It was sometime in 2000, and I was driving to work in Los Angeles. I’ll never forget it. Everything in my life was perfectly good. There was no heartbreak. There was no cause for pain. It was just a regular morning. Tori Amos was playing on the stereo, and the first lines of this poem came to me spontaneously and they kept coming.  Luckily I was on side streets where there wasn’t any traffic.  I was still driving when I wrote “I’m driving the car like it’s on rails” but then I pulled the car to the side of the road and kept writing, scrawling page after page.

As the words came, so did the tears.  I heaved out my breaths and my face was hot and wet. Then it just stopped.

At the time, I didn’t feel as if it was me doing the writing. I’ve always felt like the words came from a woman – a ghost – who crossed into me and used me to get them out.
Like a hound at the door

it waits to tear you apart,

and you open the door

to savor the rush

of your blood down your face

and over his teeth

and sometimes it’s a relief

when he walks out the door.

And you heave a sigh

that could fill the Grand Canyon,

and a tear drop falls

that would starve a seed

but all is well

when love walks out the door.

But light breaks clouds

and birds know the way south

to warm their bones

and sometimes

flight is all you have

when love walks out the door

I’m driving the car

like it’s on rails

with your voice echoing

in my head and nothing else,

not horn, not jeers,

just the deafening sound

of when love walks out the door.

Paint me red,

’cause you’ve done it before.

The black and blue across

the kitchen floor,

and the sanguine smell

of the nuptial bed

and the sigh of relief

as love walks out the door.

When tears lose their heaven

and rose petals fall

the sky is stark with

the fingers of death

and the bleak white stillness

of cold time and life

and a bird crosses the sky

when love walks out the door.

The wheels turn

and the petrol burns

and the piston pushes you down,

down, to make the wheels go ’round,

and the drive is unending,

and the time you’re spending

is all for naught

as love walks out the door.

It’s his, it’s yours,

the things you keep,

the things you toss,

it’s all a part of the beloved loss,

so drink your tea and look outside

as the garbage man

carries it all away

as love walks out the door.

Stop.

On the death bed it lies

and your mother cries

as the orders are carried

and the last breath rises,

and you see you’ll be late,

do not resuscitate,

and the pallor falls heavy

as love walks out the door.

With pen to paper,

you ink the lines

that have bound you tight,

and made the night

a little easier to bear,

but when it comes,

the chapter’s fierce,

and leaves nothing in its wake

but the ringing silence of

when love walks out the door.

The tears burn paths

of rust and pain

down the cheek he once kissed

and your mind rushes in

where angels tread boldly,

and they look to you

knowing the release of

when love walks out the door.

Sticks and stones

and the rock in your ring

and the sound of his breath

on the phone aren’t enough

to hold your life together

as it runs down your hand

and onto the floor

when love walks out the door.

With slings and arrows shot

and the lamb helpless,

harmless, and hopeless

as numbers are mounting

and victims are counting

and the outcome looks doubtful

when love walks out the door.

+++++

This is the first time I’ve written this poem since the original, which is largely unedited, not scratched-out. See for yourself.

But this is not a play review.

What I took away from “I Love Satan” is a glimpse into religious conservatism, and thoughts about the distinctions between good and right, bad and wrong.  What one deems as “good” is not always right, and what is considered “bad” is not always wrong.

Frank, the Roman Catholic bat-wielder, expresses quite clearly, repeatedly, and blindly, that bashing a Satanist is his Christian duty, which made me think of what else?  Fried chicken, but not just Chick-fil-a; all sorts of religious intolerance.  Frank’s sister and fellow Roman Catholic, Jo, says it best in her lamented wish that everyone just mind their own (probably “fucking”) business.  I couldn’t agree with her more.

Religion and law are in a funny marriage, even though they should be more like siblings – not meant to be married.  As the nation struggles with abortion, wars, and gay equality on the stage of the election, we are at an uncommon threshold.

To characterize the choice ahead of us as “Forward” or “Backward” is too simple, especially when forward to one is backward to another.  Depends on where you’re going.

Not being religious suits me, but I do envy the religious.  It’s easier, and in an era with so much uncertainty, it’s gotta be comforting to follow a set of rules, without question.  I have never been very good at being told what to do, and the few times I did follow unquestioningly, it was disastrous.  Plus, my experiences with religion have been mostly terrible, so I fit very naturally into the skin of the self-determining, self-governing heathen.  In Barrett’s play, that would make me a Satanist – which I’m not, although the play’s Dino might disagree – but I digress.

