the road so long and the sky so beautiful brushstroked like we're actually riding in a painting and no destination and no progress and nothing in the world real at all but visions only of some dakota long ago landscape set up by an artist reveling in fields and fields of sunflowers– the isolate sun– the isolate moon– the isolate earth– the air and heat and press of midday like nothing in the world has ever happened or will happen and nobodys in the least concerned

* Soberly annotated by the editors of GQ (and me - for length and, um, risque-ness - not that the article was overly risque but this is a blog afterall ... )

Crap, I watch Gossip Girl.

I'm fine from within
just better without and it's that that reminds me of you
Now our every last effort tried so far has been denied
It's easy to cry for love
Far harder to try

Deaf Donald met Talkie Sue
But (signing) I Love You was all he could do.
And Sue said, "Donald I sure do like you."
But (signing) I Love You was all he could do.
And Sue asked Donald, "Do you like me too?"
But (signing) I Love You was all he could do.
"Good-bye then, Donald, I'm leaving you."
But (signing) I Love You was all he could do.
And she left forever and she never knew
That (signing) I Love You means I Love You.

as if all this werent enough already behind photos of indians and hanging beads and feathers also a picture of louis armstrong with trumpet held between his knees and cigarette between his fingers and tragedy was there somehow as unknowable as tragedy of indians but also different- something about the tiny smoke risings maybe or his shoelaces or way he was looking off somewhere with expression no one thinks about when they think at all of louis armstrong- for all the holy trumpet racket his eyes too had their silence– impossible to tell what was going on however or what he would say or what was meant by the thoughtfulness and pose of the photography but seeming exactly like the sort of person in that print you might see around in cities or even on sidewalks of towns as in moberly missouri where i spent time once bumming and goofing too and kept running into this incredible old black man i really dug and wanted to know absolutely and wanted to ask for some reason hey man what do you think of all this- whats it mean to you- cutting thru streets with pipe and scarf and perfect long oldman sweater he was proud of his experience of the world you could tell but sorrowful too and taking in everything with such dignity and such sorrow i couldn't figure how he accomplished his personal combination of grace and coolness– the suns of a million cities in his eyes– his walk slow but strollable saturday afternoon walk of streetcorners and train depots and trolley cars moving every direction past all sorts of scenes and lostnesses not the least of which included coupla railroad boys sitting on the loading docks killing time til their own big timeclock day was over– sun going down in a field behind the everlast factory– old black ladies in there bending to sewing as i know and beautiful how one of them sighs and looks up and studies pieces of sky thru the window– i understand her more than she guesses– i walk on– following and trailing behind the old black man in his own day silent and pipesmoking and enjoying his journey for whatever private reasons are meaningful to him– we pass piles of junk cardboard boxes and staircases and parking lots and there is something sad about all that and impossible and like part of a saturday afternoon you've lived too many times– hard to explain– ending finally (so says camera of my mind with which i watch all this and the world) in a perfect picture of a payphone and collection of old yard chairs and weeds and junks and he goes on thru these oldswing doors and disappears from me into the smoke and general racket of the last tracks motel

