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Writings and Klonipin detox dreams, Summer 2011

In the poppy fields outside the Gates of Oz
A young man’s body lay at rest, long has it lain there,
Corpselike in repose yet ever-smiling never aging quite alive
Puer aeternus the eternal boy
Pollen grains gather in the corners of his eyes like sleepies
The man however went walking on in accordance with the rules of Time
Motion locomotion insanity repetition doing what they told him he must do
Keep moving move along move along move along
The boy without moving gathers pollen
Lives on light and love and dew
The man like some oblong overweight hummingbird flitters about
Trying trying dying on his feet racking up miles getting nowhere.
His face is a dog-eared atlas of the American road, an outdated and unwieldy book of maps
Pre-internet, torn cover, open at Nebraska, wrinkled as an origami turd.

In a white suburban ghetto outside the city walls, the man sits slumped in a therapist office.
On the wall a parchment: Masters Of Jungian Ozology
The therapist stirs him from his stupor.
“I asked you what stops you from reaching your potential?”
He lifts his head from his hands.
“Invisible walls.”
He hasn’t spoken in near half an hour
“You know, like the proverbial glass ceiling.”
So she lays it out for him. The whole truth about his real spirit, his soul laying in wait for him in a poppy field he cannot see or smell will not find on any Google map nor cannot iPhone app his way to on the 51B to the 88 to the 75R nor any other bay area bus or rapid transit train will ever take him there.
“Life itself…is experienced as a prison,” she said. You speak of barriers, so I thought.. Does any of this resonate with you?

And from him then there emptied out a font of dark events as when an emergency valve opens to unburden a flood-imperiled dam. At night. In the dark.

My life has been a series of cages, yes. And blunders that left me wondering about this thing called adulthood like the time while in the running for a Rotary Club scholarship to do graduate study in Nigeria having already passed the local and and county levels I had just one more key interview for the state finals before a panel of men in Sausalito. It was a simple question: who founded the Rotary in 1905? Was it the puer in me that jinxed it or was it some higher power putting words in my mouth to keep me from a fate that was grossly off-track from my own? I know not but I replied, Paul Harvey, naming the talk radio celebrity rather than the founder Paul Harris, and thus ended my career as a Rotary scholar.

He watched himself as he spoke. There were no tears. No great sorrow. No bereavement. Just a listing of dark moments from the past. With detachment. Like the migraine symptoms he was currently experiencing feeling trapped here with her under her scrutiny in her office were of more trouble and pain than any of the events he now described had ever been.

Last night L was reading my play and she hit upon the molestation scene and asked me if that had happened to me and I shrugged and said, “Maybe.” It had. It did. I was twelve and not yet sexually aware, so it didn’t register as a sexual experience rather as something weird and peculiar and yes, as something of a cage, a feeling of entrapment, of being trapped by this much older boy of 18, legally a man yes, wanting something from me and spending many hours of one summer night on Martha’s Vineyard trying in vain to make it happen. Then there was the time a few years earlier when some older neighbor kids trapped me and a boy from church in a very solid little clubhouse my dad built me in our back yard in Melrose and held us there for what seemed a few hours. The same boys later trapped me and some friends in the basement of my house. And my bedroom in that house was something of a trap, L-shaped it provided no direct line of sight into the hall or the light of the hall and thus the safe proximity of my parents room. Years later on a summer job during college a female boss fed me meds prescribed for our duel-diagnosis campers and used my body while I was barely conscious. I told the camp manager about this and he told me no one would believe me so to keep quiet. It was another case of feeling trapped.

The most terrifying example of a cage in my memory came less than a year after graduation from college on a brief visit back to my college town. I needed a place to stay one night and accepted the hospitality of a retired gay man who had been a congenial neighbor for over a year and to whom I had often talked openly about many things. His name was Jack, and that night I saw a side of Jack I had never seen when I’d formerly had the leisure to say goodnight and retire to my cabin nearby. That night he used everything he’d ever learned about me to manipulate me into a kind of psycho-sexual mental prison of shame from which I found escape extremely difficult. I was under his roof far longer than planned, how long I have difficulty remembering. Hours not days. Perhaps as much as 24 hours after my initial realization that I was trapped.

