Jeff Glovsky (Words Bye)

"I feel so old.  I wish I was mold!"

- Little Greg (age 10)

Having just "celebrated" -- endured, really -- the one-year-shy-of-my-Big-5-0 day -- my 49th, to be exact -- and presented with the painfully script-titled, "Massacre at San Bernardino" that day... on my day, December 2nd, to live now in infamy...

And after a few months of silence, occasionally suffering, wondering what the continued point is?  My sad whims and heroes, repulsions and rages, important to no one; my caustics, obnoxious ... my poems, increasingly best expressed wordless...

I've decided to end here, "The Fall of Jeff Glovsky".

It was more than five years ago things fell apart ... I've spent almost three now, undoing some damage...

One learns by (un)doing.  One burns to move on.

For anyone reading -- or Googling and looking, then 'stumbling upon' -- my cozy, empty nest in the blogosphere, Thank You.

For reading.

I'll write again soon.

"Done”, ©Jeff Glovsky

* *

Intent, Purpose

In the flurry of world Angst which has defined the past weeks, it's occurred to me, I've gone about as far as I can go here.

With this blog, and these posts, I've said just about all I have to say, and have more or less achieved my goals setting out:  to right the wrongs done to my personal name; my business, but also personal reputation ... I've at least had my say, my quarrelsome days, in the kangaroo court of public opinion.

There's no need left to slag off the lawyer's wife, whose husband, in a rambling, epithet-filled, late night SCREAMFEST, using his law firm's email account, attacked me ... offended, insulted, abused, accused, swore ... because he (WRONGLY) decided he was "scammed" by me;

there is no longer any need to chide the clueless, sometimes mental, entitled-feeling, when they're demanding rental "discounts" or expecting "deals" ... or making threats to me, because they destroy or make filthy a piece of my property, yet somehow don't think they ought to pay for anything!

No more need to waste time ... There are nasty assholes on this planet.  At times, I am one of them.  No one cares, and in the Big Picture, why bother arguing?

There are much more important things to address, fight and stress over ... Messes requiring insights beyond my largely unread blog of personal grievances (received or given), or remembrances only half-heartedly "shared".

I've come to the end of my intent and purpose with "The Fall of Jeff Glovsky"; for all intents and purposes, nearing the ...

 

October Song

"To most men the past is never yesterday, or five minutes ago, but distant, misty epochs some of which are glorious and others abominable." - Henry Miller

"Excuse me!" he whirled, on the airplane in flight, to the fat woman sitting behind him and armed to the teeth with a duty-free magazine.

The woman had rolled up that weapon and clocked him over the head with it ... because he'd had the temerity, in flight, to recline his seat into her overweight lap.

"Excuse me!" he whirled ... and the woman played dumb, trying proudly to play like she hadn't just done that.

I wonder where those two are right now?

I think of the 'ones who got away' sometimes ... those fleeting passengers through my life, who wouldn't have reason to think of me, but nonetheless made their impressions felt and registered on my akasha.

I think of the 'ones who got away' ... From the roadside café in Pennsylvania, that angry, long-legged bird with ripe plumage ... I spied her storming, arms crossed, smoking, stomping down the roadside, carless ...

Left my café booth to ride her.

Many years later, this hotel AV gig ... The "V" guy (I was doing "A") raced sloppily through his post-show chores, because, as he put it, "the wife" promised him "a little fun" if he managed to get home early that day.

I cried at the innocent beauty of life ... then went home to my own wife and "fun" of our own, as we fought about money and tore down our scene.

Growing up, on a ship, northern Michigan waters ... My little baseball cap blew off.  A fair-haired, red-nosed Minnesotan joined me hanging over the railing, waving my baseball cap bye-bye.  Her name was Dawn, that's all I know ...

I wonder where Dawn rises now?

Little League, early effort at teamwork ... I whacked that baseball almost out of the park.  Watched it sail, like Icarus, into the sun.  Then I chased it ... past first base and into the outfield.

