| Frêsh Fish |
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Archive Mea Culpa. The above Archive Link & the Search This Blog Link do not work. This happened after Google, the king of search, bought Blogger?
Frêsh Fish - Much magic for a little fish.
Frêsh Fish is a combination of new and spirited with the added bonus being that everyone knows that fish is best fresh. The icing on the cake was that my mother’s mother, Lena, always told her and she me, that fish was brain food. So with Frêsh Fish we have spirited and new food for thought, ideas, that ain’t got no stink. I was suppose to eat fish today and did not. I hope I can be forgiven.
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Sunday, July 27, 2003
The hunt is heating up for Saddam. Just so you know up front, he will never be seen alive. The order is out there and everyone knows it. It is irrevocable, with impunity, kill on sight. No ands, ifs, or buts. No trial, no appeal. Although rarely used, it is a code that every operative knows. If your ass is 911ed or nanoed, you can pretty much kiss it good bye. And just so know, if it has to happen, I think it is the best way. © 2003 big box industries - no matter who you are or what you do, you will always need a bigger box. The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown is number one on the best seller list. In the vein of Umberto Eco's - Foucault's Pendulum, The Code is a tale of secret societies and quaint and curious lore. The Code depicts a scenario in which a cloistered group, that has existed for hundreds of years and claims some of history's most illustrious souls as its members, knows a secret. For reasons unknown, this secret cannot be directly revealed. Still many clues are contained in the creative work of the group's past members. Here and there, throughout the body of this corpus, in the archives of Fish, there are bits and pieces, hints, of a similar tale. My first blog, excessively feckless, was a prelude to this convention. And there are many, many, other pieces of the same ilk, awaiting due diligence. We go there not directly but (proceed) in a helter skelter way. Too much, too soon, so often causes one to go astray. And it is our intention for you not to lose your way. Nay, it is our intention for you to come and then to stay. Stay awhile or longer, and may this serve you well. Stay awhile or longer, but promise not to tell. That once while you were traveling, in a land most far but near, you heard the twinkling of the light, a sound so very dear. More of this we know, and more of this we will tell. But first we ask that you stay awhile and with us for some time dwell. © 2003 big box industries - no matter who you are or what you do, you will always need a bigger box. Friday, July 25, 2003
It rained just the other day but already the trees are sad, leaves tucked up, wanting the wet. But still they dance in the breeze and are happy. © 2003 big box industries- no matter who you are or what you do, you will always need a bigger box. Thursday, July 24, 2003
Winged in a rush, round and round. Too much magick bus. There was the wonder of the day and the babies black and white, still frêsh, hiding from the sun in the tall grass. All this and heaven too. It is not that there is not enough, enough stuff swirling around in my quirky little brain. There is way too much. And then there are the voices and the shadows. I went out earlier to pick, pack, pock, puck, swat the tennis balls around some. I know the i,a,o,u - something to help the young tyke master his vowels - are the sounds that the small hard leather ball makes as it hits the wooden cricket bat, but I am not good at, all the guys dig Leah because she knows onomatopoeia. I don't know how to pronounce the racket a tennis ball makes as you slap the shit out of it, so I am using Joyce's poeia as a proxy. As I made my way to the tennis court, off to the left, the remnants of Jacked in July where still there undisturbed. I would have thought by now that someone would have called 911? Waiting on the path to the gate of the high fence that surrounds the tennis court was a splatter black and white cat. Not splattered like the remnants of JJ, but black in color with splotches of white. In truth I am not that fond of cats and this one was uglier than most, but still it had a stateliness to its demeanor as it stood sentry. I stared at it and it starred at me, both of us unflinching, but as I made my way closer, Ugly scamper off under the tall pompas grass that lined the back fence of the tennis court. Hurray. Without firing a shot I had already won the first battle of the day. As I made my way inside of the gate that surrounds the tennis court, I spied a yellow tennis ball on the outside of the fence, hiding like an easter egg in the tall pompas grass. I considered fetching it for my collection of practice balls, but fuck it I'm a slacker. As I was dealing with all this new sensory input, to the right of the tennis ball, I caught a big splotch of fuzzy white. In a couple of nanoseconds white fuzzy shot through my cerebellum and into my cerebral cortex. It was another cat, white, lazy on its back, legs in the air. A few nanoseconds later this was followed my the additional input that this was a mamma cat feeding her new kit kats. I couldn't figure out if she had 4 or 5, but I know there where 2 black and 2 white. Hurray more good stuff. I came home after balls of fur and tennis and took a shower. Yes more good stuff. While in the shower I started to dwell on The Geopolitical Ramifications of Catholicism with Respect to Geographic Tectonics. It sounds like heavy shit but it's just about babies, black and white. © 2003 big box industries- no matter who you are or what you do, you will always need a bigger box. Sunday, July 20, 2003
