Category: Uncategorized

It think I will soon have to retire the Wonder Woman toothbrush you gave as the bristles have become all splayed. I have tried to make it work with her for some time now, but I am afraid that scraping my teeth with the hard plastic is just not good enough dental hygiene. Maybe I will put her to work in another capacity…

I guess I witnessed hsitory today. It is really eery to think that I was that close to the body of a woman that has done so much, that I have seen so many photos of. I can’t imagine the love that Coretta and MLK had. I wonder what that was like. As they took her into a the capitol building today, a bagpiper preceded her playing “Amazing Grace.” I thought of Coretta and teared up as people started singing “We Shall Overcome,” but the bagpipes did me in and I had to walk away.

Okay. You wrote me today asking about my match.com profile as if I am a failure or something. And I have told Liz so that it might make its way back to you about who I have met there and lo and behold you write me, ostensinsibly because you found it on BBC’s blog…. It was and has been and will be for some time you. I have met interesting and beautiful people. I am not so bad. But no one has ever understood me, for better or worse, in the way in which you do. I know you are so thoroughly gone. I know that you are never to be mine again. I have not figured how to give it up yet. I miss shaved ice. I miss that twangy voice. I miss the sex we had. I miss your lithe belly. I miss YOUR frends. I shouldn’t be where I am now. Tomorrow I have to wake up to record the wife of the dream go to the seat of power. I have to follow a dead woman as she progresses toward the grave. I will always love you. I wish you would be mine. I wish you would ask me to be yours. I wish we could be beyond all of this. I wish I could, and you could, make all of us happy. You are so lovely, and have always been so.

I started this blog tonight, February 1st, 2006, because I realized that I have much more to say. The audience for bullpencatcher has grown to a state that I no longer feel comforatble bringing everyone down with moanings about you, about how much I miss you, and how much I love, and all that. Frankly, I hoep to make BPC a slightly happier place. It can represent that one side of me that I finally have gotten back. The fact is though that I still have so much to say about you and I not being in each others’ lives so much anymore. It hurts many nights, and days. It has been almost 5 months since you called it quits with me. I know we still excahnge the occasional email, and those are nice. It’s good to know how you are doing, but it is no substitute for you being here with me, or me there with you, or just the occasional dinner. I miss the kisses, the hugs, the sex, the stories, the laughing, the singing, the drives….
I guess ultimately this is a place for me to keep things hidden from others, but where I can work them out myself. I don’t even know if I will ever tell you that this place exists. Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day it will seem right. Mainly it is just for me right now. A place where I don’t have to posture or hold anything back. If you ever do read it, I hope you will realize that it is a testament of love, the closest I can do to a Taj Mahal.
B

Okay, I washed my new fancy pen that JC gave me this afternoon and it bled all over y hands and I can’t get the black off, but I also did another recording of this one. Don’t think these little presents will continue to come with this frequency, I just like the washy sound I am getting out of the setup right now and am trying out some new versions.
Bob Dylan’s Beard

I haven’t done this in a while, and this is not a very god recording, but I have done an arrangement of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ that I wanted to share. The song and arrangement seems to sum up my feelings over the last few months. Here it is:
Fly Me to the Moon

Late on these nights when The Daily Planet is published, and just before I drift off to sleep, I have these half-waken dreams of love. There is darting and furrowed brows, and then there is Newtonian physics, and the laws of gravity (there are more than one as far as I am concerned). I have my cutoff, and sleep beckons, but dreams cannot be all. There could be warmth, I have been praying, in this bed, but you are all too far off. This is the year to get on with it. Elvis wedding chapel or something cheaper. I am glad for the day off. I am glad for the beauty that is shown, and has been for so long, to me. I will love you all when I have the time, but let me just love me for a little while now. My head cannot handle what my heart feels.

In the half light of the new moon the canal is an oil slick, rippleless and unmoving – pointless. A blanket of mist clings to its surface and swirls. And it is only when I gently push back her hair to kiss the cheek just below the eye that I notice how cold she is. I button up her coat and pull the collar up around the ears. Even in stout shoes my feet are cold in the wet grass.
I am struck by the stars’ reflection in the black mirror of the water’s surface, something I’d not considered possible before. But so many things that did not seem possible then, before, must be possible now, after. Whatever ‘was’ then, is ‘not’ now.
Her eyes are closed, and I touch the lids gently and move my finger in a tight circle, the skin stretching and rucking under my fingertip. I kiss her again, this time on the forehead. A few stray hairs stick to my lip so that when I pull back they catch and are drawn back with my retreat. I break the connection with a chop of my hand and brush them back into place. I hear a vehicle on the distant road. I know it is time.
I take her to the edge and, standing behind her, my arms reaching around to her chest, lower her feet into the water. When the water level is at her knees, I release my grip and she slips quietly, perfectly, cutting through the blackness. Then she is gone with a comical plop as the head disappears and ripples dash across to the other bank. Now I realise that I should have wieghed her down, she is coming back. I think of Millais’ Ophelia and turn to search for stones.

Here it is. Just like this and we can say it is as we want it to be, but it really is like this. We can hold out. We have it within us that we can do this, and we are not too old, and I will do it too. She’s so pretty, and they have all, already, been. It’s no better or worse, but I don’t need to settle. I wish my rough friends were here drinking whiskey with me tonight, except for now I am watching guys drinking whiskey and enjoying their friends, and it takes me back home. Where are you? And, why don’t you call? And, can we do it all again sometime soon, in St. Louis, or parts further to the southeast? I think it will all make it back to me one day… all of the ways they move.

Finally knowing
that the abject pain
and the terrific struggle
are worth it.
And that it lies
in the tenderness of friendship,
the love that kisses a tear
from your cheek and
holds you till she knows you are better, stronger
than when she gathered you in her smooth, bare arms
to shield you from the world.
To know she would hold you forever,
if only you could hide the impertinent erection with a cushion.