Perpetual Notion

Words will be present,
whether planted into rows
or floated in thought.

Marbles found rolling
aimless circles in a dish
will be played someday

But why rush the rye,
with the oven, perfect warm?
Eat it tomorrow.

External clock ticks.
The internal one bounces.
More time for more words.

Michael Jackson is a freak. For the spectacle that is his current life, the media lines up in hopes for a ticket to something, some sideshow. And Michael Jackson does not disappoint. Keep your eyes fixed long enough, and the man is bound to perform. He is after all, an entertainer.

The world is full of newsworthy events, and the media has been quite clear that when he is on the move, Michael Jackson is the front page news. Then we the readers/viewers eat what is fed us, and some acquire an appetite for it. Absent of the initiative taken by the press, people would not be requesting constant updates on a fallen pop icon, but here we are.

Before being an icon, Jackson was a kid. But just barely. Raised in a family where the father’s heart was more consumed in managing than paternal obligation, the spiral began.

The black Partridge Family, though actually talented, were known as the Jackson Five. An R&B group headed up by the youngest member, little Michael Jackson. Adorable, excessively talented, and a heck of a showman, Michael was an early center of attention. When kids grow up they play, and they play with other kids. Michael group up hanging out with his older siblings, and his older siblings’ groupies, and music industry people. No time for childhood in a lucrative business.

As it goes with bottling up emotions, childhood also cannot be repressed, only postponed. Having been the fortunate victim of awesome success, Michael Jackson remained quite busy and in the public eye through the later eighties. It was sometime after the bad album had been released and toured that Michael finally had an opportunity to relax and step out of the public focus.

During his retreat to the Neverland Ranch, Michael Jackson began his more reclusive life. Now that he could do what he wanted/needed and not what the public dictated, his personality began a regression to that of a child’s. This is understandable as his mind and body were just compensating for something that had been previously ignored. Doing as any self-respecting kid would, Michael made a zoo and amusement park of his home. Lacking the ability to relate to those his age, his best friend was a monkey. During these days of isolation, Michael’s appearance began a path of drastic changes. His skin lightened, but that may have been beyond his control. However, the plastic surgery that was within his control, approached a level of excess. Perhaps he was attempting to match his physical being to his mental state. His reasons are his own.

The merits to the companionship of a monkey are limited. The time came when Michael felt the need to acquire playmates of his own age. His mental age. Unfortunately for Michael Jackson, society dictates that a man crawling into middle age may not inhabit the same space as a child unrelated to him. This is America, the land of prosperity, and if you have not yet earned your fortune, then you can sue somebody that has. An eccentric and increasingly recluse man living in a fairytale land and inviting children over for play dates is a fantastic target for accusations. Both sensational for the media, and lucrative for the lawyers.

Guilty or innocent, Michael Jackson has made himself into a target. He has fallen from grace so much that he has become a victim of the world. His life is no longer his to steer. Had a little bird placed a message in his ear nearly two decades ago, so much could have been avoided, and saved. If only Michael received the message that there are far superior methods of handing over the reigns to one’s life.

As many celebrities have eloquently demonstrated over the years, the best way to gain and maintain the public’s favor is to invest your soul in drugs. Smile at a stranger’s kid and face definite scrutiny. Become a recovering heroin addict and bathe in the flow of public sympathy. And should you die of an overdose, remember… your potential potential will far surpass that of your actual potential. The “could have been” is so much better than the “what kinda was.”

Looking at my compact disk of “Bad,” Michael’s last great album, I see that it was released in 1987. Were Michael to die within about a year of that release, he would have made the best career move possible. He would have created a momentum. The world would continue on, and bring his memory with it. Michael Jackson did not (to my knowledge) touch the drugs. He is accused of touching boys. His life has taken on a spiral that no drug can emulate. He is fixed on the media, and no opportunity of overdose.

Michael Jackson could have been historically perfect. Many have found the path to eternal greatness by reaching their peak and jumping off. Michael Jackson has found his peak, he teetered side to side, and has since had a long tumble down. His tumble continues. What he could have been no longer will be.