I’m not going to get too excited about this, but yesterday, Focus on the Family made the news with Jim Daly’s “broadening” of the focus:

“‘It’s fair to say we have concentrated on some things that have distracted from the main thing, which is the Gospel of Christ,” said Jim Daly, the president and CEO of the Colorado Springs, Colo.-based organization and host of its “Focus on the Family” radio program, which reaches about 2 million people weekly across 1,000 stations.”  - Huffington Post

 

Sure, this is probably a strategic move to broaden a column on their accounts receivable spreadsheets, as much as it is to broaden their base, but the mere admission that an equality-fighting, extremist Christian organization has been “distracted from… the Gospel of Christ” is promising.

When it comes to modern American morality legislation, any thinking Christian – or person arguing with a Christian – has to ask, “What would Jesus do?”  No, really.  Any time I’ve posed this question to the devout, the answer becomes purely-subjective, political, and as varied as the answerer.

Jesus has become an abstraction; a romanticized version of a fond memory of the way we think things should be, ideally, or were told they should be: a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy.  For example, Baptist Reverend, Stoney Shaw compared the trials of the publicly flogged Todd “Legitimate Rape” Akin to those of Jesus.  Seriously?

The gulf  between the most Christ-like answer and the actions taken by many modern Christians is the disconnect that drove me – and probably many others – from religion.  If Focus on the Family and other religious organizations really wanted to broaden their bases, they’d focus on turning that gulf into a puddle.

Jesus (if you buy the whole messiah story) really needs to return to earth, because – like that old childhood friend you don’t talk with anymore, and whose birthday you only remember when Facebook reminds you – most of the Christians I know have lost touch with the guy.

James Bond.  The name alone is as intoxicating as the famous martini, prompting women to sigh and men to cock their heads in hopes of channeling even a scintilla of his sexiness.

Pierce Brosnan (d)evolved 007 into a bouffant, yet impeccably flat figure who barely broke a sweat.  We sat in theaters for film after fluffy film like frogs being gradually boiled in a pot of product placement.  The movies left us wanting.  James Bond had become a limp dick.

Case in point: Die Another Day opens with Brosnan’s Bond being tortured as Madonna auto-tuned the theme song.  It was edgy…

Until you compare it to the pared-down, gut-wrenching torture taken – while laughing, even – by Daniel Craig in Casino Royale.  Men will never see a cane-backed chair the same way again.

It took a return to the character’s roots, embodied by a fresh new blond Bond, to breathe life back into a franchise that had turned into one extended Duran Duran video after another.

So it is with the U.S. government.  After eight years of irrational exuberance under some limp Texas dick, it took a black man to become the blond bond equivalent, with the dubious honor of rebooting the franchise.  No pressure, especially when one considers the nut-shattering reality we had to face.

People were skeptical.  A blond Bond?  A black president?  The open-minded welcomed the Change; the traditional scoffed and pined for Connery… or Reagan.

Imagine if the Broccolis had jumped ship after Casino Royale?  Quantum of Silence wasn’t the best Bond film, but now there’s Skyfall, and Skyfall has Adele.  It took some time to recover from the hairspray hangover of Brosnanian Bond.  It will take a similar time to bring the country back from the unprecedented mess of the villain running the show.

I’m infatuated with this drag performer, Miles Deniro, and I have a pretty good eye for stuff.  With equal parts Marie Antoinette, Lady Gaga and Cruella DeVil, (s)he’s stunning.  I haven’t even seen her perform, but I’ll bet that changes pretty quickly.

Star & Dagger video starring Von Hesseling-vocals, Sean Yseult-bass, Dava She Wolf-guitar, Dave Catching-guitar, Gene Trautmann-drums Directed by Art Haynie.

There’s a service in my parking garage at work, that will do just about anything to your car, from detail to routine maintenance, and they’re reasonable. It’s a great business. I dropped off my 2008 MX-5 Miata for a detail, and they called me to tell me the car needed brakes.

“You’re down to about 5% on the front,” they said, and when I tried to put them off, they said I had about a week to go before I started to damage the rotors.

