Words & Pictures by Chuk Baldock

Your reality is lies and balderdash and Im delighted to say that I have no grasp of it whatsoever. -- Baron Von Munchausen

Julie & Chuk Productions A Little Bit of It

Words and pictures 2013 Chuk Baldock chukbaldock@gmail.com
The work contained herein were all first performed and refined before live audiences at various venues in Seattle, WA and Long Island, NY. Thanks for clapping and such.

A Little Bit of It

Neuro-Linguistic Programming
This shit works because too many people still confuse the map with the territory. They confuse the grammar with the gravity, and the words with the windows. Words are just another model of reality, and reality is a muddled mix of surreality. A horse is not a five-letter word. Horse is a basketball game. Words are just another mask, Another meme, Another measurement, Another box to cram our perceptions into; Sounds and symbols, Codes and cyphers, Signs signifying something else, Something significant:

A story that must be told. I want to paint you a picture. Close your eyes, please.

Can I paint a picture for you? Please, close your eyes so you can see. What is the sound of one hand clapping?

A Little Bit of It

Once upon a time, my friends and I built a temple to poetry down at the local bar. We built it from scratch, from good intentions, and great times. And time passed, and the scene died away. Eventually, they turned our space into a Jazzercise studio. Eventually we got back together in another time, another place, with the best of intentions. We threw the rocking chair on the pyre and sang our stories to the stars. This is part of that story.

Just For Thursdays

Every Monday, I get up and go to work. Hours and minutes, clocked in and out, doing what I do. It's a living. But my life is like that bumper sticker, I'd rather have a life than a living. Do I want more than the average guy? Maybe so, but I don't really know. I don't think I want more. Maybe I want different. I want to live differently. I used to think I was crazy, but then I remembered. I was an artist. Everybody's waiting for the weekend, for Fridays. I want differently. I can't wait for Thursday. On Tuesdays, I get up and go to work. Hours and minutes, clocked in and out, day in and day out, Good days and bad days, doing what I do, for a living. I trade in my time and effort to keep the machines running for another day. I collect my paycheck at the end of every week, and pay my bills when I can. But, like everybody else, I'd rather be home, playing with my dog, or my son. I'd rather be with my wife, and my friends. Everybody's waiting for the weekend, for Fridays. I can't wait for Thursday.

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On Wednesdays, I get up and go to work. Hours and minutes, clocked in and out, doing what I do for a living, And daydreaming about a different way. A different way of interacting with one another. In my head a whole other world is possible. Waiting for the signal to go. Waiting for the next day to bring a better world. In that place you can't own a thing because it's its own thing, All the sages there speak of many names, but the truth is one. The only work done is voluntary, necessary, and relatively harmless. There's a lot of great food from the community gardens, good music from your friends, Sing-a-longs, sunshine, bunnies and rainbows and shit. And I come home and I write. I write my way to a better world. Tired of waiting. I jump headlong into the Abyss and go swimming around in the uncharted waters. I get back home and I draw up a map for others to follow. I just need to find the others and show it to them. I can't wait for Thursday. On Thursdays, I get up and go to work. Hours and minutes, clocked in and out, Doing what I do for a living. Anxious for the evening. On Thursdays, we meet up with the others and share our stories. We've all been waiting for Thursday. Other people write love stories, rejection stories, sonnets, haiku, weird rants about duct tape, dope rhymes to make your head go flippity flop, or travelogues of their journeys into some dirty hippy pyschedlia nonsense but, my god, it's really well written and actually kind of interesting... or limericks, or disjointed dada walrus baskets, or what have you. On Thursdays, I go out to share stories with my wife and my friends and a roomful of random strangers. I get up in front of everybody and I read about that other place we can all go to, together. We just have to write it down once in awhile and find a way to let the others know. On Thursdays,
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Throw it out there... Whatever you got. Everything. What have you? We can't wait to hear it. We can't wait for Thursday. I'm writing stuff just for Thursdays. Let's rebuild the temple, because On Fridays, I get up and go to work. Hours and minutes, clocked in and out, Doing what I do for a living, dreaming of a better way. Dreaming of a week full of Thursdays.

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Waiting for the signal to go...