But now looking back on it, this thing is happening in my mind that always happens. This voice is saying: but come on Rick. Really! You’re a grown man. You could have walked out. You should be ashamed of yourself. Indeed. Same voice speaks when I recollect the workplace rape (as I am now sure it was) of 1989. Come on, Rick, you’re a man. How can a woman rape a man? Fast forward: how can a 63-year old gay man utterly mentally disempower a 25-year old man? Shame. Shame is how. And more shame came of it.

He dreams that Amelia Erheart teaches him to fly. Drunk she insists they fly at night, that she ride behind him in a biplane where she will have no control, she tells him she has faith in him. On another night in the first of two migraine dreams, he is leading a group of children up the west side of a mountain. Reaching the crest, he espies the moon rising in the east and calls back a challenge to the children, “Last one to see the moon is a rotten egg!” When all are on top, the mountain suddenly becomes alive with scorpions the size of squirrels and they come snapping in attack. The dream ends. In another dream, he is hiking down a steep grade on Big Sur with his partner and two friends. At the bottom of the grade, they step off the road and onto rocks that reach out into a lake to make way for a truck coming down the narrow highway. In the confusion, his partner falls behind and when he looks back, he sees that not one but two mountain lions have approach her. She is carrying a loaf of bread and an child’s Igloo lunchbox. The giant cats walk right up and take the items in their teeth but she fights them. “Give them the food!” he shouts. He hopes she will surrender to them what they want. The dream ends.

One day years ago he wrote a poem about a choir boy with a woman’s face
He wrote that something about this “ancient archetypal face” was familiar
it is his face, the face he left behind outside the gates of Oz.

I caught a touch of some bug going around and spent 18 hours in bed, five of it watching Das Boot, the rest sleeping and dreaming.

In one dream I was in a barn showroom fair situation booth vendors etc, booth for The Frog an FM radio station out of the lakes region in Minnesota holds a contest for classic cars, from 1911 and up to 1977. “Do you have a car?” I start to say no I don’t, then remembering, “Yes, actually I do have a car, in a museum.” I tell them about my 1977 Ford Granada. “But how will you win the contest?” they ask referring to Duke being mothballed and far away. Indeed. Good question. I awoke shortly thereafter in a rush of images and impressions. Among them: the clouded seniors at Chaparral House on Thursday, navigating none to well the murky skies between this life and this next. And Duke. And WT Burge should be copilot. The sense that I must get Duke back on the road. The firm conviction suddenly that my SERVICE to humanity will never be in humble moments like reading haikus to drooling seniors and organizing their CDs and sitting by patiently and being the lone applause while another volunteer with a karaoke machine sings for them a whole run of lounge singer songs. My service is my art, my writing, all that my so-called puer personality brings to the world so fuck that PhD asshole and his indictment of the puer aeternus.

In another dream, I am in a cabin or simple house of some kind, perhaps a business with no bathroom access. I excuse myself to find the bathroom go outside, enter through an exterior door as one would at a gas station, find myself in an anteroom with floral pattern or paisley wallpaper on all four walls and doors such that doors are nearly indistinguishable from surrounding walls. Closing door behind me, I attempt to open door to my left, find no doorknob, turn and find that the door I have come through has disappeared into the pattern wallpaper and that it, too, has no doorknob on the inside. I claw at the seam and bang on the door. A sense of panic creeps in. The panic is tempered only by a sense of openness above, light, either in the form of a skylight or the absence of a ceiling gives me some hope.