No one told me where to run!  No one told me what to do when I hit it ... I had a coach (and had a dad ... but Dad cared as little about sports back then as I do now, if that's possible (and if not less) ... My dad can't be faulted.

... I guess.).

I asked the coach which way to run ... What to do, if I ever hit a baseball.  Not believing, dismissing my foolish question -- because in Coach's athletically fit, trim mind, it couldn't be anything but foolishness -- he answered my dumb, yet sincere, ask with sarcasm.

"See that scoreboard?" he chewed and spit, and smiled sort of shittily.  "Ya run out there, climb up that fence and touch it!  Then run back to the dugout when you hit the ball."

He said that.  I did it.

... My dad watched, his heart sinking faster with each step my cleated feet took, charging and high-stepping out toward that scoreboard ... racing the ball I just whacked toward the sky.

I wonder whatever became of that coach guy?

With every year that passes by, the incidents, visages, in my mind's eye grow clearer, taking on lives of their own as my own life counts down toward an inevitable 9th inning ... beginning now, slowly, to stretch toward the 7th ...

I look back, slow motion sometimes, sometimes smiling, and think of the ones who got away.

"The Memory", ©Jeff Glovsky

A Year in Review

If you've searched me by name ... chances are you've wound up here. - Jeff Glovsky, "What's in a Name?", June 26th, 2013

Sometimes when I wake, sometimes in the dead of night, I ask myself, "Am I better off now than I was last year?"

This has been going on for decades.

I remember turning twenty, and bemoaning the fact that my teen years were behind me ... literally feeling "old".  At twenty!  But asking myself then, as I toiled backstage at a Rhode Island summer theater, Am I better off now than I was the previous summer, lifeguarding at a camp in the Berkshires ... sleeping with insects and rocking an orange tan?

Though the jury in my head is still out on that one ... I will say that the summer I spent doing theater nonsense did introduce me, through a production of Duke Ellington's Sophisticated Ladies, to a lifelong significant other in jazz.  Oh, would that I could play something!  The day (or night) I wake up and think to myself, Last year, I couldn't play an instrument ... is the day I'll relax, maybe stop assessing.

Or when it no longer needs to be a question.  When the current of my life, and each 365 days prior, in particular, are clearly moving forward, and not laterally (or back!) -- so I don't need to ask myself, "Am I better off now than I was last year?" --

Then I'll have achieved something.

In the meantime, I'll just keep obsessing ...

Last year, in 2013, I finally woke up from a 3-year coma.  In 2010, my name and reputation were destroyed ... maliciously, I'll maintain.  Needlessly.  Prematurely.  Criminally; for defamation -- calumny, vilification, traducement, libel, blasphemous slander -- is a crime.  If I'd known then how to protect myself from it happening ... with just the press of an "Enter" key:  with NO form of outreach, fact-checking or "rebuttal" offered until AFTER the damages already get done ... I would not have kept silent, shell-shocked from the bullying ... comatose, bent over and raped for three years.

I would not have played dead, "hiding" in plain sight, while my name and reputation, friends and lovers, innocent family members suffered, then became destroyed and flat-lined like I pretended to ...

No, I would've risen and fought back, then.

In 2013, I started fighting back now.  Enough became more than enough, and to all the bandwagon jumpers, lazy strangers, simple googlers, problem tenants and out and out troublemakers who think asshole behaviors are somehow justified ... despite never even meeting me, let alone knowing what the situation may have been in 2010, and what you're talking about when you add insult to injury; when you reject, refuse, deny and/or extort out of hand, 'cause you think you can ...

"WANTED" ... Really?

Fuck you.  That's all I have to say to you, still.  Can't express myself differently than I've already done here, and here and here and here, over the past year ... Even flailing, coming close to admitting defeat, I am resolved to keep fighting, providing some balance.