The hour is after bar close. But none I know were there tonight. Instead we followed enticement to bonfire and communal painting. The evening goes beyond that. I steal the use of a computer unit as music happens. I am not one to jump on the mess of instruments adding to the room’s decor. instead I take my inspired movement to these keys. And click click click. Ready to leave better of an hour ago. But a roomate was taken to the drums and has since been swayed to hold his stool seat. I am not to deny art. Nor will I soon pass it by. No. I sit click listen hear am ready and there as it goes and comes but I will be here and it continues to happen. The roomie who sees not fit to tap our skins of the ever available home set has found himself quite the comfortable one upon the garbage pail contraption of a beat kit kept here. As much as five but the moment hosts three in count of musician. If or not they are separate song or just pauses of breath and praise between the solitary work of the night’s show. In and out spectators make way. To the fire, to the tunes. We get slow. Take it down two notches. Take it up. Let us be on with the loud. In sax drums piano, three very different things are happening. Three very different things are agreeing in an argument that none but all have the edge. the additional urgency of 1.5 drummers takes presence. A stick, a single one, into the hand of the audience is taken up into the cluster of right now. And it goes heard. Broke. We lull. Slow. Finish. The cellulars climb from pockets to press their faces against thumbs to swallow numbers that will ensure such encores of more and more to come. And the set is reassemled to whatever the pile that it was. And he talks to me. And we go…

I need to make the world aware of what I want. Recently I was given this advice. The wording was different, but it is the message that I received. I can no longer sit upon my hands with indifference. The gesture not of apathy, but out of straining to hear other voices. And to that end, my own voice falls silent. I am at a point where I will be carried less and less, until no more. Where I go, I take myself. Sitting in silence, my disposition emits neutrality. And that finds relation in nothing.

This is not an exercise in futility, but a self inflicted challenge to participate. For the goings on of day in and out, I am better served to stand up. To lift my head, it will be seen. To raise my voice, it shall be heard. To meet your eyes, we are engaged.

If they will not strain to hear my whisper,
then I must shout to cover their ears.

We have split up. Coffee is seeing other people while I am seeing other warm beverages. Within two days of separation I was already hitting the shops. I have been out with a few different teas. Five to be exact. Nothing too serious at this point.

Today I am seeing Ginger Peach for the second time. Until now, there have only been first meetings. This is the first follow up. Something about her called me back. Some of the other tea leaves had a decent flavor, but our interactions would grow stale as the night moved on. They began to seem more and more watered down. This is not the case with Ginger. Through our whole time together, she always has interesting and strong tastes.

Right away it was evident that Ginger Peach was a fast steeper. I do not usually get hung up on such qualities, though the immediate gratification is rather nice. I just hope that people do not think I am concerned with how soon she is ready. I am willing to wait for it. Also, Ginger is a green tea. I do not care where we come from, but Asian seems pretty cool. Perhaps she will open my eyes to new cultural experiences. It is difficult to say what happens next. I am curious as to what else is out there.

I still think about coffee. Sometimes when I enter a room, I feel as though coffee had just been there. It is almost as if I can smell his presence. I dig through my wardrobe and find the stains he left upon my clothing. Ginger, or any other tea could never stain me like that. There are times when I lay awake at night remembering how coffee would keep me awake at night. Then, in the morning before everyone else was awake. We would go to the kitchen and grind.

I had no idea how serious it was. Every time I picked him up, coffee left a ring on the counter. I was a fool to just leave it there. Ginger Peach is a great tea and all, but… I, I am confused. I am thirsty. I do not know what I want.

Mormons are outside.
I can see them from right here.
No sudden movement.

There are three of them.
Oh crap, they just came indoors.
Eyes scanning the room.

I too, have a tie.
Do they think that I belong?
Back outside they go.

Thank you to the gods,
sending your people away
was a miracle.

I was just looking at the title of an entry in a friend’s blog. He used an exclamation point. I thought maybe I would have gone with the trailing off three periods. Are they called something? Then I started to think about how we as different people utilize different punctuation.

