From: Michael Lovatt <mailto:email@example.com:
16August 2007 14:12:04 ISTTo:
andrew lovatt <firstname.lastname@example.org>
found this in my old files
that I'm going through
these days you had this
on the first iMac
you sent over back in '99, i kept it.
sadly is was
edit format, which
I no longer have
so had to import it raw
into a new editor, so lost some
quality thats material
in the background
r e d m o o n m e d i a . c o m clear thinking : creative vision
:: contactemail: email@example.com
tel: +353 1 5042360mob: +353 87 1236152
-------Web Creative Services Ltd.t/a redmoonmedia
Registered in Ireland no. 291859
7 College Farm ParkNewbridge, Co. Kildare
The wild bazaar, a walk down the streets of the New Jerusalem, the captain of a one man ship, with a tattered sails and worn out shoes from winter walking and what a sight it was. Suddenly the nothing of " noting never making sense" came all together in a song of wild colors and black t-shirts peddled by men from far away lands with commerce on their minds, and the lust of money in their eyes, a walk, on the way to the gates of the kingdom where the hungry for more then food, and more then money, the hungry who could never satisfy the craving danced to beat of wild drums in the middle of the night warmed by bonfires burning in to ashes wooden pieces of doors and beams and buildings that lay in shambles.
Suddenly, the ghost whisperers of past echoes became a raging ring in tired neurons addled from to much living, exhausted beyond the point of sleep. Running from shortcomings in past lovers eyes and desires that stayed put in the back of greyhound bus seats, rambling thru Midwestern towns across the great divide, with there pretty houses and nice yards and the invisible people who lived behind the windows off quiet street and behind cars. Eyes wide open around a twisted square where in freezing weather the African statue lady danced, nude but for a skirt and shirt of silver electric tape, so far gone in the sounds of her imaginary drums as she moved to the rhythms of a mystery, while the lady and dogs gave out advice and pinched the passers by for Judas coin to feed herself and her brood of twenty or so small yellow mutts and to keep the mute veteran alive in his far away eyes, and the sadness of his memories.
And the desert became an odd after thought with it’s beautiful red cliffs, and it’s colors, and the carnival became dated once feet hit the city streets, and the people just became many and all had the same face and looked the same and said the same things in detached cool and somehow looked as if they had never left the rainstorm in the days of cold weather.
I had arrived like the lost Capistrano swallows that would nest in the porch of a the only bar in Madrid New Mexico, looking for the a familiar breeze that seemed to be coming from around the abstract corner, or perhaps behind the hill where the old spoils of the abandoned coal mine painted streaks of dirty ashes on the scarred hillside. I had arrived and it was so cold and no one paid attention, and no one said a word unless they wanted to sell me star dust promises and shooting rainbows, and I had been burned enough times to doubt before I believed.
Ah the New Jerusalem, where one could run away from the remnants of faded dreams and invent a past of convenience and believe in it just because it was there and no one but the drunkard passed out on the side of the pavement knew the truth. And I would sit on the side of the sidewalk and drink beer with the thin man who would paint and sell pictures for a quarter and who cried when they would swirl away in a gust of wind, the same one that would leave skeletons of umbrellas littering the curb, hoping the catch the wind with there skinny bent metallic limbs trying to catch a song. And I had arrived, almost hoping to be famous or to be swallowed in the night, at the tail end of roaming thru out the land, and I was so tired, I did not know it, and so sad I had no place to go, and behind me my bridges law waste, under the flood waters left behind by a broken levy.
Ah the New Jerusalem, where one comes to see the light or to be a subway pauper and become pieces of paper flying around the city canyons in wind devils, depositing there secrets two or three streets away where they do not mean a thing to anyone, as every one is busy enough to escape there own silly memories and hide there head in the sand, Ah the New Jerusalem, where I would stay up all night writing poems about the flies stuck in sugar water and the vanished sun. The New Jerusalem with the smell of piss and sausage on it’s shady street fairs, with it’s junk shops and the memories of what had once been the red light in the middle of the night and was now a barren wasteland of crack head skeletons with dead eyes wandering, looking for a place to place there fangs and suck blood to keep death alive another day. The New Jerusalem where I saw the sun rise for the first time in many years, the New Jerusalem, where the county fair meet the Atlantic ocean and an ancient Chinese fishermen pulled skate to cut off their sea wings and leave them there to die. The Jerusalem, where I came alive, one day and ran in to the circus that never leaves this town, full of subways ghost of the ones that could have been and the ones that never where, and the image of the young girl who lived in the projects and had pictures of the ocean on her walls, but had never taken the train to Coney Island to see the sea. The New Jerusalem with its well kept secrets waiting for a sacred hurricane to steal them in to a magic night colored by invisible stars.
And I arrived, to not or to fade in to the night, and I arrived to try to tell a tale, and got swallowed by the story. Eduardo Arrocha/ September 28 .
October 7, 2005
In the land of the endless sky, so large it swallowed the land, the red cliff the mountains and the sand, I staid awake under the sounds coming from the gray recorder, giving me the gift of songs from the endlessness of time, I smoked cigarettes and more, drank black cowboy coffee while grounding down buckles, inlaid with the secrets of the mountains, and I breathe epoxy and wood dust and did not care, as my mind flew free, far away from the feeling I had to fight every day, trying to figure how fill the empty hole from a recently amputated part of my soul.
