A letter i wrote….

Hello, I apologize for taking so long to respond. Your question made me go and do some thinking and reading. I thank you for this! Because I really was not clear on what the protesters want as well!  If i were a researcher or reporter I could delve in much deeper, but as an ordinary guy, I will be as honest and accurate as possible. You see, I do not have an executive telling me things, nor do i read a prompter like a television pundit.  First of all, it would seem they are concerned with the wealth gap. Then, perhaps the involvement of Wall Street in the financial “crisis”. According to NPR, a supposed leader of the movement mentioned being inspired by the Arab spring. As good as we have it here in America i would think that no one would bother, unless there were something wrong to get all active about. I am no activists, but I feel connected to these folks, and to a much lesser degree with the tea party. Mostly because the tea party has several well known powerful political players funding and manipulating that movement. So far as I can tell, “Occupy” has resisted all monies offered. Once i read “The Rebel” by Albert Camus. Much of it is challenging, and some of it so wordy that it did little teaching to me. I did glean one important thing from it, and it is that he mentioned that every revolution in recorded history that he found ended in revolution, bloody most of the time. My takes on this and if I were to give a state of the people address, would be a few questions. Since Ronald Reagan there have been high level bankers in the Oval Office. That seems alright to me at first glance, they Do need financial experts around. I would counter that there are some from universities that are just as capable as others, yet are not multi-millionaires. Space runs short, but I feel like the powers that be are just bought and paid for, as is the media, so it is frustrating to make an informed decision on anything, if one cannot trust provided information. I feel like humans are intelligent, mostly, yet the decisions our leaders make are based on nothing other than their own interests, and not as it should be. “Government of the people, by the people, and for the people.”
I feel that corporations, government, and Wall Street forget about ordinary people, and how important we are to the future of this republic.  We just want a fair chance, the truth when possible, and to stop being ripped off in the sake of greed disguised as ambition. I and fine being as I am. I do fear the amount of power that is wielded by pure money over the “rest” of us. Really? It is ok that one percent of folks have more wealth than All the other 99% Combined? Not to me. At any rate, I am grateful that you questioned me, because it made me take a hard look at what I feel they are upset about. And gave me a little opportunity to stand up for the 99%, even if in my own tiny way. Peace,

Published in: on February 15, 2012 at 8:39 pm  Leave a Comment  

experienced a dream…this one had neon, and “She”

i was there, She, yes she was here. and why Richard was there i will never know. the colors were vibrantly over-colored, it was a vice city neon, to clean and warm… first we were on a boat, not doing a very good job of avoiding empty and abandoned nets. then she was gone again, and a lazy panic set in on me, a panic that one had forgotten something, that one had some important thing to see or hear, or do or say, yet that important thing was unattainable. Nixon sounded like peter jennings, was nice enough, but it was impossible to find from him where she had gone, or how i could conjure her back here so we could admire all of his estate… which was viced and citied and neoned and seen from an aerial view. whenever he showed me his collection of vases and concrete nude cherubs who according to him,  “used to pee all over, i don’t know what is wrong…” then i was away from there, restaurant nothing, beach where we had ditched the boat, nothing. keep in mind i still didn’t know for whom or what i was searching for. then like nothing had happened we were driving back to his mansion of neon and concrete, and we drove up where richard awaited near the pool and the cherubs with a cocktail in his hand. his shirt Hawaiian, and her voice comes in; never audible but in my head, i don’t mind this guy.

So many dreams, none stranger than any others perhaps.

i just wish that She wasn’t there, except when i am dreaming them. i wish She didn’t exist in them. would rather She not speak to me telepathically, because that is my inner dream voice, not hers… she invades it, invades my boats, and my cars in these places far too much for someone i haven’t seen in nearly a decade. a decade of thinking about her at least once per day, (something always triggers a thought of her) i think i allow her a way in there. as much as it’s torturous now, i need her there where everything is pleasant and warm, sometimes neon, most times no presidents at all…. but invariably as i navigate the world of dreams, she materializes and i am comforted there, i can feel her hand on mine, and i can even sometimes smell her, she never smiles as i never really see her face, but i know how it felt when she was around, and i am in the presence of my dream-her…

Not certain if i will ever be free of this, or if i ever Want that. i do know that when i am dreaming She is welcome, and as seen earlier even sought out… but in the waking world she is not sought out, desired, or loved by me except perhaps in a dreamy way, or some strange connection i must have to there, to the surreal past that once was an Us.

Published in: on January 17, 2012 at 12:42 pm  Leave a Comment  

‘Twas the night of gonzo-nostalgia….

and suddenly there i was chatting with Phree Punch like we never had lost contact… cyclical life can be, and strangely, we both needed to get into a gonzo space once again… inspiration for me comes in the nick of time always, usually when im discouraged, and sets me forth on more adventures, fun and wacky tangents than i have the time to type. i liken it to a still pond of water, and Phree was the stone that started the ripple effect, helped me ride that wave, leads to others, namely my friend “MENuts” and his bro contributing to the silly stuff i do… we might as well be creative while we are sitting around. my path is never a direct one, the sights and sounds and smells, and the randomness of it all i love. if i get directions to the place, i am more than likely going to veer off, and see whats over there, behind that, beyond this… cuz there’s treasure to behold, mysteries to never solve, but wonder…. Wonder that is my friend.