Now at some point or another we all use the variety of available standard punctuation marks, and our selection really depends upon the context. But beyond that there is a favoritism. Certain markings are used by some more than others. The decision can be a conscious one, where the person really wants to create a particular mood or emphasis for the sentence. And other times, the selected punctuation may just be what comes naturally. I do go both ways, but there are moments when I tend to spend more time dwelling over the placement of a comma than I should. I do like commas.

I very rarely use an exclamation point. Sometimes in emails I will if there is something truly deserving of such excitement. Mostly I do not. There are folks that I know who just love exclamation. At least every other sentence must end in an exclamation point, and sometimes three. This carries over to their spoken life as well. Every story is the best story ever told. It might only be about waiting in line at the library, but it was an amazing wait! Everything happened! So great! Do these people stop to breath? Do they ever come down from such elation? Is it real? I respect and admire the ability to share one’s passion with others, but in some of these cases I question their sincerity.

Then there are periods. A period seems so definitive. And that is the way it is. Period. Every sentence is final. We are no longer discussing this subject, the verb, or the adjectives. Case closed, let us move on. I see people talk this way. Sometimes it is even central to their personality. It can work for, or against you. One person could be regarded as a sage, always saying wise things with an absolute tone of finality. Another might come off as an argumentative jerk. The period is a mark of confidence. You stand unwavering beside your statement. It is the cold command of a supervisor as well as the warm instruction of a father. I have my claims that I may hold tight, though in general I stray from such a resolute stance as that of the period.

Ellipsis? Is that what the three periods are called? I would say that I use these more often than average… You find them at the end of a fairytale. It implies that the story does not end here. An ellipsis makes the sentence suggestive. What has been stated in the sentence is even up for deliberation. Speaking with ellipsis is a loose form of language. The exchange becomes less about the statement and more about the idea, with a possibility for more ideas. Instead of striving for the final say, as in many discussions, the goal is perpetual notions.* This direction can be less concise and well… less directed. Perhaps conceiving more and accomplishing less. I walk in line with this. A wandering mind and scattered vocalizations.

Three seperate ways to more or less end a sentence. A case study of conversation projected to the greater scale of everyday life and our interaction within it. Where do you suppose you fit in to this mix? Do you lean on any particular punctuation more than the rest? Does it shine out in your daily social exchange? Are we what we speak?

*The website’s name began here. I originally started writing this segment some months back. Though the post is only going up now, I was able to put the phrase to quicker use.

This evening I head to Milwaukee and I am not sure if they have the internet in Southern Wisconsin. So tomorrow’s post goes up today.

Roommate’s brother weds.
Tomorrow is all booked up,
the weekend as well.

List said “dancing shoes.”
But then what are “drinking shoes?”
Pack them anyway.

Wedding gift titled:
“Fish on Stand.” Is it not great?
Winner for best gift.

Jealousy welcomed,
when comparing our weekends.
Dig that Fish on Stand!

He called the cleaners.
His suit will be twelve dollars.
Ready on Wednesday.

Young cat with new hat
on the street finding the scene.
He walks like he knows.

New sandals bring itch.
But leather is so pretty.
Month long rash, two tops.

We blew up the dip,
and the bowl along with it.
Yeah America!

I never gave much thought to the Haiku poem. That all changed once I took a summer internship. Working full time in a cubicle, I suddenly saw the value of the confined poetic medium and its correlation to my life. The format can vary, but I tend to stick with the 5.7.5 model. That is three lines spread as five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables.

To bring the syllabic verse into some form of regular usage, and in part inspired by a friend’s “weekend limericks,” I am instituting the Friday Haiku. Though for lust of catchy terms, I will henceforth refer to this weekly post as “Fraiku.” Please enjoy.

Once a week haikus:
poetic joy to the world,
Lord of verse has come.

Okay, just kidding.
I am not really that vain.
It just fit so well.

But does fitting defend
my word choice and my message?
No, just make it cute.

Outside my window
a tree leans in to tell me
nature’s big secret.