Once more, with feeling: "I yam what I yam and that is all that I yam." Aye, but what am I? This, not that, until that becomes this for a bit. I'm not the same person I was 10 years ago. I had a pizza for dinner. A cheeseburger last week. Something else every day. I'm dissolving the useful bits and integrating the tiny pieces into more of what I yam. I use it to sense my surroundings and act upon them, sometimes consciously. Ive got a mental map and I'm not afraid to use it. He is a five-man, a five-man, a five-manlike me, said the Ape-man." I read a book once. I held out my hands. The grey creature in the corner leant forward. Not to run on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men? he said. A: We are DEVO! I thank the muses and those who came before me. The ones who stole fire and passed it off on to us before they got caught. "But where he lived it was warm, it was dry." "Yes. And they crucified quick." Silence. I stumble through, aiming at happy, hoping it gets better, not worse. Over the long run, so far, so good. The further I go, the less I know. Just give me a light at the end of any tunnel... I get distracted easily. Sometimes I forget to remember. I may have a thyroid problem, but my doctor says I'm fine. I don't sleep well. I've started to read more books than I've finished. I could be doing a better job. I'm itchy. I should take a shower. It's so late... Whatever happened to conquering the world with comix? Whatever happened to that? There's always that. I'm not the same person I was ten years ago. It's the connections that matter. Not the nodes, really. But they matter too, differently. Like ants in a colony sometimes. Sometimes like extremely individual human beings.
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I could still be one of those people. Is that important? Really? Isn't being alive and breathing enough for anyone? The life unexamined... skidoo. skidoo. Sometimes, I wish I were 23 again. Do it all over again. Same major events, definitely, only more gallantly, respectfully, heroically. Still want to be me... just... Wish I'd led my life less boneheadedly, absent-mindedly... And the circle being circumscribed begins to close in on itself again. Performance. Feedback. Revision. Performance. Feedback. Revision. The snake wraps its collapsible jaws around its prehensile tail, forming an everlasting cycle, a fragile circle, what goes around... this not that until this is that again.

I've got a map and I know how to use it. Ask me again in ten years.

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A Bucket of Cheap Entertainment

--- Hi, welcome to America. Can I take your order? == Can I have some dignity, please? --- Sorry, were all out. Have you tried our new Homeland Insecurity Value Meal? == Uh... No. Thanks. Ill just settle for this vague sense of patriotism. How about maybe a tshirt and some bumper stickers? Oh, and a bucket of cheap entertainment, please. --- $49.99. Would you like some Freedom Fries with that? == Well, No. Thats just fuckin ridiculous. --- Drive through, please. --- Next window, please. --- Drive away, please. --- Thank you. Come again. == Wait a minute. Is that all the change we get? What the hell is going on here? Jingle-Jangle! Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching! Bling! Bling! Is that what this is about? Is that the best we can do? You know, its all just a big game were playing. I hate it too, but Im still playing. It wasnt me who came up with this shit. It was like that when I got here. Probably still be fucked up when I go. In the meantime, why all this fuss over little bits of metal and fancy paper? --- Paper or plastic? == Do you take VISA?
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Kinda weird, right? Its the cards that are really strange. This tiny strip of magnetized plastic knows right down to the penny exactly how much I am worth to the world. I cant remember myself so I keep the plastic cards near my right ass cheek. Ive got a whole dead cows skin full of precious collectibles hanging from my ass -- so thick I have move it when I drive or my entire right ass goes numb, then the leg, and if the foot goes... Im zipping down the street like a teenager behind the wheel of his first bright red dildomobile. Im all erratic accelleration and inconsiderate lane-changing. Cautions to the wind. Maybe occasional braking for half-dressed hotties... Idiots. Teenage boys: all of them idiots. Id forgotten just how stupid... Not their fault, but its weird, right? What a fucked up world. I didnt make this shit up. Im just a conduit -- a faucet. Turn me on and Ill spew verbal dioramas all night. Wait. What was I saying?

Something about Freedom Fries and the whole modern monetary system. Theres a connection there... Somewhere... And its the fault of teenage boys. Idiots. Fucking idiots running this world like a bunch of wreckless teenage boys. == It was like that when I got here. --- Nobody saw me do it. == Evidence? What evidence? --- Look! Over there! A Boobie!
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== Weapons? Where? What weapons? --- You cant prove a thing! == Its all speculation. --- Oh, No! A pretty white girl went missing! == Talk to my lawyers. Idiots. All of them. What it all comes down to is simple: Imposing order increases resistance to order which tends toward chaos which eventually, spontaneously creates unimaginably complex forms of order, unpredictably, which, in turn, brings more chaos, which causes more order to be imposed. Its just a cycle, a viscious, beautiful circle. So give and take, but not too much. Pull and push, but not too far. Just let it be. Let it flow. Let go. Just be. --- Did you want lies with that? I didnt think so. --- Drive through, please. Bling! Bling!

--- Thank you. Come again.

