Joaquin Brubeck, man apart: Mongrel sought the cave

"What you get married for if you don’t want children?

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,

And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.

Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.

Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night."

TS Eliot, The Wasteland

Joaquin Brubeck(d 2025) and Jim Boone.

That Joaquin Brubeck, I sought to meet him after his death, to attend whatever sending-off their was, in my own confusion, ascending to mark only the dignity of life and not much else particularly: not of feeling, nor any acknowledgement of merit, not even to push him out of existence.

I would be surprised to learn he had living family: t'were other Brubecks.

I was approached by Joaquin Brubeck, one in failing health, in reference to acting as arbiter in his former friendship with one Jim Boone, whom many recognize as a favorite of this writer.

In ways checked upon pride, their own unwavering pride, they stood off, and in the river of time, they had re-oriented facing away from each other.

In ways checked upon familiarity and custom, Brubeck broke the lines first and sought his former boy, the lesser of the group, our one Jim Boone. And a desperation there was, to restore his collegial insult-shoots with Boone, but only to the extent the issues were 50/50, giving himself a handicap of having the better fashion sense of the two men, conceding only as far as reaching out first.

It was a false truce ungranted between the two men, as Brubeck supposed intermediary and correspondent was recited context from the perspective of Brubeck:

Partially it was that he immediate a Mongol Horde tendency, his rugged pursuit of what he thought was the best in life, in his own sense of balance. Foreign pliable women, piquant in beauty but with a desperation that indebted them, spoke to his sense of pride as a deliverer, and his pride in ownership. Foreign cars, but cheaply so though great in pretense, great in hubris: his Social Security version of the Mercedes, the BMW, the rat, the cat, and the dog.

At last there was a mystical message of spiritual fatigue.

What he imputed into the universe, appetites: his two Hyundai, a Philipina who got clear of him in reclaiming her freedom, and a litany of drunken ramblings.

His insistent appetite for what he thought was the best.

When his rope splayed during the week of the fourteenth, they found him alone, in a house he owned and inhabited alone despite his awful health.

In his titanic assail of fatigue, he at long last slept: mongrel sought the cave, mongrel sought the cave.

"Blessed are the sleepy, for they soon drop off." 

-Friedrich Nietzche.

"The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger."

James Joyce, "Araby" 

Gosh bless us, 2025 Yule.

 Respite of sunshine in winters christening called us to the car wash, called us to the picnics, called us moreover to stupid frollickings with our psychotic smiles

--it was a hibernation of a few holidays for winter sports--

daily high, one day in the midriff of December: 48 Fahrenheits.

from the slumbers of deep chill, reflection, inaction, your darn dreams, unto an imbalance of false spring near the coming of the magii in which we are beckoned, and languidly drifting back into the bedroll for the pretentious fantasies of hibernation, punchdrunk sailing the bilgewaters towards the land of Nod.

My frozen knees tingled in the transience of weather; the Christmas ornaments had condensation as of chilled soda placed out for drinking.

One day's high on the fringe of Christmas: 78 Fahrenheits.

Santa's milk on ice, this year, as the vortex was nudged away abruptly, extemperaneously at the begrudging knocks of intemperate expatriated summer, a sight so unexpected we were to dumbfounded to greet her trudging the long drive past the cornfields, the watering wells, furroughs, hedgerows, and alas, the unfenced middle parcel and a-near our furthest most swing, the one good for lemonade and drowsiness; we could place for Santa lemonade or dandelion wine, we could sleep in our underwear with windows open, we could indulge the time at its utmost preparing from the random acreage heating fuel of downed hardwoods, in our shirtsleeves at a sweat, and we could do that, but more, too, though only God knows the season and hour, irrelevant of how we marked it.

Crimbus 2025: neither rain, nor sleet, nor dread of fright.

High on a magic mountain, on the near edge of Christmas 2025....

What looked in MAGA like transmogrification and the devilution of our loving republic--catering to the transient complaints of the ruggles, the rubles, and the rabble--their ascension was onto a far mountain placing them outside the collective to the extent that we could hear their caterwauls, but never feel their sentiments calling to purposed revenging and a mighty concourse of insults from partially convincing leadership.

Sports entertainment's crowning hat picked up by a new king, that is actually an old king in pauper's fare: fuscia, magenta, beta tested catchphrases in occlusion, concluding towards that vanishing frontier, and a pauper pretending to be a king become a king pretending to be a pauper, a Corporate champion bumped into obscurity at the hands of a vagabond king corporate, on the shoulders of Jericho, Danielson, Omega, Samoa Joe, and various Dukes, Earls and knights of acting and action, theatre of physicality in strength, dexterity in decoration with wit and wonder.

A draught was brought to an end in the final days of one month of foreboding rainfall deficit; I found it novel, a provision of God: each condition coloring our days, backdropping our comedia del arte. I had spreadsheets and graphs, some self-made, NWS, and MS pinging locations, Jupyters, from staring at the future, to glancing at the past. I made spreadsheets, my readers; I made spreadsheets.

