1. |
Black Flag Glee
06:00
|
|||
|
Hellos are an important part of life. Do you mind if I ask my refrigerator to say Hello to me from you?
I’m glad you liked the example sentence for “gleefully”. I was kind of sure you would. Now you have me imagining what the rest of that story is. Who is that “I” and who are the others who give him a connection as “our”? I see there that I assume “I” is a he. I wonder if knowing more of that story will undermine that assumption? The black flag feels political, thus either anarchy or ISIS or some future gender identity orienting itself across the rainbow. Or maybe something else. The “I’s” glee definately feels genuine, but why? Was “I” able to feel glee from taking their flag back from some creeps, assholes or motherfuckers? Was “I” running with the flag off the front or back of a parade — either in protest of the other paraders, or trying to catch up to join the group? Was “I” being chased by a bunch of violence-loving muscle-bound jerk-offs in red hats and sun-glasses but can’t deny the joy of speed “his” (there I go again) terrified adrenaline-flooded legs are letting him experience? Does “I’s” glee vanish quickly, or is “I” a “guy” (???) who is easy-to-glee, does he have a gleeful nature and does that help him or hurt him in life? (Now we’re approaching genre fiction and formulaic writing, which I [no “ “ on that I] would like to avoid but kind of know is an aspect of some of the muses I have working in my Factory of Intimation).
Does “I” use the “our”because he merely imagines that he is part of a future group that will form around him because he has made the black flag and is running in the street with it to proclaim its (and his) existence with the hope/assumption/deluded arrogance that others will realize they have been waiting for this chance to fulfill themselves as a part of an “our” beneath “I’s” black flag? The flag is thus a trigger to let them “understand” themselves by standing under the black flag.
“I’s” glee now feels like something that I would avoid if I saw it on the street, but I think I’d be inspired to go home and make my own (just my) small black flag and run around my kitchen waving it for my refrigerator to see. I guess that would kind of mean my refrigerator would be “running” with me.
🏴
|
||||
2. |
The Bear Dream
03:55
|
|||
|
The Bear Dream
This morning I dreamed
a scene from The Bear.
Sitting at an IH stovetop
built into a glossy black
counter, a chef picks up
a black iron skillet
and, like Gozo, speaks into it
for affecting sound — this poem:
“The asshole
beside me eats
baked fennel mushrooms.
On his plate,
they each wears ‘origormi.’
You have to get the “a” right.”
|
||||
3. |
||||
|
Song #1: Down Worm Hole
I remember the three ways
these plants smelled yesterday.
Not as thick as this morning.
Not as damp. Not as now.
I remember the pot
where I followed a worm
down its hole. Down its hole
I tasted the Rosemary’s roots.
I don’t want to forget or compare
that day. That day. That day
gives this one. No morning is
the same of the same as the same.
Give me two more days to live.
I promise to sing, and remember,
and make promises.
lyrics sung and translated by Riddle Jelly
|
||||
4. |
Evel Knieval
08:02
|
|||
|
Evel Knievel
I grew up with EK and the ideals he embodied, which were to jump farther and then farther and then still farther, with the impossible goal of leaping over the Grand Canyon (which the US Government Park's Service and Department of Interior would not allow Evel to attempt -- and so he had to settle for Snake River Canyon [which he failed to clear]. And, of course, Evel instilled the value of gaining fame for breaking every bone in your body. As the young Jerry -- and throughout the aging Jerry's life, as well -- I think I developed the early stages of the advanced levels of asshole-quality skepticism I am renowned for now. Whenever Rie (my lovely cat-loving wife) says, "Why'd you ruin this cat-putting-on-eye-glasses video for me?" (because I tell her the film is reversed and the cat is ACTUALLY pushing the glasses off in annoyance), I think of my 8-year-old-Jerry-self when I would internally question, "Every single bone? Really, Evel Knievel? Even every bone in your feet?" Or, when I would imagine EK cheating the Grand Canyon jump by just finding a really narrow crack at the edge of the Canyon to jump over and thus easily fulfilling the technicality of the goal.