I think we all have a chance to go to our own personal crossroads, and when we do; we dive far in to the ink vacuous, waiting for the thud coming from the great fall. Sometimes and only sometimes can we actually turn our arms to wings and fly far, far above the place where Icarus burnt his wings, as he got to close to the sun. I drank from the secret waters, and learned the secrets that have taken me a life time to learn how to forget. Perhaps I was smart enough to take flight late night, far from the big bright yellow light that could burn skin to a purple crisp and baked the desert stones.
In flight I would see the far away promises of distance laying underneath our feet in the back yard where the dogs howled and sang and barked and shat all over the place, the way dogs do, the would sit there and teach me the language of their eyes, and I would come back for a moment to check on the lathe and make certain my finger where all on my hand, and the right sanding belt was on for the job, and then I would fly again, once more.
My head was full of hair, and I did not worry about the growth around my waist, and I could deal with hunger as long as I could look to find and answer, somewhere, even in deep fried bread or a bowl of beans. Somehow I loved my nicotine stained fingers, and my yellowed teeth and my wild streak and my desire to write more poems and the communion I felt with every cup of coffee I drank, as it all moved away from her, just a little bit every time, but enough to not go completely insane. That is before I wrote "wild darling" just for her in a long gone New York café when I finally buried the hatchet and figured it was time to let her fade in to the suburb of her choice.
Did I ever think I would outlive practically everyone? It is not that I am old, it is just that they all seemed to die or fade away thru out the years leaving only pieces of their memory, of the though of desires and all kinds of thoughts that come and visit in the middle of thinking about my salad dressing. Simple how it happens, they just show up for a moment before going back in to the lost neurons, or in to a moment when the fire burned and I had no great worry, because I was to busy staving off the endless hunger.
It is the hunger that drives one to go to market and got as all together as the crate people catering to weekday refugees eating bad corn dogs on a stick and drinking down watered down soda, it was the hunger that allowed us to sit thru the rain and the wind and the sun and the thirst and the dessert gossip, it was the hunger that made a cheep breakfast and a cup of dark as shoe polish liquid taste as a gift from the ancient gods that lived in the crannies of the Sandias mountains. It was the hunger that made the cliffs so much redder and made a the eyes hurt when crossing the bridge in to radioactive city, and it made a cheep burrito from the taco spot somehow taste better then the finest of the finest dishes made in a four star Parisian restaurant.
It was not only a hunger for food, but a hunger for love and a hunger for tobacco and for enough money and for drugs and for anything to fill the empty void waiting for the ghost of her memory to come in and steel moments of my space. It was that hunger that can only be satisfied with a cigarette always burning on lips end, and a cup of coffee and the never ending adrenaline keeping the body hanging on for dear life, even though it is killing it.
We all go to our personal crossroads, but I jumped in full of fear, but I jumped in the end of day, and I played with, out of mock bravado and the scent of a promise broken.
Sometimes I am reminded by the supermarket manager that I am overweight, that I look fat, and I feel like asking him if he knows what it’s like to go with out food for days on end, but I shake my head and smile, after all it is not as bad as when the vicious old lady begins following me around calling me a Satanist and demands to see the boss.
It has been quite a few year in my personal spell of time since I had my last hurrah, and I cannot say I miss it, but it always leaves me thinking. I went to Albuquerque and then to the Jemez Mountains to visit the grave of my friend Spencer’s grave, he took me in when I got back from a sad Mexican adventure after getting out of the loony tunes and getting disowned by my father. My friend Charles, with whom I ran like a gazelle from the cops one day across Roosevelt Park died of liver failure in October of 2004, The Chilean doctor who talked me out of doing something really stupid committed suicide with out me getting a chance to thank him. Not too many remain; I figure they all have been swallowed in the dust or gone for a great adventure. My trip was weird, the Frontier restaurant was still there and I had a great lunch and remembered, some of the wonderful vendors in the plaza where still there and they remembered me, and it was odd and made me quite happy, almost all of them looked older and some the guys that where skinny like me, where all sporting a Buddha, what I call my gut, now that things have gotten comfortable. We spoke about old times and about the dead. Life goes on. We owe it enough to respect its memory.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to Sarah, after she surgically amputated that part of my soul, the last time I saw her I was about to leave Albuquerque for another great adventure, she stared at me intently and dropped her coffee on my conversation companion, she looked good and was about to get married. We did not speak and as I walked across the room our eyes caught and we did the long stare and knew we would never see each other again, we never did have a chance to say goodbye. I wonder if we would recognize each other, I am not as young as crazy as thin and do not smoke any thing any more though I still love my coffee dark!
A few weeks ago, I saw a guy who could have been the ghost of crazy skinhead David, he was rather poorly aged and his tattoos where faded, he looked like David, the greatest womanizer and a born thief would of ended up looking like if he would of not committed suicide in San Francisco running from the law. The last time I saw him he bought me a pack of cigarettes and smiled, I guess we where all tapped and burnt out and ready to run somewhere to be swallowed in the great sky bowl.
My cat died recently, my friend Donny gave her to me, and he was one of my oldest friends in New York and one of two people who knew all my secrets. He died a few years ago, left a wife and children. Me I am still hanging in there, I must admit I love eating a bit much, and still shake to the thought of hunger. I have not fallen in love ever again much to the chagrin of the few lovers I have had and of my past obsessions. And me, I just living another day, writing a few more poems and finishing school papers, ah that has been a great new adventure, but I will leave it for another day.
Eak The Geek Gone To Law School And Has Another Success!