When you bust something up there is that rush of freed energy that sometimes is just a bit hard to resist, sometimes you get a little carried away. I woke up this morning feeling better, actually I felt a little frêsh. I tried to phone President Bush, but the skinny here is the big boy likes to sleep late on Sundays. Then I thought, She's Only Happy When I'm Blogging. I need a little help here, it has Adams in it? Wait it's coming now - Bryan Adams. And like where the fuck did he go? So then I started to lay down The Blind Willie's Blog. But being the short attention span, I can't concentrate anymore, did that happen yesterday or last year, entity, I felt the need for not speed, but something different, and went out to meet the day and hit a few tennis balls, after revealing only a few paragraphs of the sacred text. On the way out to the court I came across a car that had been jacked. It was like looking at a dead animal on the street. Not sure which way this was suppose to go - insurance, revenge, or just bad. But something less than human had been very near.  I still did the tennis thing, practicing my serve and such. I would heft a little yellow ball up with my left hand and come down hard with my right and think jacked. And while I was pick, pack, pock, puck, slapping the shit out of those little suckers, the whole time a subroutine was running - you need to get some snaps of the car. I came home, showered off some good sweat, got my camera gear up and ready, and made my way to the site. Like more times than not, my snaps didn't come out as razz as I had hoped. There was no raw wrench to the pixs, not visceral enough, just a car that had a bad night. But there was something about the scene that held my attention. It was the pattern on the windshield, where in 2001, a hand had held a rock, and perhaps inspired by the moon, or the night, or the fancies of his blood, had brought it down crashing upon something still and innocent.  I think it was the swirling pattern that got me. Round and round like many things, none to be the same. And this we must always remember, must never forget. It is in us all, raw and ready. A strange form, one we do not call kin. It is a Pandora that rushes like flames a free, once released it knows no master. Oh so slowly does it build and then in a flick to exceed, critical mass, and with vengeance and impunity, to consume all with a wicked song of sorrow. © 2003 big box industries - no matter who you are or what you do, you will always need a bigger box. Many and many a year ago I moved to Atlanta. I came up with a group of gypsies from Athens. It was a small gathering of the clan. We were in ATL to do The Dead. It was a p-2 orbital thing for me. I was coming up from Athens to Atlanta to transcend with The Grateful Dead and then when the others split I was staying. I had completed my 4+ years at UGA getting a Bachelor of Science degree and it was time for my ascendance into the nether. God bless them. They weren't leaving me in Atlanta all by myself. They left me in the company of a college acquaintance - Michelle. Michelle worked at The Gaslight Follies as a dancer and had a small one bedroom apartment on North Highland. I didn't hang with Chell too long. I didn't hang with anyone too long back then. But I hung out in that small one bedroom apartment with the cats that I hated long enough to walk up and down North Highland to the bus stop several dozen times. There wasn't a Blind Willie's at 828 N. Highland back then. About 15 years later I moved into the Virginia - Highland's area again. I was a night rider and knew most of the nooks and crannies of Atlanta's night life. Blind Willie's, a little blues bar, about five blocks away, on North Highland, was a fav. Always enough people but not too many people, and the yellows and greens were always proud and fresh. Willie's was a laid back, easy, hello. You were always welcome. After about a ten year hiatus, I went back to 828 North Highland, last Thursday night. A trip back in time. It was all still there and wonderful. Actually this trip was right on time. There is always the from point A to point B, getting from here to there. No problem. And once I got close I could smell it. Parking. Ok I had to pay for parking but whatever. They were ready for me at the door. "$6 each please." Got a table near friends ten feet from