Friday, October 20, 2017

Road from Ruin

by

Jaye B.















I have moved this blog to the following:

Road from Ruin

Most of the entries are password protected and
available only to gofundme donors.  But there are a few
posts available for all to read.


Please support independent creative people!
We all need your help.

Sincerely,

Jaye B.

***


Friday, September 22, 2017

Road from Ruin go fund me

by

Jaye B.



On January 9th, 2012 I found myself tent camping in Glendalough  state park when it was 10 degrees above zero. The house I  had lived in for over eight years got gobbled up by Bank of America in a foreclosure that never should have happened.  Sitting by a camp fire trying to warm up, I had to figure out where I could go next.   Then I received a timely call from a very wealthy woman .  She wanted me to write a book on her hot springs resort!  Without hesitation I broke down camp and braved it across the wintry plains feeling a bit more hopeful. Three days later, I arrived at her luxurious resort in southern Idaho and soaked in the springs, wondering where she was. 

She told me I could not stay there when I finally ran into her a few days later. She handed me $100.00 and told me to get my hair cut and go work at a McDonalds.  Then I found out why she dismissed me in such bomb drop fashion and this is where the Road from Ruin story really begins.

For the last four years I have chronicled experiences such as these and the evocative, unpredictable characters met along the way: from mountain top multi-millionaires in the Emerald Triangle of California to the wretchedly poor trying to survive in hot desert washes in Arizona.  Many bared their souls to me in impromptu and poetic ways during my travels-about how they too were taken advantage of by uncaring individuals and left on their own to fend for themselves.

Currently I am compiling more material for the Road from Ruin travelogue and will use the funds generated from this gofundme campaign to get it  properly edited, formatted, published and then promoted to a broader audience than I was able to do so on my blog.  

I have the media connections to do so having discussed my work on  CBC Radio Canada, KAEP The Peak 105.7 FM, KSCO AM 1080 Santa Cruz, Mad Max Morning Show 107.1 FM, Dave Wilson Show WIBC 93.1, The Planet 93.3 FM, Red 106.1 FM Ireland, Spin 1038 FM Ireland,WGN Radio Chicago, WCKG FM Chicago, BBC London, Capitol Radio London, WLW Cincinnati, WZEE FM, KSCO AM 1080, New Rock 93.3 FM and other radio programs around the world.

It truly is a unique story that I want to share and would make a most compelling movie or t.v. series.

Your contribution to this campaign will be much appreciated at present for the Road from Ruin travelogue focuses primarily on the loss of compassion and empathy in our world and how indifferent many are towards the suffering of others struggling to break free of poverty and neglect. The book will surely inspire those who read it to do what they can to help others less fortunate than themselves and how important it is to do so in these trying times.

I am a writer, musician and artist. My feature articles, art criticism, reviews and interviews have appeared in City Pages, Twin Cities Reader, Mysteries Magazine, Fahrenheit San Diego, High Plains Reader, New Dawn, Rain Taxi and elsewhere. 

Thank you so much for your timely help!  To donate, please go to:  

https://www.gofundme.com/roadfromruin


Sincerely,

Jaye B.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

I Will Behave

by

Jaye B.





A friend once asked me if I could help move his stuff from a house in Libertyville, Il. to an apartment he was renting somewhere on the North Shore.  My parents had a station wagon, so I agreed to pitch in.

After about an hour, there was one item left in the upstairs bedroom to move. A dresser of which we both pulled away from the wall.  John discovered a piece of paper on the floor near the baseboard, covered with dust and cobwebs.  He got on his knees, picked it up and blew it clean. I couldn't help but read, standing over his shoulder, something scrawled on wide ruled, elementary school paper:







"Scott."  John said, barely audible and crumpled up the note.

Some kids had teased his brother about his hair in Jr. High.   But all that is vivid really is me standing behind John, unable to say anything at all. I just stared at the paper in his hands, reading the lines. 

There was nothing to move out of the basement where Scott had hung himself, so we left. 
To this day, the kid's spidery, punishment handwriting remains pencil clear in my memory.  The ruled paper too.

And his age: 13.