A week later in a dream, K is showing me our house, her house, the house we lived in together but not the same house and so it goes in dreams, all decorated like Duke inside and out, one special feature an old 1950s neon-trimmed carnival ride out front, see-saw like, and because it fits right out front of the house too small to make sense outside the dream, like a scale model of the real thing. The inside of the house all bedecked and she now married but alone this moment there in the middle of it all, a warm sunny summer evening ten years hence explaining to me that she has preserved it all this way and added much she says “Because I love you and..” she says two other things now forgotten, obscured by waking. Note to any future reader of this: I do not interpret this dream to signify any chance of reunion with K, did in fact immediately feel it had to do more with my identity, my soul, with not forgetting who I am, and the first thing that came to mind was Duke and a desire to go and reclaim that huge monument to my Self or (as it occurs to me as I write) build a new one to rekindle that spirit.

In the dream I was on a small commuter plane talking to an older airline steward. As the other passengers disembarked he told me how he had entered the field with certain expectations and how everything had changed, how now he felt his job had all the prestige of a bus driver. I told him that like sleepwalkers most people get stuck in corners and end up staring out of the same window for so long that they forget they are living in a vast mansion with an infinite supply of light from an infinite number of windows, and that likewise, were they to stop banging on the door in front of them and turn they would find that they have not one door through which to walk but an endless array of doors leading to an infinite array of possibilities.

Universal Love Letter Of The Apocalypse

by RSM

I could watch the house crumble to dust, the shutters shudder and fall, watch the
Paint peel and flake, the dust bunnies propagate; I could watch the cob webs gather
The window glass crack and shatter, watch the walls collapse the floor collapse
Watch the roof cave in; I could watch the world fall apart
I would not care if you were there beside me at peace.
I cannot stand the gathering of more stuff; don’t know what to do with it.
Don’t want a phone don’t want all the clothes I own, don’t want the car don’t want
New tires could ride the bus don’t want the stress, don’t want new things

The world is dying the world is decaying the planet is sick with plastic
She is bleeding out the blood of her oil, her palms up, veins open the oil gushing out
They are scraping the earth now, digging deeper blasting the peaks off mountains
To crush her flesh and squeeze it some more more oil more blood of the mother
To make more plastic to feed your need humanity not my need, no, no don’t want it.
Ain’t interested I need only the bare essentials: one pot, one wooden bowl
One knife one fork one spoon shit I don’t even need a fork!
There is a cyclone in the sea where your soda bottles go
Your styrofoam your grocery bags your disposable razors your tampon applicators
Now it’s mothers day and fathers day and why don’t we give each other Time?!
More time that’s all I want that’s all any mother would ask of her child.

I could watch the sky fall, watch the house crumble, sit still as the cobwebs covered me
I would meditate until the end of time if you’d sit beside me so that I would not be alone
I need nothing but time and your presence your gaze your eyes your natural scents
Your skin like butter like angel feathers like tongue licks, summer breeze, warm wind
I only want your skin no more coarse fabrics no more plastic clothing no more
Synthetic coverings death shrouds for the living no more barriers between us no more
Barriers of time and space no more haste no more brevity no more snippets of language
Give me full phrases spoken softly without stress no more texts no more hasty calls
No more tension anger and volatility owing to the chase for plastic for stuff more stuff
More having more getting more rent more medical expense more insurance
Everyone wants more money to tax
They will tax us to death but you can’t tax NOTHING.
I want nothing
Nothing and you there by my side, we will write sonnets in our minds
Communicate telepathically with smiles and knowing glances we will shine
We will watch the world fall away grow old together on pillows before the setting sun.
We will do nothing because that is all that there is to do that’s all the creator asks of us.
We are everything we need but we are caught like thrashing moths in the web of getting
Of having and better and more stuff, where to put it all, how to maintain it all.

The children will grow and be healthy and happy naked and unashamed
We are still in the garden, have always been here east of nowhere we are not lost
I am here right in front of you right beside you and we are perfect, we are pure
I don’t want these veils these stones we are lugging
These scales we are wearing to protect us from.. From what? From God.
We are afraid of our magnificence, for it isn’t God who would blind us on sight – it is us!
It is me, it is you, the real you the one you won’t look at won’t give the time of day
Won’t stop to feel won’t allow in won’t stop long enough to let catch up with you as
You run through your day in pursuit of plastic, plastic things bought with plastic cards
Plastic cars plastic food plastic reality there is no reality
There is no matter, no reason to try
You are what you are you are everything you need
You are all I need.