A Little Bit of It

You Can't Own An Elephant

Bertrand Russell once wrote that, The fact that an opinion has been widely held is no evidence that it is not totally absurd; indeed in view of the silliness of the majority of mankind, a widespread belief is more often likely to be foolish than sensible. So, check this out: You cant own a thing. Its its own thing. It just is. And so are you. These arent my pants. Theyre just pants. They just happen to be covering my ass right now. You see, I can own my own ass, but not the pants. Nobody else is going to take care of my ass... anymore. Thanks, Mom, but these used to be someone elses pants. Somebody else used to take care of these pants and wash them, and fold them, and cover their ass with them. And when I am gone, I hope these pants will continue to cover cold booties for many generations to come. So, these are not my pants. Theyre just pants. Theyre going to do what theyre going to do. They could get lost in a laundry mat somewhere and never see me again. How can I own something like that? Your clothes do not define you. You are not what you own, because you cant really own a thing; its its own thing. This shirt will survive me. It will be here long after I am gone. A history student who grew up on the Moon will find this shirt in a 2nd-hand FreeBox in a hippydippy cafe somewhere on Mars and use it in their doctoral thesis to prove that people used to actually wear clothes when it wasnt even cold outside. Now, how can I own something like that?

OK, so maybe youre saying, But I like my stuff! I know you love your stuff. Ive got some pretty neat books and records in my collection of stuff that I keep behind a locked door too. Stuff is cool. More stuff, please! I like my radio. But its not my radio. Its just a radio. You cant own a radio. Its its own radio. It does not define who you are. Youre you. Its a radio.

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Of course, it would be cool if nobody breaks the window and moves the radio to a place I cant hear it anymore, but what am I going to do if that happens? Cry about it? Get angry? Ask some guys who ride around in shiny shiny pimpmobiles, wear silly haircuts and carry guns to chase down the radio-mover and lock him up in a cage, and all that, simply because he was hungry enough, or strung out far enough, to take my radio? Its not even my radio. Its a radio. It just is. I am not my radio. My radio does not define me. I am what I am and thats all that I am. Why not drop the charade and throw a parade? How about that? Why not feed the poor radio-mover, treat his situation with compassion rather than derision, and give the pimpin gun nuts a permanent vacation? Why? Because, you cant own a gun. Its its own gun. Anyone can pick it up and move their finger half an inch. Even little kids. Its its own gun. Its going to do what its going to do. Now, how can you own a thing like that? Like a car... You cant own a car. Its its own car. (Actually, even if you allow for the concept of property it probably isnt your car anyway. Its the banks car. At least the bank believes this wholeheartedly. Dont believe me? Just miss a few car payments.) You can put gas in it. You can turn the key half an inch, and drive it around, wash it, change the oil, and put environmentally aware stickers above the tailpipe, but you cant really own it. Youre just holding onto it for awhile. Youre just working at least twenty hours a week for the privilege of convenient transportation to and from work, until you get another car and another car payment, and make another trip to Hell, I mean the DMV. Besides all that, a car is bigger than you! How can you own a thing like that? Its its own car. It will be rusting in a junkyard long after youre worm food. But seriously, you cant own an elephant. Zoos might capture an elephant and feed it and put it in a cage like a radio-mover, but you can not own an elephant. It is its own elephant. No, really, it is. It might stick around for the food, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it has more to do with that whole cage thing. Same goes for your cat.

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MK-Ultra
Humpback whaling expeditionary force, Sieve grounded malleable intuitions, Overt explanations of esoteric mysteries, Blown over the mountains on hang-gliders Made out of old bread bags and Car antennae still aching to Pull in the top ten at ten. Skull numbing plethora of synaptic avalanche, Wave-bending attacks of unseen anger, Obtuse recollections of idiotic songs, Only my mother would object. Every minute that lapses is another one gone. How obvious is that until it really hits you? During a Technicolor Variety Show Acid Test, and then the walls Come melting down. And youve always been this depressed. Youve never had a happy second in your Life, But only for a second. It lasts just long enough to really Bum your shitty little trip out. And its back to the Circus we go. Spinning Mole kings on the heretofore unrealized Carpet of inferior grape jelly. That Ought to make sense somehow, But it never has, Until now.

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Work In Progress
(2004-13ce) Once upon a time,
Before there was time, Or space, Everything was Nothing,

and then, Something happened.

This is your Universe... This is your Universe on entropy. Any questions? Any answers yet?

We're living in the answer that the question begs, If you want to make a Universe, you have to crack a few cosmic...

But which came first? This is the way the world begins... This is the way the world begins... This is the way the world begins... Not with a whimper, but with a... Which came first? The bang or the big? In the beginning, Back in those days, Before the present time, Some time ago, So the story goes, depending on who you ask...
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Certainly, something happened. But what? Some say, On the fourth or fifth day, G-d said, Let there be Life. And lo, simple-celled organisms began to be fruitful and multiply. And no one (except maybe G-d) saw that it was good. Pond scum don't need eyes to reproduce or photosynthesize. So the story goes, depending on who you ask, but nobody knows for sure. I wasn't there. Were you?