i figure what the hell and go in after him– the place is in full swing by this time but sad too and sorta like the junks outside and the payphone- sad for reasons nobody can explain– tied up with the tragedy and general despair of the way the sun goes down across the railroad tracks and the star comes out after and the hobo watches both and marvels and misses all the things that shine in his eyes late at night at the end of the dancing and bottle of wine and guitar playing tho nobody in the place seems to understand or wonder at the scene of him sunk down in his chair like that in the back alone separate from their own myth and craziness while at same time in some fashion a part of it and present and contributing- all this i notice as i walk into the diner– everyone is transparent– hard to say how– i sit down at a table where i can keep my eye on the old black man who has by this time become beautiful to me and very wise and even the way he folds his scarf now with long calm fingers makes me feel like we share a certain secret about things and like he knows too about the star and the sadness and the real nowhere of the railroad and the wine and the dancing– a waitress with smudged lipstick comes over to him- he orders coffee– then i glance with him at pictures hung all lopside on the whitewash walls and sad and been there awhile too old scenes of moberly in old days of its prosperity or at least so called- quite downhearted- in the corner over the juke box catching my attention somehow even an old print of billie holiday and sure enough her eyes are so cool and tragic as wearing flowers in her hair– wow– what to make of anything or the unmistakability or the photograph beside this picture (how showing up in a diner in moberly missouri i cant imagine) of the old black man in old torn overalls and tragic flophat bending down at 1950s colored fountain to drink– certainly one of the most tragic pictures ever made and famous now and more tragic because of its fame– a replica of it once found accidental by me in topshelf library book and copied out and in fact hung on old pierce street kitchen wall for months to reming myself this too is the history of my country– the resignation in the way he is standing tells the story entire– america is no country– just a buncha contradictions– i swear i dont see whats so great about it when everywhere i look i notice the downcastness of the eyes of people the flag of this nation wont protect- i cant stand to live under a flag like that and dont and there is no end in fact to the grievances i could bring up against america the real tragedy of which involves the head of the black man bowed in shame and aforesaid look in the eye of the indian– these being bypassed however for reasons everybody knows about the idea of tragedy in this country automatically degrading itself and defaulting then into death of a salesman tragedy and all tied up as everything else with business unlike in ireland where tragedy is all tied up with the sea or in france with the past or in russia with the burning of the wheatfields– why cant i live in a country that has some sense also of those things and can appreciate in itself something greater and separate from money– i say the god of america is money- i say fuck america– i cant wait til it all collapses in on itself and people say to each other in greeting and amazement remember once there was this country called the united states and i'll reply right back and with perfect certainty oh all sorts of things happened but there was never any such place– i look across from me even now in the diner and see the old black man stirring coffee at his table and i study the shabbiness and thoughtfulness and beauty of his expression and i say the only prefect thing that can be said of america is that the liberty bell is cracked– the only people who will ever prosper by this point under the great pretense of liberty prized by rich politicians in their speeches are the ones who know nothing of the start or the sadness or the wisdom behind the eyes of indians– they dont hafta know– they dont travel behind those sorts of eyes or in those shoes or down the long roads even tennessee williams musta hitchhiked in his hitchhiking days on his way to florida and the florida moon and sea and nights writing plays in the bare bulb kitchen thinkin of the moon and the eyes and the sidewalks of other cities– mixing into all that and sorting thru til he figures out the dream and cut and sadness and gets to the meaning behind it all and behind the cigarettes- the white curtains– the scent of jasmine– the rain– putting everything together then with such cynicism and such sweet sadness its hard to misinterpret or mistake him behind the confines of his art a sort of great tragic trenchcoat figure in snowflakes and flowers and shadows of broken shutters breaking himself up in the killingness of jazz and detail to explain about what he really wanted to say and in fact did say and now so called one of the finest playwrights america has ever produced– hang america– he produced himself– as i said- no end to the grievances i could bring up against this country concerning blacks and indians and artists and a million other instances and repercussions but the anger so old anyway and outdated so i look meanwhile in the diner to notice again the pictures on walls and this time catch for the first time in the corner the photograph of albert einstein with famous white everyway hair– do i hafta say the words– eyes also sad

i know one day i'll forget al this when i'm dust on a river as preplanned and prearranged in my coming of complete night and personal end and oblivion– even the sadness of hobo and genius eyes alike will cease to matter or amaze me and i keep holding on for that moment– continuous til then tho the old ache and tramp of my heart- my loss– indecision– feeling like by this point theres so much in my head i'll never straighten it out or get to the bottom of anything or what it means it doesn't matter– everything happening regardless and i keep on questing and following and winding up anyway in middle of great situations as on the night i lay frightened and sick in backseat topeka kansas feeling real freaked out about life and crazy and in a huge confusion staring at all lights aswirl over me and crazy world emptiness and strangeness and feeling as tho i didnt belong to any of it or on earth at all but just a perpetual stranger going forward with no plans or design or future and not even caring exactly but wanting it to be over as quickly and with as little grief as possible- tho hard to avoid the tremendous sorrow and futility of life on silly heartbreak earth when i keep noticing like in topeka as we pulled into gas station parkinglot this old black man walking round muttering to himself drunk for sure or maybe high or both but going into quick shop anyway for more beer and gesturing rude drunk and mean with the boy behind the counter who was getting finally scared and calling cops– before they show up however the bum with bottle and tragic paper brownsack again outside on pavement and in fact myself winding up in huge parkinglot conversation with him i dont know how– i never know how– i just look around as ever to find i'm again in middle of situation and entanglements– he's apparently crossed america several times for reasons of his own and nothing left but words now of philadelphia and sacramento and all between and circumstance– i dont ask questions– he goes on and on and his breath is this terrific mess of booze and sadness and sorrow which comes out in crazy talk and stories which are too mad to believe and break me down and in fact even the look of him on pavement in front of me so sad and unbelievable i cant stand it– whoever thought topeka kansas with its share of drunks and whispers could cut me but sure enough and this only one bum in america and a single scene– cops arrive– he slurs thru last conversations and smiles drearily and goes off with his bottle slow sad shuffle walk as any drunk into downtown topeka alley to wait the dawn or dark or whatever it is bums wait for– hard to explain– mixed surely with some special grief

