Bless you S'tan. You did all the right things and now he and you sholud both be free. Sending you beams of love

S'tan, many beams from me too. And the ritual of the dictionary and the grave is just about the most beautful thing I have ever heard. Somewhere your Daddy must be smiling with joy.

My mother passed away also just this past summer... and one of the (many) things that struck me was that when a parent goes-- no matter what the state of your relationship with him or her has been-- one of the two people that have known you absolutely the longest in your entire life... from the very moment of your conception, in fact... is no longer there anymore. It's a very strange and sad feeling of loneliness. And one that is a rite of passage-- especially for those of our age.

But I am glad that your Daddy went out partying. I think if all of us were given a choice, that would be the way we would want to exit the world-- with beer and ciggie and laughter!

Darling ol' Hatch,
It does make one feel pretty ancient I have to say, and every emotion is back again, relived and active, that you ever felt all those years.

Though I feel neither merry or bright and my tiny tot eyes are not aglow, there was
Hairdresser Wisdom at hand, when I was in NYC -- Mario told me, Go ahead and make a big old Xmas for Daddy. So I went out (with the flu) got a live tree and dragged out all the decorations. Made Daddy a little altar too with his gloves and cigarettes and other imperishables. The spirits must be fed.
Wouldn't you know it now bloodie Budweiser is holy essence to me...

Merry Xmas to the Ancestors!!!
Love to all a youse.

S'tan Claus,
Yes there is something in the Eastern worship of the ancestors. The Romans did it too around their home hearth altar.
They do live on in us, you know. It used to horrify me when I was younger, but now I revel in it!
I would send you a dusty bauble from my old family tree to add to the beauty, but it would arrive much after XXXmas, and might not make it to you before you cast yours into the ritual bonfire on the Feast Of the Magi.

Happy all, and especially Happy St. Stephen's Day!

S'tan thank you so much for posting the recounting of your visit to your father's resting place. It reminds me of how important it is at times to feel the aloneness of having been put here on the earth and the tangible reach that manifests within one when those who brought you here have departed to the very 'place' out of which they brought you giving one the truely sensed expansiveness of what being alive is -that your physical location is such a finite reference -I don't know if I am conveying this acurately or well- but when you stand at the piece of ground feeling like a physical trace of the person that ground commemorates, following that life in to time, whatever else you had done in your own existence has such a clarified measure there, then, in a kind of proximity to the person whose purpose for you only becomes clarified with each year of your own life.

When I visit the grave of my father my senses are all in opposition. Below is only a box I know that he has left. What I say could be rain or wind. I am listening to the earth. Stone, metal, wood, bone, I would hold you to all my empty parts; future, fulfillment, final thought.

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marker designed by me! at age 17.

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Thinkin' about you Stan...
and Daddy.

Oh, and give Brown Paul a big New Years kiss for me.

Happy New Year from Fingernails!
Staying put with Bob's ashes.
But thanks for the beer and ciggies Daddy, we needed that!

Brown Paul is moping tonight, but I don't wanna drive 2 1/2 hrs. to his Madroid Hellhole. DWI stops are all over the place too. I hope the herd is well-culled after tonight.

lots of love coming up for the '06
S'tan

I feel like such an idiot. I haven't read this topic in weeks and had no idea what you were going through Stan ("my black rose of the desert"). My deepest sympathies are with you at this tough, life-defining moment and may your Daddy rest in pease. Thoughts and love are with you.
Lexxy

quote:

Thinkin' about you Stan...

hmmm the above was in the box when I clicked "Reply!"
Are there ghosts in the machine? Who is thinkin' of me!?! How did you get in my box!?!

Well anyhow "Hello from Fingernails,"
I am feeling VERY culturally challenged. I missed the big opening of the "Downtown Show" which I am sure was insanely gorgey, I was told 1500 people were there. I was so anticipating that Proustian moment: a roomful of people who meant so much to you 25 years ago, all of you together again, and all of you oh-so-OLD!
Well, I was sent the book, and look forward to reading Chi Chi's essay in it... but the book is still... NOT THE OPENING!!!!! grrrr

Go see it at NYU's Grey Gallery through April 1. I gotta get back before then!

I look out my window onto a pristine landscape: gorgeous red and white desert with patches of snow a week old... that are still WHITE! The cats are living outside, splendid in enormous fluffy winter coats. There isn't a sound around, except the music of the spheres. It's beautiful, calm and perfect.
And I know Manhattan this time of year is ugly, chilled, grey and dead. My life there wasn't the greatest... But DAMN I miss getting in a cab at midnight and going to a warm and raucous nightclub.

Bitch bitch bitch...
I'm going to miss the Schiele show.
The Peter Berln movie will never come
to Santa Fe
(wait, hey, they say this town is the highest per capita of gay households in the country? ... we'll see.)