the stage. "Wonder when the music is going to start?" Like now. The band was Nick Curran & The Nitelifes. It wasn't dusting my broom, everyone is going to know blues but it was a good, happy, we have done this before and we are going to do it again, everyone in this band is actually a skilled musician, bet you like it, you all come back, kind of blues. I didn't recognize one of the songs but I loved everything they did. All of the above would make for a rather entertaining evening but there was a little more… I find myself all day long thinking of the lady in the blue hat, mysterious and demure. She came into my life in the most innocent of ways. There was a knock at my door. I answered the beckoning. And there she was in a robin's egg blue straw hat and painted cherry red lips. © 2003 big box industries - no matter who you are or what you do, you will always need a bigger box. Wednesday, July 16, 2003
He walks and talks and amazes the known universe - Pot Head.  © 2003 big box industries Tuesday, July 15, 2003
I was bored to the bone last night, apartment fever. My skin yearned to feel the scratch of the night. I needed some stars and moon and swirling black with beckonings from the shadows. And just maybe if I was lucky, some golden locks to caress, some hair to run my fingers through. It was about 8:45 pm est, and my stomach was growling because I had been such a, hadn't fixed dinner yet, slacker. Part of me probably knew when I woke up in the morning, or that afternoon when I did the mall at lunch, or waiting at a red light on the way home, or the moment I slide the key in the lock after a hard day at work - but at that moment I was clueless. All that was hitting on my synapses was that I was, like a wolf, hungry, and needed to spread my wings and stretch my legs, and get my ass out of the apartment. I took my shoes off, then my shirt and ditched it on the floor, and finally - they'll have to come off sir if you want to do it right - one leg at a time, I took my pants off and chucked them on a heap of jeans and causal slacks, that was growing on the sofa. Heading in the right direction but still several states away. Tori Amos - Strange Little Girls - still wanted some dizzy, so I popped her in the little Sony CD player and kicked the volume up about half way, as I went to see what was cooking in the frig. Eureka! I still had about half of a 1.75 litre bottle of Finlandia Vodka ($24.99) slowing down in the freezer. The crest for the Dia is 3 reindeer with a big red dot over the antlers. I call going down, bucking up. With a lucky Vegas shot glass in hand, I, pow! pow! pow!, bucked up a bit. I was aiming for the prefrontal lobe. My 3 shot pattern was a little scattered, left of center, but when you are shooting buck, God cuts you some slack. I could tell you about taking a shower, and getting dressed, and chilling a bit more with the roe, and dancing with Tori to Heart of Au - but I thought I just did that. I am a strong, May 20th, creature of habit. I was going to play it safe and head to Whiskers, my little neighborhood bar, for some wings and night stuff. But the moment I opened the door, I felt the magic of the night and the need to be elsewhere. Perhaps the neighbors wouldn't understand. Perhaps no one would. Not even the many I's that dwelt inside my quirky head had it all together. Not until much, much, later would it occur to me that I was hunting for something different, maybe even a little strange. With the crickets baying at the half moon, I did a boogie check to make sure I had my wallet, cigarettes, and lighter, turned the key, and vanished into the thrill of the night. Well, vanished isn't exactly right, I had to drive. But I had one of the best de's ever, Talk Is Cheap - Keith Richards, coming out of my speakers, and with a little fancy right foot work - gas, brake, gas - and a few lefts and rights, I found myself about 15 miles away at Dugan's, another quaint and curious, neighborhood bar. But not my, "Yeah, I have seen him around.", neighborhood bar. It was early Monday night, and I wasn't expecting a crowd, but I could tell from the cars in the parking lot, that I wasn't the only one feeling the itch. I was a little disappointed though when I sailed in, all couples and groups, no strays. But I was already there and still, like a wolf, hungry. I took a seat at an isolated area of the bar. I ordered 10 wings medium, a vodka shooter, and a Rolling Rock with a frosted mug. The chick behind the bar brought the rock and the shot. I lit a cigarette and waited for the foul. It was only a little before 11 and people were still meandering in - a couple, two unrelated guys, another couple, two chicks, another guy, two more couples, and then there she was, perhaps an angel. Well perhaps the angel of another. On an scale of 1-10, she was a high 5 or a low six. She was maybe 35, 5'4, and a little overweight. She was casually dressed - jeans, tank top, and sandals. But the thing that got me was her hair. She was a blond and she had her hair pulled back in a big floppy bun - "With perfumed hair, that