It's Called the Wig Business

Hello everybody,

My friend, Nadia, runs a costume business in the garment district.  Halloween is just around the bend, and "wig season", as industry insiders call it, has kicked off with a blast of after-burn from a witch's broom.  Nadia hired me to help her move the wigs to all the little goblins, Cindy-Lou's, trolls, Tina Turner's, Kate Middleton's, Mr. T's, Mitt Romney's (which is really a 1950's greaser model, we just tape his name over the label), and fat and skinny Elvi out there in Americaland.  In my involuntary effort to splatter my work resume with as many clashing professions as possible, in my involuntary effort to make the Hiring Kind laugh at me, I accepted the job.

I begin my workday with a visit to the wig warehouse to pick the day's wigs to be shipped.  Marco, the wig expert of the warehouse, and senior employee, usually has the wigs ready for me.  Marco is very friendly and usually has something funny to say, or an outright joke.  Marco is also deaf, and although I can't understand a word he says, I have found, by his syllabic intonation and hand gestures, the appropriate moment to laugh.  We'll then share a smile and I go on my way to pack the wigs with Nadia, a block away.

Sometimes, I have a few extra orders that I give to Marco upon arrival.  He generously agrees to go into the caverns of the warehouse to find the wigs. While he does, I can't help but gaze over the expanse of the musty warehouse.  Thousands of boxes of wigs, containing trillions of strands of real, human, honest to goodness hair!  Roaming through the warehouse is like taking a stroll through a New England cemetery, on a full moon night.  The hair speaks to you, and all the little creeks and pops and other ambient sounds an old New York warehouse become howls and moans of the dead.  They tell their stories and get closer to me.  Marco is nowhere to be found.  I can't yell for him to come to my rescue, because, you know...

Just about the time the dead are about to take me to the Other Side, Marco arrives, and hands me a Phyllis Diller, Electric Pink Model, mumbles his joke, and goes on his way.  The voices are gone, and the recycled DNA lay dormant in the mountains of boxes.  I look at the Phyllis Diller Pink Model.  It's baffling to me that at one time, those strands of hair belonged to a head that housed a brain fighting the epic battle of Every Day.  So many brains, so many days.  The same battle.  Over and over.

It's funny how Halloween is such a fun holiday.  People love to get the shit scared out of them.  Maybe, in our fear based world, we seek solace in knowing we all get creeped out, and the best way to do it is to get creeped out together.  The same battle.

My epic battle's raging on.  But life is good, I got a job to get me through.  My main concern right now is to go with the Willie Nelson Full Red Model, or the Willie Nelson Red with Gray, for Halloween.  Judging buy the burgeoning population of grays hairs on my unshaven chin, I may have to go with the latter.

BOO!

Joey's Purpose in Life

There is a fellow in my neighborhood - Bay Ridge, in Brooklyn - that I see every morning on my walk to the subway. I call him Joey, although I have no idea if that is his real name. But, through the lens of my ignorance and predjudice, he looks like a Joey, so I will refer to him as such. Joey wears glasses, is balding, and is probably in his late thirties, or early forties. However, I do not know his exact age, because I do not know him. The glasses and the baldness happen to be facts. Joey comes out of the house every morning, dressed in his pajamas or in a set of clothes he will wear for several days in a row, and immediately checks to see if all the gates to the entrances of all the houses on the block are closed. If they aren't, he closes them. He notes which gates were left open, and which gates were closed. He taps his forehead periodically during this task, mumbles to himself, and always has a finger pointed to the next gate he is approaching. He is very dilligent in his task, he takes it seriously. From the gates, he moves to the trash cans, looking into them to see which cans are empty, and sets upright the trash cans that have fallen over after pick up, or for other reasons. He is just as dilligent in his second task as he is the first, constantly taking mental notes, tapping his head, mumbling. From there his job is somewhat hodge podge, noting dog droppings and where, the same with human trash, too. He notes which business have there doors propped open, etc. Other people on the street seem to know who he is, and have no problem with Joey doing what he does, they accept him as part of the day. As do I. In fact, I find myself a bit concerned when I don't see him on my way to the subway. I immediately start to think he is sick, or worse, dead. I grow sad, and feel relieved when I see him bound around the corner in his erratic, jagged walk, one finger pointing to the next location. It is clear that Joey has a sort of mental disability, or better said, the mental workings of someone not normal. It's a shame to think him disabled, he does such a good job at what he does, never missing an open gate, or fallen trashcan. But he does seem a bit disasociative, and exibits the air of someone possibly afflicted with Downes Syndrome (light case), Autism (medium case) or Asbrger's (severe case). I've, of course, made the judgment that he lives at home, and cannot have any normal employment. I've seen an older lady come out of the house with him a time or two, I believe she is his mother, and since he wears his pajamas, or the same set of clothes until they are soiled, I feel it's safe for me to say he is not employed, at least, employed like most people. But Joey works everyday, at something he created for himself. I'd say it must be a life of extreme solitude, but, like I said, everybody seems to know who he is. And he knows who everybody else is, he's even noticed me. I have no idea what name he's given me, however, but he does notice. I saw him one afternoon, we were the only two on the street, he was seemeingly walking as if off duty from his vocation, when he noticed me, and immediately went to the trash can to examine the contents. He relaxed when I walked passed, I know because I spied on him until I walked around the corner. I'd say I feel sorry for Joey. It's clear he cannot function in a society of accepted dress for acceptable pay. People accept him, but they kind of smile a goofy smile to him, as if he was a child. The slow man-child on the block. I'd also say he was an outcast because nobody seems to walk up to him and talk to him, myself included. I'd even go so far as to say that his mental illness has rendered him an unfortunate soul, a ward and burden to cursed parents. But I won't say any of those things, becasue he really seems to like his job, and because he's smiling all the time. I'm gonna try to post again next week, but I'm not very good at steady blogging. I am gonna try, however, to be as dilligent as Joey. It's not like I have a job, or anything.