... There are others, though.  Those of you who know me, and have known me, for many years.  Have done business with me, again and again.  Have entered into new business ... Have worked with me at Tier 1 financial institutions (where, obviously, I never would be if I were a "lifetime criminal and scam artist!" END QUOTE).

There are those of you who have chosen to be / stay connected ... Have rented apartments I own without incident, have swapped apartments, wholly and mutually on trust.

There are website owners who are not extortionate; there are people of reason, who have recognized the foulness and long-lasting damages of a false and defamatory online attack, and taken steps to help me restore my name - the name "Jeff Glovsky".

To all of you, I say Thank you.  Though to be honest, I shouldn't need to run around thanking people (however sincerely appreciated they may be) ... for doing their jobs, or not publicly defaming me!  To paraphrase Chris Rock, that's what's SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!!

If you're on the fence through all this, or have no idea what to think ... after all, you don't know me.  Why should you think anything?  You've only 'stumbledupon' this post and might think I'm some wack job -- assuming you've even read this far --

I invite you to know me ...

The 'real' Jeff Glovsky

* * *

It's ME(dium), Fuckers

photo(s) by Jglo

Some might argue that it's hubristic to write in the first-person.

I (me, myself and ... ) disagree.

What I would argue is that the first-person, as a narrative form, should be retired.  This would limit, if not eliminate, all the p(r)osers, pretenders and Starbucks dreamers who "share" themselves like drunken cheerleaders.  Before them, of course -- this Facebook, cut and paste, "open-source" crowd -- there were the older siblings ... also scribbling, pos(t)ing dreamily, into Barnes & Noble "journals" the size of granny panties ... or contributing to Fray.

To me, it was this wave that killed the first-person ... although I completely missed this wave.  While struggling to keep jobs and apartments back then, and a marriage more or less intact, with regrets and recalcitrance rearing up on determined hind legs at every turn -- plus an afraid, douche-y dilettantism which sidelines and holds me at bay, to this day -- I avoided the fray.

Instead, I declared the first-person "dead", and missed that whole boat!  Like telling the Beatles guitar groups are out, I turned myself down -- didn't bother to show up -- at countless auditions and opportunities ...

I was stupid.

I've always considered myself a writer ... Writing!  No more shitty gigs!  No odd job mental patient lot, no theater, theayter ... NOT!  I'm never gonna work again! 

... But when life interferes, when you're forced to make choices, it's easier to think those words than to be them.  Writing came easy ... The living, less so.

So in missing the first-person boat first-time round, I declared that I never cared to sail.

Then into this self-pity party, stepped Medium.  As an unfettered, unadorned platform for writing -- and for putting eyes upon (my) words -- there's at this moment, in my estimation, no equal.  Any genre -- save maybe the fevered erotics of (my!) especially wet dreams -- is game ... and automatically "accepted" for publication; i.e., published.

This is huge.

And with seemingly built-in SEO, Medium serves, for me, a dual purpose:  It gives me a chance to throw my own "I" into the ring (although fifteen years or so late to that game) ... and also affords me an audience of readers.

Type a little, bop and weave words, save and enter ... BOOM!

"Jeff Glovsky" is in your face!  And in your "reading list" - the 21st century equivalent of a humble, early (wet) dream of mine:  to see my name on a bookstore shelf.

As a Writer, exposure is all I need ...

So thanks, Readers.  Thank you, Collection Editors.  And thank you to Medium ... for giving me (myself, I ... ) a second chance.

Emergence . . .

"Emergence", ©Jeff Glovsky

Moods and Pieces

on Medium

Song Without Music

für Elise Claudia

My biggest regret in life -- apart from wishing I'd spelled "recognize" correctly in the 8th grade spelling bee ... I'd have taken State!!  To this day, I think about that brain fart moment when I dropped the g, and puttered out "r-e-c-o-n-i-z-e" ... and the judge then, pausing significantly, completely ignoring me, turning to my opponent and intoning, "Recognize?".

... My opponent remembering the goddamn g!  Spelling "recognize" CORRECTLY, and setting off my lifelong descent into failure.