 I'm tempted to Google Satellite the house I helped my friend move out of over forty years ago.  Maybe it would give me a sense of what really happened. But I have forgotten the address and all the houses blend together in that particular sub-division as they do elsewhere when looked at from an aerial perspective.

***

Please help Jaye make his Road from Ruin book a reality:

https://www.gofundme.com/roadfromruin

Thank you!

(C)2015-Jaye B.













Sunday, August 24, 2014

I Am (Not) Doing Well

by

Jaye B.

















For the last 2.5 years I've been dutifully beginning each and every journal entry, upon awakening, with:


I am doing well. I am strong, healthy, happy, harmonious, prosperous and successful.
Why? Because the sub- conscious mind takes everything we say, think and write literally and responds accordingly. So says the book The Power of Your Subconscious Mind by Joseph Murphy-which is pretty much the cornerstone of the 'Law of Attraction' phenomena currently en vogue around the world. After reading the thing, I thought I'd give it a try, considering the nihilistic tone of many of my previous journal entries over the last thirty years or so and the persistence of bad things in my life.

One day however, as I was writing the above for the 900th time or thereabouts, something in me caused me to jam my pen into the paper, press down as hard as I could and tear several pages into shreds. I was not well that day or harmonious or feeling all too successful or prosperous.

Staring at the shredded pages in my hands, I couldn't help but think of Yazidi refugees being buried alive or Palestinian children's lives destroyed by a bomb hurled into one of their schools or babies in Iraq deformed by depleted uranium. Or Fukushima and the en masse death of the Pacific ocean. Ferguson Missouri boiled over into my awareness as well and the total gutting of our constitution. A psychopathic lawyer who screwed me out of money in 2013 after I saved his life also came to mind. I had forgiven him and let go of it but he was taking advantage of other people I heard through the grape vine after he got out of the hospital. Why I bothered to save his life, I'll never know. But maybe my sub-conscious does and hasn't told me yet. Nor has all the positive thinking I've done changed my personal reality of being exploited by some rather bloodless people who I will forgive eventually.  I tossed the journal into the trash and still have not rescued it even with a pending dump run this week.

The subconscious may take things literally and respond accordingly-but what about the so called ' collective unconscious' as that crypto-fascist occultist Carl Jung called it after he concocted it? If  the CU at all exists, it seems to be retaliating against the very idealism behind positive thinking by making our world a very horrible place in attempts to wake us up to the blindness that said delusional idealism causes. I wonder what the collective unconscious of  our world thought when I burned my entire library of Jung books in the backyard back in Minnesota, in a leaf burner I borrowed from my redneck neighbor prior to the house foreclosure. I simply could not individuate any more.

August 22nd: I am dissociated and angry and frustrated beyond measure and at a total loss at what to do. I do my best not to harden my heart and not care in order to cope. Should I swallow some spiritual Prozac?Or maybe some real Prozac?  Start drinking again? Listen to the fascist loving Dalai Lama giggle so deceptively while he kotows to neo-Nazis and is funneled millions of dollars from the CIA?

I wonder how my subconscious mind takes this-for it true and I'm not lying. What is your response sub conscious mind?

 It answers via a very real pain in my heart. I have already made a doctor appointment. It's that bad. My fingernails are white and my left arm tingles. I must acknowledge this pain and not deny it via some poisonous idealism or by anticipating some upcoming astrological alignment or ascension assistance by the Luciferic evil that poses as Ashtar Command, The Great White Brotherhood, Nesara and other assorted cryptic bullshit.

The human psyche is rife with paradox, contradictions, indelible dualism and the like. When we focus too much on what is 'positive' it causes what Freud called 'The return of the repressed.' and the return can be utterly ferocious and savage as evidenced by what is playing out on the world stage and in our personal lives. Hearts are indeed hardening and waxing cold.

Oddly or not, I have benefited from some of the techniques in the book such as when I forget something. I say: Subconscious mind, please help me recall what I have forgotten. And sure enough what had been 'lost' surfaces in my mind when I least expect it. I then make sure to thank the sub-conscious mind. It has worked with forgotten dreams as well. The affirmations seem to have done relative wonders, for the most part for my health and well being and depression until existential reality broadsides me time and time again and I take the plunge.