And They All Fall Down

Hello everybody, There's a pretty cool phenomenon out here in North Dakota. Most of the houses and crops out here are surrounded by windbreaks, shelterbelts consisting of tall trees to keep the wind from blowing everything across the prairie. The farm house I'm staying is no different. During the day I'll be milling out about on the grounds and feel no wind, whatsoever. However, there will be a low constant roar, like a running river, off in the distance. But there's no water for miles. I'll look up and see the weaker branches of the tall trees leaning over greatly, the sound coming from the wind rushing through the leaves. One feels like they are in some kind of capsule, a cocoon from the elements inside of these windbreaks. I went out the neighboring field yesterday and when I stepped out of the trees the wind, dirt and incoming rain hit me head on. I was suddenly in the middle of the weather. The winds were green and stormy, low to the ground, swirling, and got me thinking of a recurring dream I've had since childhood, of being chased and hunted by many tornados, they're just about to get me and I wake up. I got nervous. But all I had to do was step back through the trees, and I was protected again. The difference of the weather on either side of the trees was so drastic, what I'm hoping interdimensional will be like. A few of the huge birch trees on the property have fallen recently, as they have all over region. Some trees out here are over 100 years old, big fellas, and after a century of madness inducing wind, the just fall down. Most everybody out here's agreed not to replant new trees. Farming and plowing techniques have developed so that they really aren't needed anymore. At first thought, it seems a shame, like a change is coming, and something will never be the same, when the last tree falls. But every tree out here, -excluding those by a river, or a lake, or the rare solo tree that sprouted due to a bird's droppings- were planted by men in the first place. So it's actually an institution of mankind that is coming to and end out here. Its a full circle thing, and on second thought the whole thing feels soothing, like all things come back around. I still haven't figured out what the tornado dream is about. I've gotta few ideas, but none of them wow me. Any ideas? Don't tell me it's about me running from myself, or anything like that. I gave up trying to ditch me a long time ago.

Days 2,3,4,5

Hello everybody, I'd planned to do this daily, in an effort to see my day to day progress in solitude, however, my internet connection was on the blink this week. Or, I should say, the neighbor's internet connection was on the blink. I'd been jumping on it, at the side of the road in a lawnchair. Some would say that's not much of an office, other's might say its a very large office, depending how one looked at it. But without the internet, I have to say its been pretty sublime. I threw myself into my book, focused in a way I'd not been in some time. I'm relaxed too. The constant gentle hum of the wind in the trees, the crickets and bird chirps is one hell of a calming soundtrack to life. Lets see, one day I walked as far as I could in one direction until the sunset. The next I walked in another direction until the sunset. The next day, another, and another the next. A squirrel knocks pine cone down on me while I have my morning coffee under the tree that houses his or her nest. And I've been chopping up a giant birch tree that was felled during a storm, that's a good workout. The day is long enough to do all these things when I'm not plugged in. I really don't think I'd notice that damned squirrel if I was online. Just more proof for me that ye ole web is not so much access to the world, as it is a block from it. I'm in Grand Forks righ now to get a few things, and already, my shoulders are tense, and I feel rushed...and Grand Forks is a LOT smaller than New York City. I'd like to tell you I'll try to stay this relaxed in New York, but I think relaxation is territorial bound, even if you're the most blissed out Zen head on your block...whatever, I've got two more weeks left and I'm gonna enjoy the hell out of it...take care.