Some others used to say it was the valiant warrior-king, Marduk who confronted Tiamat, the many-headed dragon of chaos and uncertainty. His strength and order protected us from her; that wicked she-devil from beyond the known world. But not too many people believe that story anymore. Indeed, some say Chaos never died. Which came first? The soup or the wonton? Why did the chicken cross the... The Huntun that can be named is not the eternal unchanging Huntun. Still others say the beginning was when bountiful Gaia and loving Eros spontaneously arose from that endless formless void. And others don't worry about it so much and say, as long as space endures, and for as long as living beings remain, until then may I too abide to dispel the misery of the world. But what's that got to do with the price of wheat in China? Which came first? The chicken or the... Take my word for it. The egg came first... from a close-but-not-quite-a-chicken. But I'm talkin' waaaaay before that...

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If you want to make a Universe from scratch you must first... I don't know. I wasn't there. All we have now are myths and stories and background radiation, leftover vibrations, clues, hints and allegations.

Actually, I have it on pretty good authority that the singularity went Thpppbt!!! and things fell apart. Which came first? The Hydrogen or the electron? Does it even work that way? Anyway, Apparently all this energy and matter appeared. Nobody reeeeally knows how it all got here. Never mind. If you don't mind, it don't matter. What's the matter? How did all this matter get here? Just like this, just now? Does it matter? Go ask your Mater. I don't know. Do you? I wasn't there. Were you? The best we can do is look at all the available evidence of how the world appears and how it appears to function at present and then test our guesses to see which are ridiculous and which are probably maybe not utter horseshit. So, most likely it was something like, when the Earth's atmospheric chemistry was slightly, but significantly, different, lighting cracked down out of the sky energizing the primordial soup. Zeus unleashed his bolt from the blue, And God said, Let there be Light, and then,

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particular proteins propagated, perpetually producing primitive prokaryotes. Life begat life. The life most adaptable to change survived. Years past. The Earth was covered with competing species. And eventually, monkeys fell out of the trees and stood up on bended knees and made up words like these to tell each other stories while picking fleas.

Bokonon says, Tiger got to hunt. Bird got to fly. Man got to sit and wonder Why, why, why? Some decided maybe Brahma creates the Universe, while Shiva divinely dances it all into destruction, then Brahma builds it back up again and again, and all along, Vishnu abides. Who's to say? Maybe we're just P'anKu's parts playing in the world he made. Which came first? The goose or the golden egg? Which came first? The Cosmic Chicken or the Cosmic Egg? Is that mountain actually P'anKu's arm? Or is that his leg? Maybe we live on the back of a big-ass turtle, supported by a bigger turtle, supported by an even bigger turtle. Who's to say? Maybe it's K'iche' and Gukumatz? Maybe its turtles all the way down.

The trouble is, Every time we name something,

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A little bit of it dies.

The Way that can be named, Is not the eternal, unchanging Way. The name that can be named, Is not the eternal, unchanging name.

Maybe some people know, but we really can't say. Describing the indescribable is somewhat troublesome. And still we try to contain the uncontainable in a leaking bucket of languages. All over the world, everybody's got their own idea of Heaven, Either it is, or it ain't; and if so, who gets to go, and who cain't. As if they've been and they could dare to file a firsthand report. I just don't know who to believe. I wasn't there. Were you? Tell me true. We all pray in our own way. We all die in the end. But do you ever wonder whose Hell the 'bad' people are going to fry in? I guess we'll have to wait and see...

Who knows? You might be right, But does that make me wrong? Hell, we could fight about this all day long. A lot of people are frettin' and worryin' all about religion. Wars are fought over this stuff, and it's not just Muslim versus Christian. This shit's been going on too long, my friend. If you were really and truly, undoubtedly right, there would be no fight. The Truth is One, but the sages speak of many different names. Let's get it together and stop playin' all these silly games? Co-existence is counteracted by conflict and confusion, And so wouldn't it all head towards better if we all admit we might, Just maybe, perhaps, quite possibly, not know the One True Answer to it all? Alright?