came undone." But the thing that made the 10-7 split, was that she smiled, came right over to where I was holding reign, and said, "Hi, my name is Leah. Is anyone sitting next to you?" I am not going to bore you with all the details of how cool I was, or that I bought - all the guys dig Leah because she knows onomatopoeia - several drinks, and shared my fair with her, and complimented Lee a hundred times on her hair, and made her laugh, and how I was going to pay the check with a credit card but somehow ended up using cash, or how I said, "Do you mine if we go to your place?" Now a woman is a creature of many surprises. Instead of being put off by going to her place, Leah was relieved. She told me she liked me and everything, but she was a little worried and she would actually feel much safer with all her things and stuff and knowing where she was in the morning. And then she gave me a hot hug. I don't even think she even considered that we would probably trash her place and she would have to clean up the phun after I split. I followed Leah home. She only lived about 2 miles from Dugan's. She had a neat, 2 bedroom apartment, and her roommate was elsewhere. Leah told me to sit on the sofa. Then she put on some bitch in heat, lite a candle and some incense, and then went into the kitchen. Lickety split, she was back with some chilled chardonnay and the perfect pear. Did we have phun?? Sure we did. The whole thing got started with me undoing Lea's bun, running my fingers through her hair over and over again, then pulling her beautiful blond hair to the side, taking a slurp of the wine, and squeezing some of the sweet, sticky, pear juice on her neck. We did it on the sofa, and in the kitchen, and we finally ended up in the room with a bed in it. Everything is still cool and I think I will get away with it. I have before. But on the advice of council, I have been advised not to go into too much detail here. Lee and I did make a mess and had lots of phun. Shortly after, she fell fast asleep, I didn't. I went into the kitchen looking for a distraction and I spied some scissors. I went back to see how my little princess was doing with her beautiful, beautiful, hair. Just a snip, she would never miss it. But once I started, I just couldn't stop. It was too perfect. Before I had finished, I had already filled up half of a Kroger sack. I wanted to shave the stubble but I was afraid that I would disturb my princess as she sweetly slumbered. Some discoveries are best made alone. I haven't gone back to Dugan's or seen Leah since the scalping, but I have thought about her a million times. I wonder how she took it? She probably woke up the next morning feeling a little different, you know, lighter and fresh. She probably attributed this to, bless her heart, me. And then perhaps she went to scratch her head and that is probably when the panic first started to set in, must have been a rush. One hand, then two, trembling, shaking, freaking out. And then stumbling to the - mirror, mirror, on the wall - who is the baldest of them all? Blood curdling came next, a scream, and then a gushing of fast hot tears down both cheeks, sobbing. When I think about Leah and our time together, I always feel a little bit bad. I should have left a note, "If you don't like the new do, you can always wear a wig." PS - Yeah, I know you wanted to see a pix of the bald headed chick and everything. It would certainly be a top 10 for me if I had it. But I violated the first principle of a gonzo photographer. I left my camera at home. © 2003 big box industries Saturday, July 12, 2003
Even before I left work she was already up and dancing - dancing, dancing, dancing so pretty. She followed me the whole way home and preyed upon my soul and fancies. "Again, again, come ride with me. Just one more time and then again." If only I would peek once more She would fill me with what I seek She would fill me with a way High and Holy and pristine. And there I stood still as stone Waiting for a way to strike me Waiting for the hook to settle And she again to string me far. Round and round I go Dreaming of cakes and she of pi Circular in her surrender 204 never she. And she so flush And she so willing To take me on a ride again Round and round and far away Far but very near. All the while I heard her whisper All the while I heard her sigh Just one more time come with me And ride round and round and very high. Ok. So I know it sucks. But what am I suppose to do? Straggle it in a stream like a Chinese mother whose offspring is just not quite right? More than this and then again and she is always faithful. Tomorrow the full moon will shine. She will shine for me and perhaps even you will surrender to her spell and to her wile and ride round and round and very high. © 2003 big box industries Thursday, July 10, 2003
