago.”

“Great…See much gang rape?”

“No….but I wasn’t looking…”

“Fair enough.”

It went on like that for several hours at least.

Most of the others dropped out of listening after

a while.. . our phylogeny was recapitulating…

same thing happened to John and Yoko….

Fine…don’t believe me….but someday soon

few people will remember the taste of oysters…

I’m just saying…

Cafe At The End Of Time (3)

I hitchhiked from Chicago to Boston the summer of

1969. With me was a young black lady I hooked up

with shortly before I left. Near Pittsburg we were

picked up by a young man who told us he had just

returned from Vietnam. He was very animated and

gesticulating as he drove down the interstate at about

an hundred miles per hour.

“Man, ‘Nam was unbelievable…I’ll never be the

same… I drove a tank, and we’d stock up on booze,

drugs and food and get lost in the jungle for a month!

No one would fuck with us because we had a tank! I

fragged a lieutenant once…he was a greenie that

if you went into the bush with him leading was

likely to get you killed….I put LSD in his coffee

one morning in the mess hall…when it came on,

he just looked straight at me and said:  “YOU!!!”

they took him out in  a straight jacket.

There was no sense of morality there…you could

do anything and get away with it….I’ve got a gun

in the glove box, and if a cop stops us and if I think

I can get away with it, I’d shoot him…why not…”

I didn’t look in the glove box. After a while, he

stopped at a restaurant and bought us lunch. We

declined to get back on the road with him. He

treated us very sweetly.

It was that magic summer. We were totally taken

in by strangers on that trip, helped along the way.

A white boy and a black chick on an adventure?

We were a symbol of the time. Our last ride was

in a ‘55 Chevy listening to “Kansas City” by

Wilbert Harrison…iconic to say the least.

 Wilbert Harrison…now there was the name of a

Bukowski salesman if ever there was one….

Club 442, Madison, Wisconsin…it was on the

juke box there…the song was a “Kansas City Stroll”

or shuffle…the beach music of South Carolina saw its

roots there….power and sex in a slow strong beat…an

upbeat, not a blues…this is what the Beatles found.

                                      ****

My first wife and two of her friends were the only

radicals at Western Kansas State. She became a

varsity cheerleader just to stick it to the sorority

girls. One of her friends went to ‘Nam. After we

moved to South Carolina, this gentleman would

show up a few times over the years, always

unannounced, always bearing gifts and steaks.

He was a sweetheart, but from what he told us,

he never slept in the same place twice…always

driving his car around the country…endless

motels…constant motion. After a few of these

visits, we never heard from him again.

                                        ****

Where’s my country, Dude? What happened to it?

Things were going so great when I was born after

WWII…I could write about it, but what could I say

that isn’t already so obvious to anyone who cares to

look?

                                        ****

It’s been hard this life to find anyone who has a clue

as to what’s really going on. The impulse to go along

with everything people think is happening: Christmas,

Democracy, religion, society is so strong. Most people

have a string in their back that you pull and they tell

you what they’ve learned to think. You can tell which

ones they are, because it’s obvious that they’re trying

to look like someone else. No, the ones to talk to are

the ones that are a little dirty, a little scary…a little

crazy perhaps. Until you find them, just keep looking.

                                       ****

Burroughs didn’t write novels….rather, his books

were each a series of vignettes…scenes…dreams…

beautifully non-linear…more in tune with experience,

to my mind, than a series of episodes of “Leave It To

Beaver” that one would call one’s life: “ I don’t just

have memories, I have re-runs!”  Thank goodness I

stopped watching television years ago. I heard that a

Buddhist teacher did a ceremony in which he buried

a television as a symbol of evil…

                                       ****

I was meeting Joel at  “The Ten Spot”, a new jazz club

near Soho. A new coming band, “Dream Cartel”, was

scheduled. We had overcome the lump in the literary

road for now…tonight was for rowdy relaxation.  This

joint had tables, but also sofas and comfy chairs…a small

dance floor was positioned not near where the band was,

but at the opposite side of the room. At times, the whole

place was on its feet. It was an “absinthe bar”, but the

green fairy was only there in about 6% strength…I brought

my own supply. Joel was late…which was like saying

nothing. I had no reason to care, and every reason to enjoy

what was in front of me. A piano man was filling the

void with tinkles at the moment. The joint was about half

full….but it was early.  The folks were dressed in tasteful

plumage…there were a few standouts, but no one you’d

want to choke to death without further justification. It even

appeared that there might be one or two people worth

talking to….but then, I was an optimist.