this whole scene somehow blowing me away actually even until lights of kansas city tho now i cant imagine why– seems strange it shoulda made such an impact but in that backseat really feeling exactly how i felt the day laying in the schoolyard grass coming apart watching clouds across my eyes at end of summer and sad and wishing i didnt have to go anywhere or do anything again and suicidal in a regular sense but wishing i could just be dead and have it over and not hafta struggle anymore with the crushingness of my unreal heart– i dont know why i keep asking for more life– for pain– i dont get the suffering in this world or see what brings everything up in me just laying in grass like that or in backseats and makes me get sad or go crazy for no apparent reason except inside all tied up with clouds or sky or some incredibly sad moment or experience which is all part of how i hafta make my appearance on earth as a poet and get torn up and lose my mind to make the story of all this in a notebook with words because i cant explain to anybody how i feel– even now in midst of my real craziness and dream and distraction i cant see to figure how to find the center of what i need to say but all the time anyhow seeing it rushing past me and thru me and goin round in me and no way really to keep it still to explain– so much and no meaning or reason behind any of it as i remember believing one night i sat up at work at old maritz desk on the phone with some guy levi comer in portland oregon going thru the telemarketing nonsense with him as he laughed and joked and made terrific cracks and comments of his own– meanwhile in background this crazy piano music playing on portland radio and at my desk two thousand miles away old poetry book open to allen ginsbergs of the world goofing in chinatowns and walt whitmans hoboing on louisiana back roads and hart cranes jumping from shipdecks into deeper more secretive oceans to die– who can say what any of it comes to in the end– i write thru it but dont solve it– there is no solution– no exit– the beauty is in the mystery of all this loss i feel when i think about things but in such moments crushed in ways even more than usual and unclosed and bang wishing i was never born– even the colour of my hair is for no reason– still i hafta wonder and get sad and look inside the private personal mess of details of my collected notes and journals in order to remind myself of my ethereal childness and littleness among the clouds and rocks and intangibility of the rose also of the world unfolding– and falling– and fading– listen– crazy portland oregon piano on top of everything and i cant even begin to sort out my real confusion– i swear i wouldnt ask for myself again– having forgotten for so many reasons and moments tied up now within my experience what it is i open my voice to cry over i go retracing and returning to the of the august i lost my final address and porchsummer sitting on old evenings east pierce street watching stars in the special unsince then belonging to myself– words words words– love– descriptions– departures– sad– that last morning gathering my last things and packing bags and leaving with tom and tracey to find the montana even the name of which brings up a crazyholy unreal longing in me unmatched til the red moon i would see there over the wheatfields sinks in the river running thru mountains in the country of gold that i cant reach

the three of us so downhearted at end of that summer and trapped equal and watching endless timeclock america consumerism goin on everywhere and all around and not wanting to participate in that and feeling like we shouldnt have to but no way to get by either or pay rents or bills or groceries and have anything leftover for our own kicks and personal amusements– how not to compromise in the lousy nonsense and stupidity of our culture– no end in sight– pooling our last money then and packing up and getting out to the mountains to sleep in the open under the open stars and moon and playing autumn parks all across the u.s. along the way too in order to find again what was so holy and so forgotten in all the lately mess of debts and worries– the old wooden swings at the river– the reflection of the fence post in the farm pond– crabapples– windmills– willow trees– creekbridges– the wobble football pass and tackle amid shouts and general gooding and yelling and dodging– the frontyard touchdown– september in iowa– scenes so blessed and fruitful for representing a world still steeped in the dearness of things and littleness and total preciousness of even laundries strung between the two poles in housewifey afternoons and winds in the sheets and little bucket of clothespins forgotten in grass– sunset as we passed by in our great dream and adventure on way to montana– deciding how perfect to sleep in iowa first night of the trip together since the moon in those laundries and corn so pretty and comin in over my shoulders too in backseat and i couldnt stand all that sadness– we wanted to stop immediately– deciding we would find a field and camp around and a great idea but proving out to be one of the top ten worst all out bad sleeps of my whole life and more– sorta funny by this point– looking back

