Large Merdepost

flapppppppjackssssssss

Okay, that’s my warm-up. As in smooth trooper’s, cousin to pancake mix, still legal in Alatucky, some say I’m still out there with a spatula and a block of butter, pouring ‘em, flipping ‘em, stacking them today like tomorrow. I once was invited to a Bosnian refugee’s hut for a smoke and a pancake on an island in the sea. He thought they were invented in Bosnia. He put something in the tobacco, and I felt super dizzy. I excused myself, took my guitar, and marched outside with the color drained from my face. I passed out walking and I hit my head on a tree trunk falling to the ground. I came to on the ground with someone pouring water over my head.

And now I live in a cratered industrial wasteland locals dub Fayettenam. Sometimes I think I’m dead and this is a post-mortem fantasy that is happening in REM state. SO very little happens here, changes here, it feels like I am trapped in a clear resin or glasswork.

I kept pancakes off the menu at a bistro in 1995 or so. I needed the real estate on the griddle for high dollar things, not dollar pancakes. I put pancakes back on a menu as blinis in 2004 with black truffle oil, smoked ranch dressing, smoked mackerel and fried potato straws. Lost my job when my car broke down. The executive chef quit and the place shut down. Flippity flap.

I have been tied up with domestic responsibilities: looking for a job. Trying to find anything real. My day job will not kill my nightmares. It doesn’t even cover my bills. It’s been thirty years of quicksand. I think of that as I stir the batter.

Laser research fortuitous for synchrotron design segue, as is tradition: https://journals.aps.org/prl/abstract/10.1103/PhysRevLett.131.263802

I received a commission to do an oil painting. I just need some sunshine to work properly. Without a sunny day here or there, I go inward, towards stillness within me that I seldom know.