August 23rd: I am doing horribly today. I am not well.My blood pressure is up. Stage three. 180/120.

If I wrote otherwise that morning, I would have been lying. Fortunately, I'm a bit better on this the 24th but I still could not start my new journal with another: I am doing well.....

What will I write in my journal tomorrow? Hard to call it now. A 6.1 earthquake to the south has me a bit worried and whether or not the West Coast is getting fried from radiation.  At present I'm resorting to making drawings in red ink of a knife going through a heart in a sketchbook. The one that the pretty young girl made a Flower of Life drawing in:

http://roadruin.blogspot.com/2014/03/california-portraitures-flower-of-life.html


And what to do with Murphy's book. Should I burn it too?

Sub-conscious mind, I'm waiting for the answer.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Sunday, May 25, 2014

A Major 7th Eulogy

by

Jaye Beldo




I never attended the funeral of my brother Jim as I found out second hand that he had passed on in 2010. An unknown woman, apparently a friend, spread his ashes somewhere on a lake in Northern Minnesota.

All I have are sparse memories to go on to complete the picture.  One photo I recall revealed a time in his life when he played in Doo Wop bands back in the 50's, wearing the requisite shiny suit and tie. He didn't look to happy posing for the pics.

He once told me that he handed a fellow named Robert Zimmerman an electric guitar in Dinkytown in Minneapolis and that the soon to be famous bard told him that it was the first time he ever played one.
 
A net search of my brother's name has turned up You Tube videos posted by a fellow musician. He never told me about any of these recording gigs:

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KHZQMpvjX4

The most vivid recollections of my brother are his coming home from time to time after touring with various bands-mostly in the Chicago land area back in the 70's. I'd beg him to show me lounge licks and he would pull his guitar out of a battered case and demonstrate them with great reluctance.  "Cocktail chords." He'd call them with a tinge of bitterness, mostly Major 7ths and the like.  His guitar playing was brilliant in that he could listen to a song and then perform  it instantly in nearly any style. He'd always mock what he was playing too, especially Country Western which he hated. He would perform 'I Walk the Line' in such a manner and would alienate quite a few listeners this way. Truly an inspiration for my own satirical songs.

Lady Luck wasn't on Jimmy's side very often.  I recall the two of us on the Balmoral golf course  in west central Minnesota over thirty years ago one summer day. He attempted an approach shot on one hole, but the golf ball sailed through a tree. A bird then fell from a branch and near the pin, D.O.A. The ball somehow rolled onto the green afterward, adding even more irony to the situation. My brother dropped his golf club on the fairway and covered his face. I felt so helpless as it pretty much summed up his hard life. I can't remember if he made a birdie or not on that hole.

The closest I ever felt to Jim was when the two of us were in a rowboat fishing and a pair of Loons approached us, both diving under the boat and coming up on the other side, then circling us several times before paddling off. They were so close we could see their brilliant ruby eyes. 

 Such is my tragically sparse and very belated eulogy on this Memorial day weekend. I love you so much dear brother and hope you're playing in a bandstand in heaven where Major 7ths are forever banned. Johnny Cash too.



Jim's final resting place.





(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Saturday, February 4, 2012

The Road from Ruin: Part VI

by

Jaye Beldo




Aura Soma Lava



My hot springs host missed out on some truculent witticisms I penned while soaking. They were intended to supplement  the prospective project she wanted me to work on and which I snidely titled : Book of the Elixir.  Yet, if I had stayed any longer to share my cornucopia of elixir insights with her,  I'd have been rendered neo-natal, like the guy she endowed with her brand new Mini-Humvee, a bit of Mormon nepotism from what I could read of the situation. Somethng Mitt Romney would approve of no doubt, in an expectant kind of way.  I wouldn't even put it past her to flaunt her stagecraft philanthropy by supplying a virgin polygamist with a dozen blow up dolls and a chapel to marry  them in, air cushion wives adorned in day-glo spandex prairie dresses and bonnets.


While cooling off from the 111 degree water, I continued to pray the blood of Jesus over the labyrinth near the river, one once travailed by lesbian Buddhists, envisioning the terra cotta gargoyles in the center smashing to shards, later to be plucked up in a distant epoch by forlorn archaeologists. 