Well ONE THING did happen to make me feel connected... I'm a Goodie!

http://www.goodie.org/goodiemag/currentissue.html

and Angel Stern also got interviewed online, for the delectation of the FBI ...

http://www.allstardoms.com/messageboard/showflat.php?Ca...Main=53380#Post53471

I have to find out where the freaks are, who live here... And I'm not talking about the Rainbow People either, thanks. I need pals!
Brown Paul is great, but he never leaves his hidey-hole. He's always renovating that big old piece of junk we call the Hell Hotel. He's replacing the floor in the attic, so my clients won't fall through into the crawl space when they crawl around. Nice Brown Paul!

He is Brown as ever, Johnny, and sends you a big fat one too.

Sick in the head as ever and loving you all'ins, S'tan

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S'tan..LOVED the interview with Mistress Calico.

xoxoxoxooxox thenkyew

a few folk complained I wasn't darned serious enough, but hey how can you be serious about
a sexual soap-opera you've been watching for 30 years.

My Daddy's best friend dreamed about The Dictionary last night. It was sitting up on the sidewalk in front of my Dad's office, like -- LOOKING at him!!!

brrrrr

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The interview was SO choice. You need someone to get you to do some book-length thing or on film.

Hie, thanks,
bring your camera I will be in New York
on March 26 for a week, the Goodie Girls are planning a party for me and Armen Ra then!
Possibly at Le Petit Versailles.

You better post the details or else Bobby will come to Fingernails and pull some of yours.

Why I oughta... I would NEVER pull S'tan's fingernails but if I get a hold of Seven's seven I'll pull on THAT!

Kids kids no fighting. I will post info when the Goodies get it together.

I just saw Seven's Dad! or rather his Spiritual Father at the Fingernails post office.

This wretched rusty Toyota truck on jacked-up big wheels pulls up ...
it's dotted all over its ass with spray-paint color.
A long lanky man gets out... with a shaved head,
but that long strip in the back intact. Couldn't see if it was a cross... he's wearing a black leather hat adorned with both silver and esoteric bony regalia. He's also got a gorgey Van Dyke in salt and pepper... earrings, nose ring, a beautiful freak.

I follow him into the PO and note with pleasure the custom leathers, black, pierced and decorated with bone and silver... stylishly ragged but clean, precise, very nouveau hippie.

I walk by him and he is absolutely redolent of powerful indica. I'm stoned just sniffing him.
I look at this long, oversensitive face, pale and sunglassed. The nervous jaw... and I'm just about to say HELLO, I mean I'm believing this is some hipster for me, at last...
when he bursts out in gibberish, staring into space...

"Heyay hiya weeya golly wolly moogla alla ..."

Poetic consternation? Visionary syllabics?

I see him opening one of the older PO boxes. He's a low number like me.
Never saw him before!
People crawl out of these mountains looking, and sounding like you don't know what... Once I stayed home for a week and when I got to the general store, I couldn't even say Hello.

Maybe that's what's got into your Dad there seven. Permanently.
Maybe he was telling me his life story. Wish I could tranlate him... I followed him out of the PO... when he got outside he went
WHOOP WHOOP OONAMOOONNNA ZOOOOO! gave a few little jumps and got into his shitass truck. I checked out the front seat -- it was full of
what looked like nesting materials. I hope I have conveyed how much
he looked just like your paternal reality, seven.
He was pretty prosperous in the costuming --
the Fingernails version of the trust-funder possibly. Definitely one of the poetic unemployables.

YIP YIP WIGGA MAMMA WOOMA ZOOMBA

by Rene Ricard from "God With Revolver"
Poems 1979-82
copyright 1989 Hanuman Books & Rene Ricard



GINGER ROGERS

In the movies we can be young and clever
With stylish wit. In 'Swingtime' unemployed
and down and out there were still flowers in all the
vases
And poverty an art deco suite. We manufactured
our lives
In this New York. Not knowing when our
Next meal would come we knew it would be in a
Fancy restaurant if we just wore the right clothes
And trusted our wisecracks. And beauty we knew
Was just a matter of the right angle and lighting
We had the gift of improvisation. They would love
our
Cleverness. Didn't Holly Golightly end up alright in
The Movie? We would be that kind of sparkling
Mischievous queen.
Now we know Melville's New York in 'Pierre'
Scrounging beers when the champagne ran out
The New York where brilliant salons are closed to us
Dirty feet and busted heels. We claw where we
Once sat up and begged.
Our makeup following the same outlines
The features shrunken and hard beneath
Loved only when our eyes are shut
Hands sticky afterwards
If only
We're been cynical at the beginning
We could've turned out ok
If only we'd believed the book
Where Holly Golightly disappears from the
face of the
Earth at the end.

That post office apparition sounds a lot like some of my relatives from Vermont. Isolationist eccentrics with their own language too. Kind of a cross between animal language and emotional invocations to the elements.