All of the world's top photographers are hanging out in Iraq. Snaps is there. Monk Pasha is in focus. Flash Bradley is putting it to them. It's a gathering of the clan. They are not telling but everyone knows why they are hanging. They are all searching high and low for the snap that will take them to another planet. They are all hanging out hoping to be the one. Can you imagine how much pictorial evidence of a viable weapons of mass destruction program in Iraq would be worth. I am speculating that the owner could name his price, at a minimum tens of millions of dollars. It would be the most famous snap ever. "Come on Sammy. Just one snap. I promise I won't show anybody." © 2003 big box industries Wednesday, July 09, 2003
And I heard the singing of a ghost, of a song that I had written long ago. I was so proud. The hairs on my body stood erect. And she, whomever she was, did my ways perfectly. Perhaps she crooned kneeling, with her head bowed in submission, to the rhythms of the moon and a time that had not quite come. I heard the strings, I heard the strumming, of a song from yesterday. And to this wail, I heard her singing, sweet to the surrender of her heart. And when we two are like this, tomorrow is just a dream. I my strings, and she her voice, and to the Gods we do beckon. Perhaps they, my Gods, will remember the gentle, sweet, touch of my fey? Perhaps my Gods will remember? But they are my Gods and they do not remember. And still I pine. © 2003 big box industries Tuesday, July 08, 2003
Yesterday I told of having a million errant tenuous teasing taunting thoughts running here and there and everywhere. Each promising adventure and awe if only I would follow. If only I would take the bait and ride the hook to places most wondrous. And here I stop to dwell and ponder. But these thoughts are not complete. They are only harbingers of promise. Stop the welter and follow. If a then b then c then deeper still. Follow me down to were the waves are silent. Follow me down to where the water is always still. Follow and you will meet The White Whale. It is as if part of me knows something that another part of me does not. How is this done? Why is this done? And when the many become one we will remember. © 2003 big box industries Monday, July 07, 2003
It's not that there is not enough, there are too many. Too many thoughts running around in my head, tenacious, teasing, thoughts. No 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 tenuous, teasing, thoughts streaking across my mind, calling out my name, beckoning me, and then gone. One moment rushing into another but never to meet and seldom remembered for very long. And at the end of the day I am left alone with promises that have faded like the petals of a rose. But oh what Joy, we have James - A Portrait of The Artist as A Young Man - 1916. I ponder why he used The instead of An? And when the many become one we will remember once again. Dedalus - The way of lust is Death - Dead lus. Or perhaps when lust is banished we are no more. And on the inside front page long ago I had written in blue ink - "It is almost as if this is penned by two different hands. As with other tales of its kind, one struggles, one struggles to overcome the inertia, and then finally a critical mass is achieved. p. 95 - "And thanks be to God…that we lived so long and did so little harm."" Actually I went to Joyce for a passage that I was trying to conjure up this morning as I was hitting tennis balls. I thought my chances of finding the exact passage would prove challenging. I actually considering taking Dedalus with me to work today so that at lunch I could start my Quest. But there is a spirit that dwells near, watching over my shoulder, with guidance and eurekas. Within about 20 seconds of thumbing through the text I came across, underlined in yellow, just what I was looking for. p.41- "And all over the playgrounds they were playing rounders and bowling twisters and lobs. And from here and from there came the sounds of the cricketbats through the soft grey air. They said: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain slowly falling in the brimming bowl." When I was younger I played cricket and indeed there is a special pick, pack, pock, puck sound as the hard leather ball hits the flat surface of the wooden bat. Just like there is a special sound as the fuzzy yellow tennis ball yields to the taunt strings of the sound and the fury of the racket. © 2003 big box industries Sunday, July 06, 2003
The 4th of July is over and I had a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious time. Lots of food and drink and Plum and phun and wow and more wows from the rockets red glare. I was, am, and will forever be thankful. All this and heaven too! I think you should know the rest of this little ditty by now but in case you are suffering from extreme d&s - All this and heaven too! And I love it! I only really fucked up once. I went out to my folks on Friday afternoon. My Dad was sitting outside on a lawn chair in the driveway when Plum and I pulled up. Although he is a little spaced out most of the time now, you could tell right away he was glad to see us. My Dad is ex military with strong patriotic sentiments. I looked around and didn't see any flag waving in the breeze over the front door. "Dad, we got to get the flag up right