The fact that I could never confirm my EK doubts led me to love Evel Knievel ever more. My parents eventually provided me with a small-scaled EK deity and his Harley Davidson motorcycle and the roaring wind-up machine via which I could transfer my own physical energy into the idealized life affirming/threatening dynamic supernatural action of Evel Knievel (by Mattel™). I could provide Him with a store of kinetic energy and then He could jump over the cat (or three cats) or smash into my dad's truck's tire or plow into my mom's rose bushes. Evel would actualize the undirected potential that His teachings generated within my mini-me mindset: "Crashing is more spectacular than flying, and everybody can crash."
|
||||
5. |
Words in a Box
04:45
|
|||
|
It is a wonderful feeling to write some words in a box — like placing seeds in a blank of earth — and send them to you. There is regularly this blooming that comes back, as though you are a sun and rain of poetic response. A gentle germinating force.
Things like this add to reasons I am glad I have not died yet — or (in the spirit of Borges) at least for why I’m glad that I have not taken any of my deaths seriously.
|
||||
6. |
||||
|
Song #2: Drop Drop Rain
Rain drop drop drop drop . . .
Damp dirt is making my feet
Drop drop drop drop . . .
I am heavier with mud.
My eyes feel bigger.
Drop drop drop drop . . .
Can you smell the local cat is coming?
What will she bring and forget?
lyrics sung and translated by Riddle Jelly
|
||||
7. |
Two Lupitas Dream
03:38
|
|||
|
Two Lupitas Dream
I had a dream with you (two of you) in it last night. I was riding on a bus somewhere, maybe in America. At one stop, I got off and was talking with an old woman standing at a counter or a low wall. You walked up, and your other you was standing right behind you. The you in front was very short, with short wavy black hair and the she/you was kind of angry or aggressive about something. She/you said something to me and the old woman, but I can't remember what you said. Then she/you walked away like you were busy or angry. The second you was taller. This she/you stepped forward and explained in very polite English that the first you keeps a certain amount of your money in the bank in Toltec currency (I guess rather than in Pesos) and therefore it earns enough interest that you can live in Mazatlan for one month each year. I got the feeling that the short you was the poet and the taller you was the advisor who helps the poet live in the world.
|
||||
8. |
Swoon
05:52
|
|||
|
Swoon
( Based on this GIF: http://3cmpress.blogspot.com/2023/10/swooner-gif.html )
I’m very glad you like the reading, even to the degree of GIFingly swooning in front of a fire. Assuming your gif is portraying “you” as the swooner, I’m sorry that your maid became so panicked, but I love her little “second shock” arm gesture as she rushed across the room to care for you. In that gesture of her arms flying out, it feels like she sees something within a different moment, something that adds shock to her concerned professional reaction, something perhaps personal to her or something beyond her expectation, or a secret, or a secret.
With your consciousness neutralized by reading reading (the reading), she suddenly finds herself in private. She is unobserved by your eyes by the eyes that employ her. So, as she rushes to you, she sees herself in a new light, in a light dimmed by her role as the employed caregiver. She observes herself within herself for a moment, kind of like Sapho’s voice examines the dis-languaged interior fires and drumming and shaking, etc. as she observes her “you” laughing to the man opposite her “you.”
Swooning feels like such a poetry-linked event, or perhaps it’s more broadly caused by words — those dangerous delicate flexible tools of (and into) the heart. But what is the difference between a swoon and a faint? It feels like fainting should be avoided as much as possible. It feels like a sign of sickness, some problem of the heart or blood pressure. If I feel faint, I am supposed to bend over and put my head between my knees, as though the cure is to invert my vision — to let blood return to my blood-emptied brain. But swooning feels like something we willingly risk. We stay engaged with the words that threaten it. We surely can feel the words building the swoon, but we can’t (or shouldn’t) stop reading. It’s worth the risk, we feel. Besides, swooners always seem to land on a pillow in a cushioned chair. Fainters land face first on the sun-stroked sidewalk.
|
||||
9. |
||||
|
Song #3: If If Promise
If I
If we If we
If sunlight
finds me here laying between
the frayed curls of the plum tree’s
bark, and I don’t forget
this promise I promise to make to you,
I will sing a song for the resting
cricket cricket cricket.
Here comes the old lady
with her worn sandals.
If she stops near here again —
LOVE
lyrics sung and translated by Riddle Jelly
|
||||
10. |
Film Jealousy / ROMA
08:23
|
|||
|
Film Jealousy / ROMA
Very nice dream. I felt a little jealous of the Dream Me who sent you a box of videos to watch. The jealousy feels like I feel he (me) did something that I should have done before him, that he thought of it sooner. A feeling like, "Oh, he (me) is actively aligning their minds with films. I wish I thought of that." I think I have a feeling that if I have watched the same films as someone else, there is a special coding of our hearts that puts them into a uniquely tuned perspective. Some films so influence my mind that they feel like they are a certain depth of mutual experience with others, even with strangers. I am sure I can become deep friends with strangers who have loved the same film as I have loved.
