Pensamiento 2010 No.1

Vestigios de un desconocido lugar,
un alma vagabunda ronda dentro de un baul
Han pasado algunos buenos años en busqueda,
y unos pasos que me han hecho revelar
Los secretos de una galaxia lejana,
de sus habitantes, sus costumbres
Los milagros del mas profundo oceano,
estallan dentro del prisma, dentro de la sexta dimension

A merced de un enemigo invisible,
juzgados por un gigante erratico
Imposible el descifrar la escencia de la estetica y bellas artes,
sobre analizando el exitencialismo humano
Mi pasion es la Prima Donna,
mi debilidad es el amor

it's just a change of scene man

sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come - that's kinda how i feel. i consider myself a go-getter but never a stand-byer. life can bring me down sometimes but i'll always stand up. all through the day i me mine, i me mine, i me mine - maybe it's time to forget about what i feel for a while, maybe it's time to unwind a little, live a little and don't take it too too hard on me.

new york is strange you know? it's a beautiful city. it's a dangerous city. mafia all around. happy children in the zoo. traffic, traffic, traffic. people, people and more people. the subway, the train - be it the Hudson River line or whatever you want. the bus. the walk. the talk. the hustlers. the lesbos. the homos. (by the way i love almost every human being, nothing personal). the music. the party scene. the geeks. the chinese. the jews. the middle easterns. the japanese. the russians. the italians, of course with their Deli's and Pizzeria's and God knows what else. the mexas - mis compitas in Spanish Harlem. the snobs in the West Side - midtownish. the bohemian intellectuals in Greenwich Village. the college NYU-ites hanging out in Union Square. the tight-ass know-it-all business men in Wall Street. the horror in the remains of what used to be the Twin Towers. the love in the air. the insecure passengers in public transportation. the rats having a ball underneath the subway rails while i wait for the line 6. uptown, downtown, midtown. lower east side. lower west side. upper east side. upper west side. the docks. the mocks. the jocks. the East River. the Hudson River. the GW bridge. the Triboro bridge. the Linconl Tunnel. the Queensboro bridge. and many other bridges. Central Park! STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER. The IMAGINE stone circle in Central Park. The Dakota where tragedy struck there once. Long live John Lennon's music. anyway... Should I keep going? Yeah, just for a bit. ... Queens, Brooklyn, Bronx, Long Island, Staten Island, Manhattan, East Hamptons, Jersey City, Coney Island, upstate new york - Beacon, Poughkeepsie, New Paltz (my current home).....and the list just goes on.

So i'm moving there.

It's exciting. It's crazy. It's what's going on.

I'll put on an ELO vinyl and rock away - this time i'll start the needle with "Strange Magic". what a song. what a feeling, which reminds me of how i started this piece of writing - or rambling - or just a tourist insight. I feel real good. The way we feel determines a lot in our lives, don't you think? So get out, walk around, get some fresh air and make everybody around you happy. Life is so great to be worrying about stupid shit. So there you have it. So there you go. So see you later and have a horrible day! (I actually mean have a GREAT day, but it's a "local" joke with a very dear friend of mine...). So have a GREAT day!

Pistol Chunky

it's raining, but i don't really need an umbrella

today feels like everyday.
go to work. go to to school. go to bed. or go to hell.
what does it matter anyway if the bright future is no more than a repeated version of a dull past. it's not about me. i don't think my past is dull, on the contrary, i'm just saying why worry? why worry about the future? still we do. we all do you lunatics.

today it's raining and i'm thinking about someone.
i don't really need an umbrella, raincoat or anything else.
i only need to follow my feeling, believe in my dream, shut my eyes for a bit and experience the comforting breeze and puzzling intermitent lightning of Orlando's weather.

tourists go to disneyworld.
i go home.
tourists go to spend their mediocre paychecks in stupid garments and mickey keychains.
i pay the rent.

it's raining and my past is slipping away, leaving me behind and not listening to me anymore. it never did. it never will. it's all poetry? it's all a waste?

me and my arrow.
nilsson schmilsson.
sparks and ocean waves.
movie previews and corporate america.
runaway lovers and sad, sad mistakes i've made.

maybe i'm a little uneasy right now.
maybe i'm a little weepy.
maybe i'm trying to figure it out just like everybody else.

chicago - someday i'll go there.
new york - my mind is set on you.

goodbye friends and family.
it was nice meeting you.

"the dream is over.
what can i say?"
(lennon)

stardust stardom - the connection

Tapping my left foot on the marble-like floors at Stardust,
Juggling a tennis ball out of boredom (out of the blue) after playing a doubles match,
Containing rapid flashbacks of my late adolescence while the broken speaker announces the second coming of Jesus, my heart is pounding 28 times faster than normal and I know I'm not THAT old (yet).