away." He was pleased with this. It took me a bit to go into the hall closet and find Old Glory and then outside with Dad watching assemble the aluminum pieces of the flag pole and play around with the string that held the flag to get everything in place. Then I had to go around to the front where Dad couldn't see and attach the pole to the bracket up and to the left of the entrance way. Now we were ready, a house with pride. It's hard for my Dad to walk around now, but he wanted to see the flag. We helped him up and with my Mom giving him support my Dad shuffled up the pavement on the driveway and to the right. Hell and high water, he was going to see his flag. Dad stood in front of the house, happy. He paused for a bit in his bliss and then slowly raised his right hand and saluted the flag. And me with shame, the infamous gonzo digital photographer, Robert "d" Snaps, with no camera. "Old soldiers never die. They just fade away." © 2003 big box industries Friday, July 04, 2003
I am old but I will still fight for what I think is right. Do what you have to do but don't fuck with me and mine.  To you and yours, Happy 4th. © 2003 big box industries We had a Hawaiian Luau at work last Wednesday. I got laid and also in tones hushed and sonorous was told my Delta House double secret probation initiation moniker - Lopaka - rider of big waves. All this and heaven too. Yes I do. I love it all. On Thursday, Plum and I, went to see Whale Rider, a Sundance Film Festival winner. We did a nooner at The Tara on Cheshire Bridge Rd. We snuck in popcorn and dangled our bare feet over the chairs in front of us and had a good time. Whale Rider will not blow you away but it is very comforting and nuturing. For reasons known only to Yea Gods I felt compeled to wear my lay and name tag.  Give me Whale Rider and it is almost instantaneous, I am elsewhere. In all of English literture there is not a better sobriquet than Melville's, Moby Dick. In the first British edition this classic was simply titled The Whale, somewhat pale and pedestrian. Only once it crossed the pond was it enbued with the moniker - Moby Dick. Be there a million more, now would be more perfect than MD, a doctor of the soul in search of salvation. © 2003 big box industries For the last month or so I have been rereading Claudius the God by Robert Graves. I am usually better at wolfing them down but I am reading Clau-Clau-Claudius a few pages at a time at work during lunch. Claudius the God is the second of a set, the other which I also recently reread, being I, Claudius. Both are historical fictions that take a romp through ancient Roman times. Go figure, I like God a bit better than I.  Graves is somewhat of a pedant. I suspect that his style would not enchant everyone. Still either I or God is the perfect lunch time companion. For a brief period of time each workday I am transported back to a time when being alive was a much nobler endeavor than the dross of today. Perhaps it is the names, sonorous and complete. "And what is your name?" "Robert, Augustus, Tiberius, Claudius, Drusus, Nero, Germanicus, Snaps the III." © 2003 big box industries Wednesday, July 02, 2003
"Daddy?" "What did people do before there was Blogger?" Before there was Blogger, and Word, and cut and paste, and save and delete, and such, more than a few of us captured the moment with pen and yellow legal pad. I am actually crafting this now on a yellow legal pad. Next, I will probably input it using Word, and then eventually, paste and copy it into Blogger. I have done it any number of ways, but paper and pen will always be a fav. The heft and glide of a good pen, my mark upon the parchment thus. Ignatius Reilly was one of us. I only vaguely recollect him, but he was always with yellow legal pad at the ready, a faithful scribe. Ignatius Reilly was the main, and yes he was, character, in O'Toole's, A Confederacy of Dunces. What an apt way to describe so many lives? So whenever you blog, homage must be paid to the ancestors, those that used the old magick of paper and pen. And to the old one's, Igi was a God. © 2003 big box industries Tuesday, July 01, 2003
LIW is a movie. It is the best. If you be mortal quick to this do go. It is bliss and then just a little more. © 2003 big box industries And before each battle, the Bobs would gather to hear the words of their high priests - "All that hear the word of Bob are saved. All that hear the word of Bob are saved from the welter. All that hear the word of Bob are saved from confusion. All that hear the word of Bob are grateful. All that hear the word of Bob are content. All that hear the word of Bob know peace." And before each battle, the antiBobs would gather to hear the words of their high priests - "And in the beginning there were many gods and now there are none. There is no truth only lies. Like a snake hissing in a pit, words spoken are like venom to the mind. Shield yourself from falsehoods and lies. Fight for the light and the darkness so that all may be free." © 2003 big box industries
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