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Maybe you got a line to the ultimate really real Truth. Maybe the other guy does too. Maybe you got a few things out of line, maybe the other guy's not quite absolutely correct either. You're both Human. Calm down. So you really think you are somehow so damned special that GOD decided to tell everybody else a bunch of horseshit just to make YOU look like the winner of the fucking religion sweepstakes or some shit? Seriously? Calm down. Be honest. For real and for true, which one of you wants to claim, that they truly know even the first first syllable of the name of God? (And why not Goddess? Why are all these male Gods birthing Universes?) Anyway... If you really were absolutely right, wouldn't it be obvious? Why would anyone dare to disagree? Is this a test? Are all these heathens just put here to fuck with you? Seriously. What kind of great all-powerful god is that? Some say we get the gods we deserve. If so, be worthy of a better god, please. I don't know... Maybe it's kinda like that one guy said, Whatsoever thou seekest, or Whatever you go lookin' for, Isn't that exactly what you're gonna find? Go looking for a higher power of a particular kind, and you'll probably discover exactly what you thought was there. The look of the land will be shaped by the map you share. And if the labels we use to name the unnameable are all in our head, Why is it just a rehash of what Grandaddy said? Look for yourself. Make your own myths. Chart your own course. Who really knows how it all got here? In any case, it's all One big thing.
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We are simply bits of Universe flitting about and coming together momentarily to observe Universe. If there's only one real Answer, then who really knows? Who's to say? With all the conflicting opinions, we can't all be right all at once. Somebody's got to have something not quite right. Am I right? Is it me? Is it you? If we really knew for sure there'd be no debate. So why all the arguments and hate? There's only one answer to how the world works all day long, and the thing is, nobody knows all the words to that song. Personally, I think that when the first fully aware human being sat up and stared out into the vast night sky, they realized how utterly tiny we are and how brilliant and wonderfully vast the Universe is. I think that first person couldn't look away from the Abyss staring right back at them. They saw the face of the deep, maybe the face of God, and they spoke the one true name,

Oh, WOW!!!
and we've been fighting over the fucking pronunciation ever since. That's what I think. I may be wrong. There are other stories just as valid, because they're built on evidence just as flimsy. Maybe we could all agree that we're all too human to understand certain things. We can still tell stories, still hypothesize, still theorize and speculate, but don't say you've got it all figured out. That's just too... arrogant for words. You weren't there.

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Which came first? The Hydrogen or the electron? Fermion or Boson? The instinct to kill or the atom bomb? Let's hit the rewind and back it up a bit. How did we get here, just now, just like this? Why all the fussin' and fightin', my friend? Even among the same religion, people with the best of intentions, Can't seem to agree on the simplest of conventions. Nobody's rememberin' their history lessons. Around five hundred years ago, my ancestors broke off from the Vatican. They started Protestin' 95 theses nailed to the door and the Pope was fumin'. So, now you got not only Catholics, you got Nazarenes, and Presbyterians, Methodists, Calvinists, and the Universalist Unitarians, Seventh-Day Adventists, Pentecostals, Evangelicals and even the Lutherans. Later on came The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and next door to Ray's Pizza and the Korean nail place, we got the recently opened right Reverend Billy's 12th Avenue storefront Baptist Revival Ministry! Seems to me like nobody can agree to disagree about how to say grace. Everybody's runnin' around believing their own way, trying to save face. Each individual with a slightly different take on the same story. Each and every one thinking they're right, but the other person? Not quite. Let's hit the rewind again and back it up a bit more. A few thousand years before, we were all heathens (practicing Pagans) worshipping the sky, the seasons, rivers and mountains. The laws were simple and the religion was like, And Harm Ye None, Do What Thou Wilt, and Blessed Be, son. As Above, So Below. Do unto others, you know? In other words: Let go. Live and let live. Don't take any more than you give. Wasn't that kinda the same thing folks like Jesus & Buddha tried to tell us? And then, Something happened, and here we are bogged down in bullshit. What happened?
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Has that basic idea of kindness to strangers been lost amongst all the clutter when we later thought it would be neat to add silly hats and hierarchies and collection plates and lakes of fire and other crazy shit? I'm not sayin' that I'm right. I'm just sayin'. Not sayin' that you're wrong. I'm just sayin'... Do what you do. Be who you are. Believe in one, none, or a million gods. Meditate quietly, read a book, or sing a song. However you connect to the One, through religion or methodological naturalism, We're all in this together, whether we like it or not. Whichever way you pray, We're all breathing the same air, drinking the same water, resting on the same Earth, and afraid of the same fires. And I can't believe God, or whatever you wanna call It, after creating (or allowing It to evolve or whatever) this whole world and all the people of the world... I cant believe God would then allow us all to quarrel over Its name or how best to bow down to It. 'Cause that's all some petty bullshit. God could not care less about that. That is some man-made bullshit, and dammit, deep down, you know it. Knock it off. Calm down. God doesnt care how you bow down, or what you name It, or whatever nonsense youve come up with. God, or whatever you wanna call it, could give a shit about that shit. There are more important things to worry about. When they asked Jesus what the most important commandment was, he didnt mention anything about Be sure to quarrell with that guy who doesnt agree with you. He didnt say, This dirt were standing on is super-holy. I really hope yall fight over it soon. No. He said love god and your neighbor. And, in the end, all I'm sayin' In six and a half (maybe seven) billion, slightly different ways is:
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Pagan or Christian, Black, brown, or Asian, Persian, Arab, Hebrew, or Palestinian, Red, white, Celt or Caucasian, Ba'Hai, Thelemite, Amish and Mennonite, Gnostic, or Agnostic, Russian Orthodox, Haitian Voodoo, this one, that one, and the other one too. Sikh, Sufi, Sunni, Shia, or Shinto in Japan, Hindu or Native American, (You know, the Brahman and Mayan both called Indian, by the confused European) Confucian, Rastafarian, Pastafarian, Jedi Knight, or Jain, Buddhist, Taoist, Atheist, Scientist, Zoroastrian, or Discordian, Hail Eris, or Praise Jesus, It's all the same, with different names. Everybody's namin' shit that can't be named. Because All humans stand amazed, eyes all bugged out, jaws all dropped and minds all befuddled, when staring straight into the unknowable, the ungraspable, the indefinable face of the All-powerful the All-encompassing the never-ending self-sustaining Everything. We all get a little awestruck when we stop blinking, stop talking, stop thinking and just feeeeeeel the real power of the high holy what-the-fuh? And we all say, in our own way, whichever way we pray,