The World On Its Axis

rick drives duke w foot

Marin, CA – Somehow part of the package of being a living, thinking being, is you get a Universe inside you. I love that thought, words of the late Terrence McKenna. I started out to say that somehow the world keeps turning on its axis, somehow life keeps going and going much to the chagrin of the conspiracy theorists and the doomsayers in every discipline. But then Terrence entered in. Terrence would like that. I entered in, he would say, like a little fleck of cosmic energy flying off the crown of the mushroom king. Don’t ask me where I am going with this because I just. Don’t. Know.

I do, however, know that I am still alive and well – more well than ever in fact, and living a remarkable existence, and that is more than I ever would have imagined possible a decade ago. This website has been around far longer than Facebook or any of it’s contemporaries. Yes it has. And I am. And you are. If you are reading this, then you are still alive and you are still with me. Or perhaps by some freak accident, you are young and just happened to land here. Welcome.

I’m not the famous author I once imagined I would be. I am just a guy who writes. I am a guy who has had lots of interesting adventures and experiences and written about some of them. I have been lucky in love and been loved by many a woman and a few men. I would write more but I am daily distracted by all the work I have done over the years, all the words written yet little of it published. I would write more but I am lazy, and getting more lazy by the year. Ambition has been leaking out of me, and as I watch it flow down the street like the water of a garden hose full of holes, I have to wonder if ambition isn’t just another word for life essence. Life essence just might be all that drives us, and all our drive might just be the sum total of our life energy.

Oh, forgive me. Waxing poor-etic. Truth be told I have never had a lot of ambition. I realized recently this is because I never really wanted money. Never really cared for the stuff. People who like money go after it with teeth gnashing and claws out and balls out all the way. Not me. Never really cared.

I’ve been trying to understand why it is I write lengthy manuscripts and then toss them into a drawer. Money must be the answer.

Twenty years ago right around this time of the year, I embarked on writing my first novel. A year later I had finished it. But it has yet to be published. And that is a shame. It is a good story, if a bit naive and imperfect and perpetually un-final edited. And in those twenty years, half a dozen other book-length pieces and many short stories. Will they ever be read by an audience greater than a few friends? I have to wonder. If I didn’t care then, I certainly care less now. A lot less.

I’m totally through caring about fame or fortune. I scratch together enough to live on. And now I have a family, a woman and her three children who have welcomed me into their world. I have a roof over my head. I no longer live alone on a boat. I have a car. I drive kids to school, and I fix things. I am needed. I have many friends albeit mostly far away. I enjoy movies and carrot cake and Earl Gray tea. I read constantly and have endless access to books, the old-fashioned kind. I have memories. I have a few goals left.

I just might reach a few of them before this story is over. Tonight then, I begin with these words something new, a new blog within the newly revamped Jigglebox. Imperfect and under construction though it be, I think readers will find their way to these new words.

I have to save the world tomorrow, starting with rising at 530 to make coffee for eighty recovering drunks. But for now it’s time to sleep.


Slingshot Vagina Dream

I go naked in a suit of glass While all around me Men in jagged metal hats Have 16 penny nails where I have only fingers Ship’s anchor thighs where I have frightened and fragile knees. The women here Have diamond teeth and Slingshot vaginas. My Kansas Is a narrow gulch in Bisbee, Arizona Peopled only by characters That I myself made up They live in all my stories and There are no sharp edges in Oz.

Slingshot Vagina Dream

I go naked in a suit of glass While all around me Men in jagged metal hats Have 16 penny nails where I have only fingers Ship’s anchor thighs where I have frightened and fragile knees. The women here Have diamond teeth and Slingshot vaginas. My Kansas Is a narrow gulch in Bisbee, Arizona Peopled only by characters That I myself made up They live in all my stories and There are no sharp edges in Oz.