Without Talk or Fireworks

I recently wrote in a letter to Mr. Gulfboot Johnson that the real art i'm trying to perfect these days is living and though it is a most imperfect art i do believe it is the most important art, i said something about all other art, writing, painting etal springing from this, that the rest was superfluous, a distraction, stated that the world was to caught up in gazing up it's own ass and calling it the center of the universe but that was the culture we lived in, days on end spent mourning the loss of celebrities when what the ones wrapped up in the coverage should have been mourning was the loss of themselves, that a wise man once said the adult world, the careerist, was nothing more than a game of trinkets for chores (to quote the esteemed Mr. Gulfboot) a game that is very adept at serving up heaping, steaming piles of shit in various forms and guises...

And so in order to do good works i ran up to the corner store, the Rite-Aid, i'm fucking there alot, i'm like the sane man in a sea of weirdos or vice versa, tonight i was on a mission of mercy, to score the heating pads for a sore back, it's the least i can do for those who help me lead this charmed life of public swimming pools and a new grill, who keep me in sunglasses and leased autos, and so i got in the car and made my way, this VU album playing, myself being very stoned and driving slowly down the street with the windows down, the sweet air of a late August early evening blowing, Lou rambling away about Jesus (song 5) and myself gazing out the window at neighbors i do not know but have elaborate histories for, making my way to my destination...

Inside i know all the clerks to say hello but not well enough to exchange in anything other than the smallest of talk, i'm polite and glassy-eyed and i wander through the store like a lost man who knows exactly where he's going, serene under the glowing fluorescence, and i'm standing in the aisle and this fucking song by Peter Cetera is playing, On My Own? i don't know the fucking title nor do i care to, it's a song i've heard a thousand times, seen the god damn video to back in the early days of some thing called Music Television when it had the power to make a schmuck like Pete Cetera think he was a star, hell maybe it was a Chicago tune before Pete got all uppity and went solo and i'm standing there and wondering how this guy got so fucking famous singing such shit tunes and i'm fairly giggling to myself at the surreal-ness of this existence as i debate the pros and cons and i walk towards the counter and smile at the clerks, one or two of whom i'm guessing know i'm cooked, pay for the stuff and wander out to the car...

The sky is a turning a lovely dark blue to the east and a brilliant pinkish red to the west and the breeze is light and pleasant and i get in and turn the key and roll the windows down and Lou and Mo and Sterling and John are playing that song up above now and i pull out and head toward my street and i'm smiling for i have not a care in the world, none, and i thought to myself as the wind blew through my graying sideburns maybe i'll type something tonight or maybe i'll listen the VU or Lee Hazelwood or Spoon or say fuck it and put the computer controls on shuffle and do nothing, watch a baseball game i care nothing about, attempt to read more Faulkner and pet the cat's belly, but it will be a fine night, one without talk or fireworks, one without worry or thunderstorms, and i will work on this art of living, i will let the world gaze up at it's own bunghole in amazement and i will not judge or ridicule, simply put one foot in front of the other, one word in front of the other and get on with the business at hand... whatever it may be...