I turned 70 in October, so I’m nearing the final station on the line. Soon, It’ll be time to get off.
When I exit this train, I want to know I accomplished something during the ride — something significant that allows my grandchildren to say more than, “Grandpa was a lout and a bum, and all he left me was this paint-spattered sweatshirt.” Continue reading
I’m stretched out on my simulated leather recliner a few nights ago, the first half hour of the Cops marathon complete. I’m spent. I’m a top-tier cultural anthropologist, but I have been bested by information overload, overwhelmed by too much insight into the real America, Trump’s America. Continue reading
Years ago, I received academic degrees, but did not attend graduation ceremonies. I had better things to do: make paintings, write mediocre poems featuring images of shore birds and dead reeds, pound on drums as a member of a band that crisscrossed the country to then run aground in New York City, get loaded, have sexual relations with anyone who agreed, etc. I did not want to hear a geek babble about my bright future; it was not, and is not in my nature to be optimistic. Groundless, positive expressions push me over the edge. Continue reading
Spring is here. Maybe.
Spring in Siberia With a View is a tentative season: it shows itself, lures you into a false sense of security, then slips away, allowing for another blast (or two, or three) of winter. I believe a higher power is at work here, his/her/its actions designed to inspire hopelessness. What good is being a high power if you can’t enjoy some cruel fun now and then?
So, spring is a test. I, and others who cart a good share of Nordic genes, are prone to dark moods encouraged by winter conditions. Spring of the type we experience in Siberia With a View, then, adds to an irritating storyline, one developed by that malevolent, cosmic puppeteer to push us to our limits. Continue reading