Finnegans Wake

It’s like the ticking of a Grandfather clock, these words that make sounds but have no meaning otherwise, except to establish the meter and rhyme of thought: Tick tock…Tick tock… They breathe with glimmers of cognition. All the while the book in your hands is like a vulva and your eyes keep peeling across the lines and you touch it and hold it with endearment and curiosity; for this is the meaning of life, beheld in partial mystery and ever-certain ignorance as the light falls and you can’t recall the liver in your pants nor the ejaculate of solemnity’s voice, now forgotten amid idleness.

 

And then somewhere in the 300s, the voice starts coming through — you picture an Irish Denisov, as you’ve formed some genetic understanding for the sentence structure. You appreciate still the meter and how the words begin to flow as rose petals are soft, like War and Peace. By page 477, you’ve come to realize, with McHugh’s annotations, that so much has gone by and you don’t have the meaning of it. It was hard reading both, as if the one weren’t enough, so you fixate on the daydreams that come as transitions between textual understanding. You solve your problems and weep at the memory of Ena, who thought she was pregnant. She saw Ghost with you — the middleman — sitting in your car in front of Columbia Inn nearly wanting her and she nearly leaning over wanting to be held. You remained cold but ever so longing. Somehow the moment passed and her boyfriend came back from New York in a couple of days. You knew it would have been wrong. Luckily, one of those moments did pass and you kept your problems to yourself. It turned out she wasn’t pregnant anyway and she knew it was wrong, in such a state of an emotional dilemma. It was better you than someone else. Maybe someone will do that for you.

 

By page 541, you’ve come to realize the Denisov image evaporates and there is a husky Irish man in a pub rattling off phrases as they sound and might be spelled in the English language. It’s like listening to someone for a long time and you understand as they articulate what before was foreign.

No Escaping

This image reveals the jeopardy in drinking:

His curmudgeon glare

The pursing of his lips

The gauntlet stare

So deep in thought of a mistake made

That set a lifetime adrift.

Pale riders,

Both of them

Sharing a similar boat

A stir in it’s sinking.

Both are on dry land.

Anger follows them

Like a gray cloud.

Pour back the pint,

Its glorious rivulets

Embossed for distraction

Slowly diminish with each sip into

The texture of forget-me-knots.

In an action that is forever reoccurring

There is no escape.

Shelly RuggThorp at SoundWalk 2011

On the 29th of September, I found out about SoundWalk 2011 from a friend who lives in Long Beach. I made arrangements after learning I could participate last minute. I have only been writing music (“making sounds”) since March. This sounded like a group of people who might accept me. My close friends were making screeching sounds when referring to what I wrote. Another joked: “He thinks he can write a Bach Concerto in two weeks.” You’d be surprised. As Alan Quach said, “If you write/play music from your soul, you can communicate and people will listen.” If you do what your heart tells, you will succeed. That is the only guide to life. With this particular piece, Shelley RuggThorp, who I had seen sitting at the main table in the central café for Flood earlier in the day, came to me at about 9:35 in the evening to say that it was time to shut down. I said, “I know, won’t the police come and shut us down at 10?” She said, “No, at 9:30.” By then, Alan Quach, an Interior Designer and promoter had suggested I let people express themselves on the mic while my music played. He invited Shelly, who started signing without words and it made me cry because someone was responding to my music in a beautiful and validating way. She’s just walked up and made something happen. It is how I make music. Anyway, as it turned out, I couldn’t both play my music through my iTouch and also video record her performance, so I would play the music and start recording her, which would shut off the music and she would sing A Capella and then I would stop the recording and play the music so she could come back to what she was using as a base, or so I thought. I think she’s quite comfortable singing without any background sounds. So, I got home and tried to find the music she was singing to, which was nearly impossible going through 6 hours of music. I often write my “music” and then write another one. I can’t remember it. So, I believe I went through all the cuts that were playing by shuffle on that day and gave up. I ended up writing music to complement her performance. I believe I have done a pretty good job. It is kind of amazing to me that I can hear someone sing and in just a few minutes, I am writing music to complement her. You will notice the harmonica in this piece. I am telling you, this is about the fifth time that I have picked it up and played it. If I can do it, so can you. Our souls are tied to music. We were born to write it. I know who you are. You are just like me. We are going to change the world. Find an instrument and learn how to play it, but not necessarily as they would have you, but as you listen to it and hold it. Maybe later I’ll learn chords, but not if it means I won’t play. We have everything we need to pursue our dreams. Be kind to people. We are fragile. We need encouragement and opportunity. Much Love, Mario Savioni

Setting Sun

 

On Monday, Aug 6th, 2012 I noticed how bright and large the setting sun was and so I captured it on video then laid a bed of sound of my music written and recorded on Feb. 12, 2012.

“disarmed the sun”

A Paraphrase/Response to The Holistic Wayfarer’s poem “Disarmed the Sun,” posted Aug 9, 2013

My response to the poem

by The Holistic Wayfarer (See: http://aholisticjourney.wordpress.com/about/)

She must have breathed hard,
Red-shouldered
In the evening.
And you wonder about such women,
Who hope like this
As the rain fell for no good reason,
And the sun stared.
But, I wonder now as the decisive rain
Disarmed the sun, which grammatically
Stuttered, but did the rain not drench her
Or was it the sun, or did she smile both
Because of the disarming rain
And the staring sun?
By this image, I see no expectation,
But indulgence.
I see no men or women lovers
Or perhaps, a woman simply loves herself
In the in-between.
For beauty has a waiting list,
Which apparently
She is not conscious,
Or at least not interested.
May she always be free to choose
And not be burdened.

What’s Really Going On

As Americans we are deluded into thinking that the length and breadth of the Empire does no harm. This story is a powerful indictment of the governments we support and the crimes that have been committed in our name, by our own arms, if not by our leadership.

Paring Down At Home

Most of my life, I’ve hated to clean my room. I get ideas and simply spend time articulating them through whatever media seems appropriate and the papers build or the artwork accumulates.

I had a lady come over, Elka Eastly Vera (ElkaVera.com), who assessed my Feng Shui and spiritual aspects of my home. When she went through the door, she actually got stuck because my bicycle was on the other side. She said that had to go. She commented on the lighting and a whole bunch of other things.

So, the idea of paring down was one of the themes she pushed hard and it makes sense, because just as I remove these obstacles, I am becoming more free and the people I need will be able to come into my life.

At a point in time, I am going to have a sale of my visual art, which covers the walls of my place.

Anyway, this article, really illustrates the process of purging, and isn’t this period in our social lives about that? Where the economy only allows us the most essential needs? There is something good about getting focused and clear.

In Our Souls

I was in the back bar this evening listening to the hum of the air-conditioner and I started to hum too. In the hum of something created by another man, I heard myself and I started to sing.

 

Tears connect us,

like old friends.

Some started helping me.

Through the sands of time

there was light

water from the foroughs

sandy escape

only time could tell

as I began to dance.

I listened to my core

from cold-to-hot

smokey journey

landscape bare.

Through the tuning fork

were invisible

mirrors in the sand.

 

I stood before a masterpiece in

red.

I grazed my hands upon

the canvas

then walked away.

People thought I was

crazy.

I spoke to myself

and grabbed my head.

Children were afraid.

I fell and for the

longest time no one picked

me up, until someone

finally called.

I am just not well.

Knowing as much as I do

so I run from you

into the empty space.

Combing the planet

raising my arms:

“Hear me!”

What is within my soul

speaks to yours.