Have I ever asked you if you have seen ROMA? I feel like I have resisted asking you because the film gave me such a strong impact about Mexico City, but surely that feeling I have from the film is very superficial compared to your lived depth with the city. But, I am sure that LupitaLand's Landscape is layered with that house in ROMA. When I walk the rooms of LupitaLand carrying an umbrella, I sense it is partly that open-plan first floor of ROMA. Those textured walls and senses of space and flow. And, my favorite part of ROMA is the sounds. They hit me with memories of my own time in the 1970s. The big Ford car engine. The gritty squeeking sound of car tires turning on smooth concrete. The door sounds. Sounds from the street echoing into the patio. Sounds from objects in the sky. etc. etc. I think LupitaLand is probably miked like ROMA.
|
||||
11. |
Who in The Bear
06:00
|
|||
|
Who in The Bear
Who in The Bear I am.
My first response is that I’m the deserts maker who seems to be sincere but awkward about the timing of his actions. He seems slghtly out of sync about others, and I think he knows it. That’s why he seems to need permission or activation for things he does. He has learned patience from repeatedly hitting on others’ (leaders’) wrong beats.
I have always loved and kind of identified with the Greek character Cassandra, the seer who is not understood by the people she speaks her messages to. She, for me, is an image of a poet. She is revealing some insight, but most people just think she is a confused and confusing weirdo. It is her curse, given to her by some god for something he or she didn't like that she did. She is a great but pathetic character.
In The Bear, the character of Marcus (the desert chef) feels like the most poet-like, in that he seems so willing to be activated into isolated work of deep concentration. He doesn't seem to have a strong sense of self, but rather is open to being transformed, to becoming other than he is.
Also, I liked the scenes with Marcus was living on the boat in Copenhagen. And, the one scene with he is coming back to the boat at night and finds the crashed drunk bicycle rider. It was great because no drama happened. Marcus just tried to help the cyclist up, but there was no shouting or police or fear or threats or blaming, etc. (all of which it feels would have been typical in an American city scene). The contrast and lack of drama felt like the message. Life doesn't need to be an action movie every moment.
|
||||
12. |
||||
|
The Charles Inquiry
What is that truncated figure
laying on your chest?
Is that the infamous Riddle Jelly
in the pocket of your vest?
Does he offer truncated answers
to centuries-old enigmats?
Or is he singing untranslated folk songs
of plant-people who live in your pots?
Oh, Who’s that mysterious manlette
half-vanished into your chest?
I want to believe
I need to believe
That Riddle Jelly’s
protecting
the pocket
of your vest.
lyrics by Charles-Eric Billard & Jerry Gordon
10.2.2023
|
||||
13. |
||||
|
The Charles Inquiry
What is that truncated figure
laying on your chest?
Is that the infamous Riddle Jelly
in the pocket of your vest?
Does he offer truncated answers
to centuries-old enigmats?
Or is he singing untranslated folk songs
of plant-people who live in your pots?
Oh, Who’s that mysterious manlette
half-vanished into your chest?
I want to believe
Ney, I must believe
That Riddle Jelly’s
protecting
the pocket
of your vest.
lyrics by Charles-Eric Billard & Jerry Gordon
10.2.2023
|
||||
If you like The JBL Missives, you may also like:
I was too young to hear silence
by Patrick Shiroishi
Free jazz saxophonist explores negative space on a vast, improvised work recorded in a L.A. parking structure.
go to album
featured on Bandcamp Radio Jul 14, 2020
go to album
featured on Bandcamp Radio Nov 2, 2021
go to album
The Spanish avant-garde jazz trio takes listeners on a journey through time on their thoughtful new album.
go to album
Improviser and composer Lara Alarcón has created an experimental opus rife with moments of wildly free jazz and lovely melodic passages.
go to album
Icelandic saxophonist and composer Tumi Árnason delivers five hushed, minimalist songs, melodies arriving in pointillist bursts.
go to album
From Buenos Aires, the duo of Formica & Schenone craft rich, improvisational jazz full of shade and color.
go to album