It was an unexpected expense, and I wanted to buy some time if I could, so I drove with the utmost sensitivity to how much I was braking. It’s a five speed, so I used the gears to slow the car, and I did a little bit of hypermiling, allowing the car to slow naturally, without racing up to the stop.  I took the full two weeks, and when I rolled into the garage to drop the car off, 17 days later, and when I picked it up, the guys asked me if I’d even been driving, as the brake pads weren’t much worse than the last time they’d seen them.

So now, with new brake pads, I drive with some of the same awareness I had when the brakes were almost gone.  I’m a whole lot less binary about stopping and going, accelerating more easily, and doing a lot more coasting.  I want to get the most out of the new brakes.

I saw this perfectly restored Chevy truck parked at Pink Taco, in Los Angeles.  I’ve never been a big fan of Chevy, but this one is perfect.

It was my first stab at speech writing, and it was for an oratorical contest for the Optimist’s Club.  I was seven.  The shirt was all polyester, rich navy blue with white notes.

I met Warren Beatty once.  Living in Hollywood, I really like to leave people alone, unless they’re on my mental short list or I can sense the possibility of a mutually interesting moment.  Warren has always been on the short list, so I did my trademark fly-by.  I passed him in the hallway and simply looked up as we passed and said, “Oh, hi Warren.”  ”Hi,” he replied, and then looked back to try and figure out who I was.  Perfect.

These mannequins were in the window of American Apparel near my bus stop in Hollywood.  They were having an interesting moment.  This is a culture of exhibitionists and voyeurs: a feedback loop that can easily double back on itself.  The “mother” in the window looked so unconcerned with anything other than her own glamour, with a “u.”  The fair-haired boy seems to see the danger.

I have a friend named Baz who is in the industry.  I took this photo for him.  Do not block the intersection of TV and AV.  Amen.

An ad placed over the glass front of a vacant retail space on Hollywood Boulevard.  Don’t stand still too long in this town.  Someone will put a sign on you.

A reflection of Hollywood Boulevard in the window of the Pirates-promoting El Capitan theater.

This wouldn’t be an unusual sight in southern California, except that it was rush hour, and a windy 65 degrees outside.

What they’re selling was a little hard to understand at first, but that was likely more due to the presenters’ heavy Korean accents and truncated English vocabulary. I was greeted by initiates striving to make a good first impression with a powerpoint and an array of snacks and drinks. People filed in, slowly filling the room: and a good cross-section of L.A., at that, with a couple of gays, a couple of families, singles, old and young, in a full spectrum of colors. What more could they ask for?

The powerpoint was the least agonizing of its kind, with lots of animation, washing the screen with Korean faces, language, and testimonials. Suddenly I gained insight into how “they” feel when the screen is all white people: refreshing, really.

After ten minutes of Korean bedazzlement, there was a lecture wherein one of the instructors described, repeatedly, how practitioners of Maum Meditation view the world, and our effed-up “pictures” of it. After the fifth time, it made sense, and I was intrigued. Of course, as he closed his pitch, he deftly sidestepped any patently Western inquiries as to “How” this transformation is made. That costs $150 per month, unlimited visits to the center which is presumably in Koreatown.

$150 for a clear mind and raised consciousness? Are they kidding? That’s like three months at 24 Hour Fitness… but not entirely out of the question.

When I came home, I Googled to find out more about it, and here’s what I found, and now I’m really intrigued about this “strong, graphic guided imagery” used in level three to free me of my physical image.

I haven’t committed to it, and I can do my own dishes and outdoor work (if you read the link you’ll get this) but I did try to do a little chucking of my pictures into an imaginary black hole before I drifted off to sleep, and well, I slept like a baby.

Coincidence?

According to Whosay.com, “WhoSay is a service that helps artists, athletes and iconic personalities connect with their fans. When you see someone posting via WhoSay, you’ll know that it’s real, authentic messages, photos and videos coming from your favorite people.

At this time, WhoSay is an invite-only service for the top content creators in the world. As a fan, you may arrive at your favorite artist’s, athlete’s or personality’s WhoSay page by visiting their existing social media sites.”

In other words, like Twitter, Whosay is just another way for them to live among us while staying just out of reach.  Tantalizing.

That said, Florence’s version of Halo is raw and yearning and gritty, and most importantly, moves me in a way that the original does not. So I bring it to you.

The BMW New Six CS (internal name BMW E9) was a two-door coupé built for BMW by Karmann from 1968 to 1975. It was developed from the New Class-based BMW 2000CS coupé, which was enlarged to hold the BMW M30 straight-6 engine used in the E3 sedan.