Oh, my God. WOW!!!

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Because, Everybody's playing, each a little different, the same ancient games. This one wears a hat, and that one doesn't. This one wears a robe, and that one wears a kilt. This one prays facing one way, and that one prays facing the other. This one believes Nothing is True, that one believes everything is. This one says that one is wrong, and that one says the other is too. This is kosher, that's hallal. This is holy, that's not allowed. It's All One, and the One is All there is. The All is within you, inside all, And outside, the Earth keeps on spinning, and the Universe keeps on grinning.

It's All a dance of light. Take that chance. Pick a fight. You might be right, but... Whichever way you pray, Say it whichever way you see it, but I guess we'll all have to wait and see... Above All, May the Peace be with you, And Blessed Be.

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Carpal Tunnel Humdrum

Itchy eyes, sweaty pits, gurgling gut, coffee tongue. Smoke another one. What day is it anyway? If its still Thursday I dont have to be anywhere until tomorrow. I can get some real work done. But if its already tomorrow, I should get some sleep. I could stay up all night and call in sick (and tired), but I did that last week and they might get wise to my game, if theyre not already. Fuck it. Read that article. Whered I put it? Maybe one more chapter. Which book? Why bother? Headache. Elbow itches. Need to call the doctor. Turn head, cough. Does that hurt? Say, Aaaah, etc. Taxes due soon. Fuckin paper maze. Just keeps bean counters busy. They write forms in bean-code only their counter-partners can decipher. Transfer the amount from line 13b to line 16f and subtract the square root of line 3a divided by the gross national product of Guatamala. Its a damn conspiracy, I tell ya! Bright outside. Should go for a walk. Go get a mocha. Thats three oh five. Three dollars and five cents. Coffee in the next rooms paid for already. Walk anyway? Later. Maybe later. This CDs odd. Forgot I had it. Should get more like it. Its like proto-industrial pirate radio from a German heroin party. Whats that fucker wailing about anyway? Goddammit! I do NOT need another cigarette! FUCK OFF NICOTINE! Take thy beak from out my chest and thy form from off my door! Whatever. Whys my hand sweaty? Wonder if mails here yet? Doubt it. Slow-ass bastard. Damn, Im grouchy. All that coffees gone to my bladder. Its fuckin with my attitude. Better watch it. Maybe I oughtta jerk off. Think about her... Nah. Not really horny. Later... Later. No doubt. Ought to be doing something though. Write a letter. Postcard to somebody. Maybe ink another comics page. Finish writing that third scene. Write more bad poetry. Too much. Cant decide. Cant concentrate. Self-induced Attention Deficit Disorder. Im worse than a TV addict. I want my, I want my, I want my damn TV!
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Maybe Ill head down to the Post Office. Later. Cant. Used bookstores along the way might lure me in with offers of cheap literature and free bookmarks. Wait. Wait. Steal the postage at work tomorrow. Yeah. What else do I need? Trash bags. Toilet paper. I should make a list of shit to steal tomorrow... Coffee must be miraculous. Like that Catholic shit about the cracker transubstantiatin into a piece of Jesus as soon as it hits your tongue. Coffees got to do something like that too, cause I know I pee out more than I take in. Like, two cups of coffee equals a gallon of pee. Two cups per gallon. Yeah. Something weird is going on. Just around the corner. Not quite sure what. Maybe it has to do with the ozone layer, monosodium glutamate, and Ivory soap. Totally harmless by themselves, but a slow crippling disease when combined. Its shit like that keeping me up nights. Like cell phone radiations okay so long as you dont eat ketchup. Somebody tell me a better lie than the one I believe in, cause Im bored with Life again. Make it elaborate. Make it beautiful. Idealistic. Esoteric. Convoluted. Simple. Just convince me. Console me. Tell me true. Ah, fuck it. Sleep. Give up. Give in. Go sleep. Go swim in the clouds. Arm in arm with blue bleeding whales. Screaching mountain Gumbies. Honky-Tonka trucks. Dance the funky ceili round the old oak tree. Vampire squirrels stole my electric ear wax machine. Nobodys in line for the underwater opera. Is that God or Santa Claus? Whered I leave my kidneys? Ice cream bones. Naughahyde leisure suit. Astroturf hat. Walking on the cielings again. Nobody seems to notice. Maybe cause Im just another decadent urban hipster artfag vying for your entertainment dollar! And thats all I have to say about that at this time. Good night.

