Yeah I am gonna like this one because it’s full of beat and rhythm no matter how or why – as the man said to me earlier today “there are plenty downtown, go there” and wondered what he meant and how he meant it. No difference to me since I hear too many pieces of counsel and advice known as friendly and natured – but find them intrusive all the same. Last week was a little bird who said – ”you want to know what I think” – not really – but I can get around to a small discussion once they have my brand back.
So I am driving and working myself to a hotter point of expressive twitches and feel the fingertips of a stranger pull me back – my shirt is stained from wiping my mouth and sweat still clings from walking my two or three depending on how I count – which way the map is headed. It’s stranger than dreams, you know the street scene this year, this summer of heat – the women cling to sidewalks and melt in blinks of the eye. I was a very lucky to notice not being very occupied – with eyes on the road, reading signs for sale and sold or rent.
In the mirror a friend of mine is a face of all things French and all foods that make the mouth sigh heavy. There always is food for memory and drink of the street – so stains cling – I don’t care. They are scars of memories – experiences and little beats – the heart, the heart – fusion reaction, no? This is the rhythm today – winds tear the beads of sweat – dripping stains on pavement. Sweet beats of prey who watch from windows at the corners of mouths that eat and cough – bits of paper napkins – late night people with hands-down belts who watch the road and the killers.
The people who beat to death, a funny way of expressing love, huh? Somewhere in this night which crushes all expectation – sometime in this evening which beats down, beats down – I find the little coin that has a flip-sided tails and gives good heads. It shines and twinkles of storied mythologies, famous foot in mouth for bold and lousy truth-telling – stories that match the hyperactive hawks that circle, circle and circle.
I dive under and swim the beat, pulse the rhythms of famous tidbits – the dreams, the expected demise of promised honey, this land of which we speak – so often – so mute.
2010 Barry Comer
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About barry comer
At the intersection of bad, cultural immersion and romantic comedy, Barry Comer’s life of awareness began to shape. It feels carved by professional courtesy with dabbles of imagined secret missions of rock and art, to travels in the imaginarium.
To some, if not many, Barry’s good time adventures seemed pluck and full of free-spent spirit. Never to light long, he urged the wheels west and found adoration given too short.
His interests were aesthetically varied, so he observed. After all, his father introduced jazzy musicians and god sought ministers in the neighborhood. With dues paid and King dead, the cooperation of handshakes and dispensed medicines protected Barry’s influences and his father’s corner dispensary. Life was interesting and good in the late 60’s for children to intellectually pursue and live lyrics and romanticized notions.
The culture, the permissiveness and worship trended to social justice. Either one was for or against, but the black and white of disagreement galvanized a new generation of commitments.
Lucky to have Dylan and Ginsberg, this generation of conscientious observers painted and wrote. They smoked heavy curls of conversations in coffee houses with snapping fingers and playground sensibilities for the future. Within these wrappings, Barry learned to observe pretenders of people and heroes. So many joined in, for the parade of protest marches and partied, against, “the war”.
There were the endless slogans of possibilities.
After seeking countless roads, Barry packed again. He divorced friendships for youthful urges and moved abroad. Barely 20, the blunt instrument of reality suffocated popular aspirations. This destination du jour, this holy land of Israel was no place for 60s dreamers of fairness.
Observed was a social experiment of denial and diminished rights for one and not the other. It seemed unimaginable that the same questions asked back in the United States was a net, cast worldwide.
What is fair, what is just and who is deserving, he asked himself?
Once back in the US, he entertained different professions that catered to his degree in art. He showed sculpture at 2 galleries, but later chose financial stability through graphic design. His work is known throughout the country having specialized in logo design and business to business publications in the culinary industries.
None of these fed his soul, until Barry started making frequent trips to France observing and writing about his inspired experiences. The European model of civility and humanity impressed the senses and old immersions. Even though there is not a perfect social experiment, the observation was clear and begged a response in the US.
Last year, he got in touch with the Democratic Socialists of America and spoke to director Maria Svart. He wanted to do something, to contribute to the cause of social and equitable justice. The DSA fit like a Leonard Cohen suit.
From that moment with over 40 years waiting in the wings, he stepped forward. His designs have become a part of
DSA’s day-to-day and special design needs.
Barry also volunteers as a design and communications consultant with Family Scholar House in Louisville, Kentucky, writes for Conducive Chronicle, http://cchronicle.com.
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