Day #1

Hello Everybody, Well, what can I say? Probably a whole lot if you walked up to me because I have not seen a single person all day. But that's ok, a few birds and some crickets have kept me company. And a spider I found in my bathroom, until I flushed it, it just wasn't my kind of company. I woke to the ringing in my ears I've had since childhood. Not sure what that's about, but I don't notice it much in the big city, where there is a constant hum that drowns the ringing out. I only hear it in really quiet places, and folks, McCanna, North Dakota is a quiet place. I hear there's about 10 people that live in the greater McCanna area, but I've yet to see them. The only sign of humanity thus far has been the odd grain truck way off on the horizon, as it is harvest time. The ringing got to be almost deafening, but after several cups of coffee I started talking to myself and that took care of that. Lets see, I worked on my book for several hours. I played my guitar and sang like a no one's a listenin' for several more. Then I went for a very long walk down a very straight road and soon was surounded by very tall fields of corn and sunflowers. I ventured up to the sunflowers and they towered above me, all faced to the west, where the sun was trying to communicate to them through the clouds. They looked like an alien race trying to communicate in some kind of telepathy, but alas, the obstacle of my humanity kept me ignorant their cosmic message. But that's ok, maybe tomorrow... I found a swell walking rock. It was of smooth granite, and had the density of a full sized potato. I tossed it from hand to hand as I ventured further and further out there, pondering all things between the first memory I had of that ringing in the ears to the fact that I'm 37 years old and once again walking around alone out in the middle of nowhere. But that's not really true. Everywhere is somewhere to somebody, and to less than a dozen McCanna is home. And, hey, I'm not really alone, cause I have you and the internet voodoo. Something caught my eye when I was walking home and I dropped my rock. I felt like I'd betrayed it for a half-second and thought for a few steps that I should go back and pick it up. It was a good rock. But I kept on walkin'... So long for now,

If you're goin' to the North Country Fair...

Hello Everyone, Well, I'm back out on the road again, on my way to a three week artist residency in North Dakota. I'll be alone for most of the time, and look forward for the solitude to adminsiter a profound enlightenment, or madness, depending on the angle from which you are standing in regards to me. But whether I get wise or get wild, I will try to document my daily progress, provided there is internet access. If there is no access to the interweb, consider the umbilical cord to reality severed, and I'll be taking the express to the cosmos. Speaking of express, I took the Greyhound Express from NYC to Cleveland to Chicago. It took sixteen hours, which is still pretty quick for cross country bus travel. But as I waited in the NYC and Cleveland stops, and exited the Chicago stop, look crowded and throbbing lines of people waited at the "express" gates, whilst the gates to regular schedules were desolate. I'd noticed online when I was looking for departure times that 5 out of 7 trips to Chicago were express, too. Hmm...I thought. Could it be possible that we who are so fortunate to shun flight and take a wonderfully intimate bus now have the convenient option of "expressing" ourselves to our destination? Or do we now simply have less places to go, and through witty "mind control" we are treating less choices as more advantage? I thought about that, the way I think about things when I wait in line at a department store, movie theatre, or basically anyplace in the country where everybody waits in one line for one clerk at one cash register while there are seven closed registers. When I left the cattle pin that is the Chicago Bus terminal, I wondered anybody else was thinking about there good fortune as they smelled the armpits surrounding them and listened to the golden chorus of screaming babies... From Chicago, I barrowed a friends car and drove north, up eastern Wisconsin and onto Michigan's western peninsula, or as I like to call it: Tunguska. Driving across this part of Michagan is like driving into a classic rock station. Folks, wanna know what's in between Iron Mountain, Michigan and Iron River, Michigan? Nothing shiny, that's for sure. But that's not to say that there was nothing, and of course you knew that. But what I forgot, was how much of America one can really take in when they're only allowed to see 55 miles of it per hour. I was on the winding highways, not the streamlined interstates, and I had to stop at red lights, slow down while rolling through small town after small town. I saw America, or at least a little part of it, that wasn't homogenized by suburbs and interstates and fast food. I got to see the stuff that goes in the blink of an eye. A kid walking on the side of the road with about three or four fish on a string, carrying his fishing fole over his shoulder, the misunderstood rockers hanging out at a gas station in a country town. I got to see just a bit of true America, in the moment and away from any definition from a history book, just people like you going through their day however they can. I crossed a small stream that struggled to find its way through a marshy area. It didn't look like a river, but it the sign at the bridge said it was, said it was the Mississippi River. I went to Hibbing, Minnesota. In the fifties a kid named Robert Zimmerman felt like he didn't belong there. Only when things flow away do they become Old Man River and Bob Dylan. But life still goes on in the North Country. Well, I gotta split. I gotta drive from Bedmiji, Minnesota (say that real fast ten times and you will get high) to Grand Forks, ND and settle in at my monastary, or looney bin. If you read along, you can be the judge. Take care...