The vision I had of the cellulite donut encircling Evita's waist instantly disappearing in the alchemical springs, is something else I withheld, after she gave me her tough love marching orders. Not that I'm a selfish visionary, I just thought it might offend her, considering she once claimed she was a poster girl for some holistic diet program she was on, but permanently stuck in the 'before' photo from what I could gather.

Also penned in my journal was a lofty epitaph, replete with directions to all the booze bottles hidden throughout her property, like the very terma the Tibetan's looked for in unexplored Himalayan mountain caves, beckoning to be discovered by wannabe lamas. It would have been futile however, the blue ruin secret known by all throughout the savage gossip town.  

"You like misery." She stated at the restaurant as a part of her damage control and her declarative statement still echoes resoundly in my cranium nearly two weeks later.

"Is that why I'm sitting here with you?"  I should have responded but I hesitated too long. She was already grilling me as to what spiritual experiences I had while in the hot springs, then told me that said experiences were sufficient enough to cover my gas, food and lodging costs en route to her resort.


Now, here in the desert expanse of Arizona,  I can more adequately reflect on the eviction. Chalk the Flower Child harridan up as another human potential movement casualty? A cemetery en par with Arlington awaits at Esalen for such ilk.  I should have patronized more suavely, divining all the wrinkles in her desert weathered visage, interpreting them as some kind of sign of a golden age emergence her resort customers could bask in, even after she jacked up the room and massage rates. Or perhaps some varicose prophecy could have poured from my lips that would have turned the tables to my favor and I'd be the one scooting around in a Mini-Humvee, with a dozen inflatable wives to boot.

(C)2012-Jaye Beldo

Thursday, February 2, 2012

The Road from Ruin: Part V

by
Jaye Beldo




We heard the blast while sitting at the kitchen table. One of the kids emerged from the garage, clutching his head. The previous night I had warned he and his brother that the seals probably wouldn't hold but that did't stop them. The two young ladies sitting near the workbench constantly eyeing the duo as they sawed the PVC may have been the reason for them bumptiously venturing forth with their ballistic project.

"The older you get, the more you think about the consequences of your actions." I sage imparted to the younger brother when he showed me all the drunken driving dents in the car, proud like a tribal warrior is of his initiatory facial scars.

"That's what alchohol is for." He sneered and then ventured to brag about taking on a high school football player at a party and ending up beaten unconscious in a cacti ridden wash the previous fourth of July.  

"The ringing isn't stopping." The blast victim said, walking in circles, ears still cupped in his hands, one of his eyes swollen shut. His brother showed me the chillingly deep dent the pipe cap made in his car door. It had pneumatically richocheted several hundred feet across the street. 

A reluctant parent phone call to California to check up on insurance coverage as an ER visit seemed inevitable revealed that there was none for the imperiled lad.  My friend started doing energy work on him. Intermittant doses of homeopathic Arnica and Ledum Palustre seemed to calm him down even more and he was able to get off the massage table and walk around with more stability after she did some accu-pressure points.

Maybe it was all the Homeland Security amidst the wrought iron crucifixes and framed and quilted bible quotes adorning the stucco walls throughout the home that made the family photos dispersed throughout the palatial spread seem so patently sad and lacking.  There were even door monitors that registered the quota of openings and closings that the parents could check on their computers from their luxury digs four hours away.  One would assume that such monitoring constriction would be anomalous amidst the peaceful, expansive desert views of the Mojave mountains beyond the swimming pool out back here. Sadly,the infiltraton of domestic reconaissance apparently has become commonplace amongst the rich, a policing that has infiltrated into the intricate matrices of familly relationships in very insidious and undermining ways.  None of it however managed to hamper the full bore partying in the absent dad's man cave that weekend though, 80 proof debauchery censored via electrician's tape plastered over the camera lens according to the brothers who pleaded with us not to tell.

The blast victim, his sad silhoutte crowned by a shadow of palm fronds outside the sliding door,  blurted in subdued fashion:  "I doubt my mother even loves me." The spud gun memento mori having unmoored this confession deep from his heart somehow. One locked in for a very long time considering how pained, remote and removed his words sounded to us prior to him leaving for home later that day.

(C)2012-Jaye Beldo