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I am...
I do what I can. I do what I must. I do what feels right. I am only human; a neuron; one electro-chemical reaction; one of many interconnected cells in the mind of the AllMother, Gaia, firing off its messages sporadically; a microcosm of the macrocosm; a miniature model of the mother and mate; a holy child of the Universe; just like you. Just like all of you. I am the crusty old man stumbling glassy-eyed past you on a bright Summer day. I am the beautiful vision of Aphrodite you saw adjusting the manikin in the window of the overpriced bourgie boutique last Thursday. I am the whining child on the bus. I am the charismatic preacher condemning you to eternal damnation. I am the barrista who knows your drink before you walk in the door. I am the little old lady who made you laugh self-consciously when you fumbled for change in the supermarket when you were twelve. I am the pompous English Lit professor who will only pass students if they agree with me. I am the bus driver. I am the TV news anchorman who can't pronounce Herzegovina to save my smiling life. I am all repressed librarians everywhere who get pangs of anxiety every time they have to re-shelve The Joy Of Sex. I am the hunter of men. I am the fence-builder, the clock-maker. I am the little policeman inside all of us.
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I am the hunky lifeguard you had a crush on all through the Summer of '88. I am the doctor who misdiagnosed you because you are not you. You are my 8:15 appointment. I am the exotic dancer you only know by the name Chantilly Lace. I am Greg Brady. I am the guy reading Jung's Undiscovered Self disinterestedly in a trendy coffee bar up on Capitol Hill. I am that singer on the radio that you just can't stand. I am Gotama Buddha. I am Jesus Christ, Ghandi, Manson, Mohammed, Mother Jones, Lao Tzu, Sitting Bull and Custer too. I am Lizzy Borden, Bonnie, Clyde, Herman Melville, Harriet Tubman, Ronald fucking Reagan, James Joyce, Marx, Engels, Bakunin, Kropotkin, Fred Hampton, Homer, and Hitler, your mother and father fucking in the rain. I am the nice lady from Schenectady who processed your tax forms last year. I am the ugly girl you work with who is secretly in love with you. I am your mother and I worry about you. I am your father and I wonder about you. I am the rude bastard who cut in front of you at the movies. I am you. I am the guy who would've found a cure for cancer except that he died in Vietnam. I am the artist who you think painted your favorite painting except that it was really Elmyr. I am Elmyr.

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I am that drunk guy that wouldn't leave you alone at Denny's that one time. I told you my story about Alaska and orphanages, seeking your sympathy, but all you could give me was your time. I am a kid in a cape at Hempfest leaping tall buildings in a single bound. I am the underpaid line-worker in Guyana who made your underwear. I work for less than you would even consider so your ass won't have to touch your pants. I am the plea for spare change that you always ignore. I don't care if you have any change for me or not, but do you have to treat me as a ghost? I am the anarchist who is secretly plotting to blow your mind with the novel you won't read until it's too late. I am your drug dealer. I am the child who died before I had a name and I am my mother who went on to have more kids than I could afford in a really sad attempt to compensate. I am the Lakota Sioux shaman who has visions of burning skies every night when I try to sleep. I am the Japanese foreign exchange student in Denmark wishing I had gone to South America instead. I am all my classmates who wish I had gone there too. I am the chemist who invented napalm. I am the guy who let you merge onto the freeway this morning. You're welcome. I am your landlord. Where's the damn rent? I am that kid in gym class you used to terrorize because your Dad beat you. I am your Dad beating you. I am that crazy naked chick on public access TV. I am not you. I am that lady who draws the comic strip Cathy three hundred and sixty five
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damned days a year. I am the guy who always skips Cathy every day and reads Garfield first. I am the undocumented field worker who picked the apple eaten by the immigration agent who will one day send me back where I came from. I am the slightly schizophrenic woman who just happened to type your name and address into a database correctly. She is why you keep getting all those catalogs you don't really want. I am the well-adjusted ordinary guy who typed your information into another database incorrectly. He is why junk mail addressed to almost-you ends up at not-quite-your-address. I am the editor of TIME magazine back in the '50's. I am the Olympic gold medalist who died unmourned and unloved. I am the guy in the downstairs apartment who always plays REO Speedwagon way to fucking loud. I am the ghost of John Coltrane still turning over in my grave every time I'm mentioned in a poem. I am the clown who scared you to tears when you were four. I am the toll booth collector. I am kings and beggars, politicians and whores, priests, poets, and computer programmers. I am the Hollywood star and the unknown hero. I am the jizzmopper at the porn palace and the Prime Minister of England. I am the one person you will never understand. I am the tribe of people who will never be encountered by the rest of us. I am the woman who sold you your prom dress. I am the first person to ever speak a complete sentence. I am the dead men on a battlefield.