Seamlessly reading books of the departed souls of the underwater library///the lost city had a magnificiently well kept collection of ancient scrolls, testimonies of futuristic bums, poets, visionaries and dreamers, and furthermore there lies the secret of the plan, design and execution of the machine - THE TIME CAPSULE OF REZ. Implementation could take 3 years and change.

Inconspicuous and unobtrusive, yet mysterious and strange. Needless to say that heroes and ghosts have something in common - they will all be oblivious to us through history - IN TIME.

A stream of thought about science and possibly considering faith,
A big apple and a big head or shall I reply to myself - a big EGO,
A beehive of lies reassuring me and my fellow citizens about the dirt in the streets, the voices of crooked politicians and the rambling stupidity of senators in a useless system of pseudo democracy-dictatorship all in one

The news is - be aware and question your surrounding. The future is not really a matter of tomorrow but the day after the day after the day after tomorrow. It might be subjective - might be a waste of time in itself to stop and think about the future, unless there's a catch....what a bloody run-on sentence I just wrote.

Reset.
Rewind.
Emergency.
Repair.
Walk again.
Run wild.
Only to learn how to crawl back into your cave - crawl back like a slave.
You and only you - you gotta save.
The corner of my eye lets me know it's cool - you, me, you, me, them and every living thing in this planet and the galaxies yet to be discovered.

Light speed.
Novelty seed.
Got a kid to feed.
Rest about now sounds good, homie homefry.

Revolver, Allan Sherman & coffee nights

Possibly the best album ever released in 1966 was Revolver by The Beatles. The experimentation never stopped - Harrison and his Indian music influence portrayed, Macca's subtle chamber pop, songcraft and soul manifested, Ringo's empathic with child-like qualities jumping around in the record with consistent drum beats and Lennon's crawling nightmares and genious empowering the record to a different level. I am just amazed at the cohesiveness of this record. It's funny how we are easily bound to love a record so much.

It's 2:35 am and I smell the coffee that's brewing in the kitchen, while Allan Sherman's vinyl is spinning. The laughing crowds on the background empancipate the lighthearted and daydreaming child in me. It's not really soothing to give up a day to think too much about shit, but hey - at least the music is still playing and the wheels are still moving. It's a showdown. It's entertainment. Killing time? Killing my mind? Killing the me in the you and the know in the now. Blabbing about shit - that's all people do. Thelonious Monk's piano might save these nights of boredom. Had a heart attack or hoped I had - not that I want to not live but I want to feel a little more pain, just a tab.

Record is pressed. The music lover is ready to survive with this one record. Going through this turmoil of emotions and shapes and voices and colors reminds me of Miles Davis's Bitches Brew or maybe Lennon's Imagine. Yearning for elementary school. Falling on my face. Sticking around for another toast; this one goes to whimsy barbarellas. Invigorating. Trembling. Make it stop. Make it real. Allan Sherman's melodies are so so good...

Grevious Angel

Hank the first. Hank the second. Hank the third.
There is only one Hank - Mr. Hank Williams - the man with the country heart and the unmistakable folkloric lyrics - God bless his heart.
"How many roads must a man walk down before they call him a man?", said Dylan, but it's really not enough for me some days; the intricate and versatile ideas of this all-star songwriter don't (yeah, don't) cut it for me these days, not when I need a dosage of the real folk - the true heart-out and simple, often forgotten country.
Forget about Faith Hill and her "uplifting" songs and rooftop female vocalism ism ism bagism thism ism ism.
Remember when Brooks and Dunn were a couple of bums?
Remember when Garth Brooks didn't wear a cowboy hat?
Remember when the Dixie Chicks were all but three single hillbilly women scraping for dough?

What really is important to remember is: (considering it's my opinion and it's my blog) that country is not country-radio-pop or Redneck ballads to repeat over and over in a jukebox in a hidden bar in a small town in the deep south or Texas......................................................it's all about heart and soul and the music and the acoustic 6-string old, dusty n' rusty gee-tar and hard-working people in middle america.

Middle America, how bad can it be?
Thank you Hank.
And thank you Woody Guthrie for protesting and never crossing your arms.
Thank you Bruce Springsteen for Nebraska.
I thank the late greats and contemporaries for giving me the push to follow through my journey - I thank you all.

I believe that my heart is country. But I love Rock n Roll.
So help me God.

Pistolchunky

Racing Fake Ferrari

The leather seats of my Ferrari make me smile.
The fancy and useless rims in my four wheels are my motivation to wake up tomorrow.
The headlights in front of my red flaming speed racer talk to me in my sleep.
Hit the gas and forget about insurance.
No worries about gas mileage.
Step on the breaks suddenly and spin around in Newbury Street.
A scratch on my little baby and my world crumbles.
Curved patterns of pavement - Yellow signs in school zones.
Airs of greatness in Sunset Boulevard - Stupid blondes turning their heads to see me.
Habitual relentless dreams of the nothing - I repeat to myself the question "Is this real?"

Car crash. Insurance. Death. Woke up and kissed my girlfriend. Fuck Ferrari.