we pulled off the highway and wound up in the the backlot of some tragic sioux city motel and of course the car too small to fit all three of us asleep but no big deal or so i thought– i took little sleepingbag and pillow and went out to the field nextdoor so leaving them the two frontseats then still vastly uncomfortable bit at least more spacious– big mistake– i hadnt even spread my bag in the grass when realizing of course summer in the country in iowa and mosquitoes everywhere and constant and impossible to calm down or lay quiet or sleep– i got all wound up yelling and slapping at them and finally pulled whole blanket over my head suffocating myself and still one trapped inside biting me and another swarm managing somehow to get at my forehead– an outrageous situation– getting real crazy angry by this point and finally getting up in disgust and leaving pillow and bag and blankets crumpled in the field and walkin down the highway in middle of the night– made my way to this truckstop actually twice and went inside and all truckers sitting around sad with coffees at tables alone or else playing arcades– a sad scene there– i couldnt stand anything– went back to the field and got my bag and dragged it over to a sidewalk then at end of a deadend street thinking maybe peace since no grass but all just as bad as train going by unbelievable loud– howlsound in all iowa passing– the tracks right there which i hadnt realized– i was still slapping mosquitoes– suffocating in my bag- cussing the stars– as tho all not enough already a car driving over to see what was going on and i thought wow just what i need the damn cops to come and kick me out for sleeping on a sidewalk in middle of america in allnight iowa under the regular bum moon and stars but instead some woman leaning out car window sayin are you alright– what're ya doin– d'ya need a place to stay– kind of her but by this point unfair to accept a place for myself and leave tom and tracey uncomfortable in the car so declined– all's just fine– just on my way out to montana– enjoyin the moon

thats cool she said– hesitating a minute– then going back to motel for a sound sleep in cool sheets somewhere without mosquitoes or trains or truckstop arcades or even the later iowa storm breaking all over me with thunders and wild rains and winds til i almost got blown off the sidewalk just tryin to get back to the car all sheepish and tired and defeated to crowd in backseat and wait til sunrise which took a million years and then the morning gray and rain still falling and we went into little motel bathroom to wash up and get ourselves together– strange and funny as the old guy who was fixing lightbulbs or something kept sideways looking at us but without saying anything or getting angry probably thinkin to himself in half wonder and amusement who are all these damn kids with all their socks and jeans and flannels and sad suitcases and little towels– what a racket– pathetic– finally speaking to me as a i waited for tom and tracey to finish and the rain coming down by this time in absolute torrents in the parkinglot– she dont look like she's ever gonna quit does she he asked– looking out the window– no not at all

it took us about another million years to get going after that– tryin to roll up sleepingbags in the rain and rearrange suitcases and get settled– finally on the road again– i'm in backseat thinkin we'll never get to montana– we'll be stuck in iowa forever– why did we ever come here– but riding on to south dakota and the road so long and the sky so beautiful brushstroked like we're actually riding in a painting and no destination and no progress and nothing in the world real at all but visions only of some dakota long ago landscape set up by an artist reveling in fields and fields of sunflowers– the isolate sun– the isolate moon– the isolate earth– old farmers standing at fence gates in the town population one eighty of white lake south dakota in the glare and shimmer of the last noon of time maybe they shake heads and mop brows with red handkerchiefs and little kids pass by on rollerskates and everything seeming so tranquil and drowsy and these butterflies drowsing too in the air and heat and press of midday like nothing in the world has ever happened or will happen and nobodys in the least concerned

Let's strap on the nitro!

Still, as someone with dim memories of a world without video games, I do sometimes wonder about the opportunity cost. I was playing 'Guitar Hero' the other day, fumbling my way through 'Sweet Child O' Mine,' just barely finishing without being kicked out of the band. When I was done, I looked five feet to the left of the screen where my real guitar was standing, the one on which I still remember how to play 'Sweet Child O' Mine' note for note. And for a moment, I couldn't help but wonder:
"What the fuck am I doing?"
Then I played more 'Guitar Hero.'
I understand the ability to play 'Sweet Child O' Mine' note for note on a real guitar isn't very useful itself, unless you're Slash. But 'playing' it on a toy guitar with five brightly colored buttons that looks like something you'd buy a five-year-old for his Halloween costume has to represent a different level of not-very-usefulness.

If I spend all this time learning how to play 'Guitar Hero,' why don't I just learn how to play guitar?

First it was a passion, then it became a duty, and finally an intolerable burden.

Parents usually mark their children's first – first food, first words, first steps – but lasts often slip by unnoticed. I don't remember the last time I carried my son up the stairs in the crook of my arm. Or the last time I read him a bedtime story, closing the cover on Goodnight Moon when I was done. Or the last time he and I kissed on the lips or crossed the street hand in hand. Or the last time he called me 'Daddy.' I don't remember because I didn't know it was the last time. Had I known, I would have cherished it more. I would have held on tighter.