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I am the cable TV repairman. I am all the people who made your refrigerator. I am all the people you will never know. I am the only person you ever told your deepest fears to. I am your unrequited love object. I am all the people you wish you were. I am all the people you're glad you're not. I am everyone you hate. I am everyone you love. I am everyone who has ever lived, never lived, or ever will live. I am the Bohddisatva who has vowed to return to Earth century upon century and clear the collective karmic debt until every human incarnation has found their personal path to Nirvana. I am what I am and that is all that I am. I only do what I can. I only do what I must. I only do what I feel is right. I'm only human. I am you am I. Please forgive me for I have sinned. Please forgive them for they know not what they do. We're all stuck to the same side of this beautiful, tiny blue marble whirling through the Universe. We need a new world without the borders between us. Do what you can. Do what you must. Do what feels right. We forgive you.

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One More Day

Walking down, waking up, the street, to a new day, past the shops, smoke the first of many, as cars rumble by, cigarettes. People going, brushing my teeth, this way and that, back and forth, like they have, then spit in the sink, someplace to go. Jumbled impressions, fleeting expressions, doppler effect decrescendo, shifting shadows, of faces reflecting individual depressions, memories and recollections, looks of quiet inspiration. Feet beat a rhythm on the asphalt below. Legs have a mind of their own, leaving my mind free to flow. Pigeons peck at invisible food on the ground. Just for a second, between the towering blocks of bustling buildings, I glimpse the glittering Sound. Pouring water, stop at the corner, into the coffee maker, while waiting for the signal, and measuring the grounds, and watch pedestrians, coffee drips slowly,
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 fidgeting across the way, as steam billows, still waiting for a sign. The light changes, flip the switch, and I cross, my room's a mess, the street, I pull on dirty socks, take a left, an old shirt, dodging an oblivious suit, scraggly black pants, cell phone glued to his ear, and my favorite shoes. I get my Lou Gehrig 2130 / Cal Ripken 2131 : Most Consecutive Games coffee mug out of the cupboard and pour the coffee slowly and pay close attention so I can remember this later. Smells good like wide awakeness. Two spoons of sugar and just enough milk to turn it from black to brown. I light another cigarette, not because I need it, but because I like to smoke when I drink coffee. It reminds me of all night bull sessions at the Denny's off I-5 in Tustin, California way back whenever. I finish my coffee, I make it to work, stub out my cigarette, with five minutes to spare, strap on my shoes, swipe my ID card, throw on my big coat, and the glass door click-clacks open, stuff CD's and food into my bag, turn to the elevators, turn out the lights, push the UP button, lock the door and head outside, a bell dings, on my way to work, and the doors slide open.

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Thank you for calling Amazon.com. This is Chuck. How can I help you? Thank you for calling Amazon.com. My name is Chuck. How can I help you? Thank you for calling Amazon.com. I'm Chuck. How can I help you? Thank you for calling Amazon.com. My name's Chuck. How can I help you? Thank you for calling Amazon.com. This is Chuck. How can I help you? Thank you for calling...

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Whistling In the Dark

...the sound of dry skittering leaves on pavement... ...a crow shakes chips from a cellophane bag... ...the Sun is eclipsed by the towers of Babylon... Dressed-up monkeys chase busses, drink lattes, and talk about various scandalous treasons, and I, an atom in an endless dance watch it swirl about in awe, and indifference. The other day, exhausted from walking, exhausted from pondering and scheming, dreaming and desiring. Exhausted, I sat down.

I let the world pass by me unjudged and naked. Occasionally, something would catch my eye and I would follow it, but mostly I just sat and stared at the silent still tree in front of me. I sensed its fullness. The trunk: its center extending above and below the Earth. Its branches reaching out and up to the Sun. Its roots crawling deep down into the ground. A million bifurcations of branch and root and limb and twig and leaf. Never moving. Always being moved. Patient and enduring. And I felt the fire burning in me once again, consuming my soul. I leapt up from my spot and began to walk quickly and without a thought as to where I was going. It made no difference really. I just had to keep moving. It's what I did best.

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The author, Chuk Baldock, enjoys finding open microphones set up in the back of dimly-lit rooms so he can read long rambling love letters to the world in front of friends and strangers. Rumor has it he met his more talented wife at one of these poetry gatherings in Seattle many years ago. They now have a kid and a dog.

Photo 2013 Julie Baldock

A Little Bit of It