Anum of expanding consciousness, phrenetic development in language, communication, and even machines having a place in the discourse--devices induced for the uptake of clientele fundage, and perversely in odds to produce their own income, the open jaws of chatbots reserved, autistic.

 

On the coming of evening upon the garden of the dark.

Its is most often that we take our refuge in the darkness; yet the light brings comfort and joy. It is the nighttime that is peace. How could it be, then, that we contend, pretend, thrash in the primordial instincts to reach from our entrances towards the orange bowl that could so easily destroy us?

The darkness is snug.

All perfection is neurosis; peace is the absence of neurosis. The quiet mind is of no use, without report--but an empty dream they sell "us" that we chase. We collect paper, but do not hold it; we trade goods for no purpose often but our own odd pleasure. 

Next we lament discarding our pleasure: greatest illusion. Prevarication in facing sunlight.

Then life is pretense. Sold on a coming of peace in life, and some in trade or indenture in the name of lasting peace.

Every team of mine were defeated in their rivalry contests, today, as I worked, then returned home.

I got taco points from the Bell. Fuck the sunlight. As darkness swallowed the daylight, I had snackchip-flavored tacos, the meat falling from each as I lifted them from their joyous cartons.

"Story of a day..."

My ass was caked.

My ass was a cake.

I caked my ass.

My ass caked other asses.

I missed the "december 24" story from my favorite show, as work presented itself; I queued it up as the weather dipped below the freezing point, the house quieted, as I wrote a verse about ass-cakes.

I bought non-sweet snacks, flavored cigarettes, of perversity embedded in neurosis; I worked the stacks in that same neurosis-

-tacos fought against the ignonimous light, ignonimous amongst the narrative, here.

Intl Delights.

My ass is a fish.

Cash had a tin plate with his ten-pennies. It dangled as he stumbled-shambled towards the ignonimous wagon, teetered, jostled in hopes of the wagon.

Jewel's squeezed coins had him the riding pony, but they didn't have him new boots: I could see two toes in the stirrups, and the stirrups were worn like an old men wallets. He was shambles in his own way, favorite or no favorite. He stumble-bummed like the others, but had his damn pony, and was the favorite, her Joseph, her favorite.

He prolly wanted to upswing on the pan: retarded man of farming in the night for his pony get; haunting crops, unseeing steps over, around seedlings. I would upswing Cash's pan, were I not eye-level with it, were I not young, were my mother not a fish.

I would knock Cash's pan in an arc of aflight ten-penny brads.

I stumble-cajoled all about: betwixt and between the two, older than me, more preferenced, consulted, given those nice chats in the quiet of closed doors: but I was young, naught but eye-level of Cash's work-get.

I am, it might be, a fish.

November concluded in raindrops for the weary fronds. Beneath the umbrella were two people and sundry thoughts of the usual of what makes people differentiate themselves from themselves: unusual thoughts of usual things. It would be inhuman to reach conclusions amidst such profundity; one can only salvage his hour.

Maryland's Infernal Order of the Preacher Bird.

From a week of finest storytelling --> retrieving the pimp cane from the wasteland of a vacant lot --> to cakewalking cloudfooted, in same, a cake walk. All Saint's month bid a due in mists that crescendoed in a deluge of dings on aluminum from without the window, drops of rain from the heavens to a welcoming bit of land.

he could help me so good if only he knew my goodness I'm showing I could get what I need if only he knew

In the beanfield, he lost nothing, deposited nothing, and he then meditated, alarmed at the realization of how empty he felt, which is the human conundrum of depressed persons. Submerged in feelings, unable to grasp meanings of such, claim in horror that they are in fear of their own apathy. If anything, he lost decibels, decibels expelled in the air like so many fumes.

He and them stared, and in his conundrum he marked the space between them, not physically, but that gulf of emotion betwixt his own catharsis and their nusance calm. The group played as if entertaining royalty, and the supposed royals stared like goldfish. Clyde waxed; he stared, too, and they stared at the innervated musicians at pains to entertain a crowd of people that had gone silent, and stared, too: the crowd that wanted most of all a human connection. Perversely, such was the topic of the music, in its own conundrum of love songs, rape victim ballads, what they also called hair music, and yarns of things like lightning strikes in infested cornfields, tired farmers, truckers in the dark of dashboard light, cowboys that lived in the words of schoolgirls.

Twas neither November, nor March, but June, and that month of June was a run into a sauna light by floodlights. The grass with healthy and green, and the crickets had gone silent to hear the music, or was it really to hide from the music? Stars glowed lazily. Humidity was increasing. The time of the moon was in the hands of the other celestial contrivance, the solar body.

if he only knew he would help he would turn it to the good but not tell diddy or darl or cash or jewel if he knew he would hand the bottle to make it good but he didn't know so he could not help