Published in: on January 12, 2012 at 12:47 am  Comments (4)  

a beach, sometimes the edge of a continent… sometimes a path…..


Published in: on January 8, 2012 at 11:51 pm  Leave a Comment  

…lost in the mounds….

Typed influenced by coffee, and loss, and

and ocean thundering away

about 250 yards


my left…

The flamingo ages, rages, and doesn’t give up on the pages that sit in an acid proof shed… a place of storage, a place o mold, and unfinished business. A tiny structure free from technology any more advanced than a plow made of stone. A place to know. The tree of catharsis… you know you needed that axe, and those arms to swing it Iris… you needed a moment to be violent.. and the pine, it never complains. The waves are higher than ever now like salty wet and cold flames erodin me, like an ethereal loofa that scrubs ones soul away bit by bit, rinsing it into some random oblivion…

Just wanted to explore a bit, never meant to follow the pit to that particular low point, or that moment of having absolutely nothing to look forward to, nothing to blame anymore, and the loss of even the will to grin at the irony that I had really fucked myself this time… the one leg that had supported my feathery leathery pink frame was quivering now, caffeinated, and scaly, pink faded, not enough shrimp to much Caveperson….

The conscious stream became polluted with a delusion thicker than the accent of the Hungarian with cotton mouth and half a tongue…

A well, full of this nearly tangible hurt, that feels like a rope in the throat, a terrible pain, beautiful and universal ( my my I hope someone feels like that at some point) alive, Corrigan said it well. Freely, no plan, no beginning, no agenda, with roaring in the ears that comes from fevers, of course you don’t want to be from “Russia” you think that it is a bad word over here… not in these ears, for they were selective thru the cold war, or the last several seconds of that imagined state… still believe that threee to five people or families control everything about everything? No, they cannot control the radiance of the sun, the purpose of every gun and the lives of everyone… its so sad, such a twisted pitiful and hopeless outlook, you deserve better ol friend, what happened? I know it was rough, things I can only pretend to empathize with mustve driven that black heart home, lodged in the persistent pessimism that unshakeable will to remain depressed….you can have it, im getting out, im a free… i stand on one leg…

Ms. Stanley, I presume?

Then its back to her, I bit her on the back, not to bleed but to let me go… its my path into that abyss, here is your lanyard, here is your parachute, I don’t want one… I must see what happens when my own thud reverberates thru this glass prison and out into what is left of this mess we float around in…
not your fault Iris, not my fight, nor my place to fix you… for you aren’t broken you are flat now… and I cant decide if I would care, even if could still see you loving anything besides what you Have to… if that’s all you can love, tis better than nothing, tis better than me, and that bite on the back… don’t take it personally…


Cram and that night of Avril LaMean, then just let go…

Published in: on December 26, 2011 at 11:09 pm  Leave a Comment  

Conan Sugarsmak standing on one leg again?

1994. One to many caffeinated nights, one to few colleges applied for. Thus began my trip into the culture of “zines”, underground culture, and things with a diy, artistic, or eccentric bent. There is no telling which mainstream magazine led into my mailing of images and stream of consciousness “stories” to virtual strangers,  most likely one called “Hypno”… Either way my adventure took me all over the country, to concerts, art galleries, on road trips, and in envelopes full of goodies created by the wonderful folks I met for a moment of time, and a postage stamp.  Its not an easy thing to describe to most people what all this was about; to me it was learning, meeting interesting folks, and discovering that I wasn’t alone as an oddball, or one willing to be creative and silly, just for the sake of that alone. Meeting  others who were having fun making art, or publishing media that wasn’t being spewed from the smokestacks and warehouses of yet another giant corporation was a beautiful thing. The excitement of getting a manila envelope from one of the many geniuses i met was only a tiny part of a whole society, nearly secret, or secret enough for me… because one just didn’t find a fLatter!, or a Chuck, or even the always insane and hilarious babysue sitting next  to a Cosmo, or an Enquirer…   In the small town I hail from there was no college to speak of, no centers of art, (unless you count cheesy pastel colored fiberglass Wahoos or Mackerels as “art”. (I suppose they are, but they are mostly a pricey decoration for a summer home…)  Then there is the factor that I as a young man could write to, and confide in folks a bit older and wiser gave me a sense of community, support and guidance I didn’t seek out from parents, (what 19-21 year old does that?)…. So here I sit, some 15-20 years later ready to jump back into that culture, knowing that many of my old friends, cohorts, and fellow “zinesters” must have moved on, but like during that time of seeking, I am excited about the possibilities and adventures that await!

Also, I was happy to find that others are having thoughts along the same vein (see link below), whether it be from nostalgia, or tying up some loose ends, either I for one am jumping wholeheartedly back into this… this Raging Flamingo, this silly little slice of life that is inspired not so much by the pink bird, but by mankind’s drive to profit off of Anything… even a long and lanky, crooknosed tropical bird… More to  come on what Raging Flamingo can and will stand for, (this is only limited by my imagination and my time).. but for now there  is an article on the RF front page  from a fellow” zinester” (ugh we need a better word!) that i never met that sums up my desire to explore “zines” once again….

cheers! conan sugarsmak aka (timdavis)

Published in: on February 25, 2011 at 2:18 pm  Leave a Comment  
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