"Needless to say, you failed" ... my driving instructor also intoned to me, several years later, as I dinged a parked car while parallel parking.  I didn't get my license that day, my first try, at sixteen, and my piss-poor, abyss-diving life drove downward ...

Brother Theodore on Letterman:  all angsty pangsty, acting like he just burped up from hell.  Dark chords were struck, a bond was born, his shtick of torment, mine as well ...

-- but where was I?  Failure ... Regret!

The (second) biggest regret of my life is that I can't play an instrument.  Bopping sub tactilely, digging "the" jazz, doesn't qualify me as a Soundcloud "creator".  House all piano-less, tuneless fingers ... notes and tones just heard, unplayed.  Oh, would I spoke the languages of nature (plants) and music!  I can only see and hear ... Appreciate.

But not create.

And then, that one who got away.  You know who you are (Claudia) ... You 'got' me, understsood my Drang, my Sturm, und stood beside me.  You, who laughed at my suggestions, my sad efforts at suggestiveness ... You laughing, tousled hair and bird-like visage, made my losing less ...

Could we have played things differently?  If I blew notes, instead of all that air when we togethered??

Would we each be part of One, still?  How I wonder where you went!

But I digress ...

The parking meter's hungry.  I can ill-afford another ticket ... Traipsing out to feed her and I trip upon my laces, sprung undone because the shoes are cheap, like a bed in a hostel instead of a suite.

It's raining, as I'm on the street ... Getting up 'cause a cop on his beat comes to greet me.  Otherwise, I'd die here ("lie" or "lay"?) and just forget you.  But I can't forget you, Claudia!  Feel you playing still, my instrument ... You taught me all the things I could've kept, to keep in time, you mine ... but me, I tuned them out, and we ...

Our concert's over.

Now I try my best to solo, but I can't create the music!

No, the biggest regret of my life -- beyond the lack of talent and the 8th grade spelling contest -- is that blue, I note our lost motif and recoGnize it won't repeat ...

The Voice

I can turn a phrase, I'll give me that.

Not to sound like a douche or anything ... but I like to think, as a writer, that I know what I've got.

I consider myself a writer first, a "blogger" dead last ... I'm not "sharing", I'm expressing ... in fact, I'm not a writer at all ...

I compose things:  build sentences.  Craft paragraphs ...

I'm a Writer.

As a "blogger", I'm just dead in the water.  Sunk in a sea of voiceless fish ... all glub-glubbing their lists, and their how-to primers ... their Do and Don't treatises ... nasty "reviews", insipid, rude rumors, provocation-less thoughts and, generally, woefully unfunny "humor" ...

As a writer, I've become inured ... learned to repel, to tune most of it out;

as a blogger, to thrive, stay afloat and alive in the dead sea of overwrought, voiceless fish ... you are compelled, to take it all in.

As a Writer ... I remain repellent.

Uncool, Uncalm ... Collected

All the Hits!

April Fool

All the Drama!

Wor(d)s in Progress!

Jeff Glovsky (dot) org

No Love for 'Kindness'

I recently posted a piece I wrote here, a weird German thing which I happen to like, on Medium.

On Medium, I submitted Freundlichkeit (Human) Kindness as "A Time and Place", to a number of seemingly appropriate collections, but so far it hasn't found a home.*  Another tl;dr orphan, full of too many words.

"I hate words"

"Words suck."

"I don't like stuff that sucks!"

The Unparallelled Wisdom of Beavis and Butthead

... Mere words, pooled unread around the ankles of a "friend"-poked teen  - not at all caring what I do, post or have to say!

They're out there, my words, though.  Because they can be.  Herking and idiosyncratic and jerking, and lurking like shadows in need of some light.

*UPDATE:  A Time and Place in 1000 Stories on Medium.  Thanks @torbahax.

Where It's @

Crying Wolf ...

medium.com/@JeffGlovsky