Rob Krabbe's Blog: From a Krabbe Desk, page 3

Just Because I’m Being Paranoid, Doesn’t Mean Everyone Isn’t Out to Get Me, and Other Summer Truths.

by Rob Krabbe, © 2012

I usually watch the morning news with my standard wassail bowl of coffee, and a hopeful spirit.  Today, the weather person’s contribution, of course, comes up as part of the telecast and yet is usually not so entangled with the regular news segment, but we are currently doomed to the globe lighting on fire any minute.  The Zombie Apocalypse is gaining ground on the “heartbeaters;” our children are all having sex and doing some new designer drug, and then the fine art and science of politics has become yesterday’s “used car sales,” where no matter what we hear from what party about what issue…well, it’s all a load of crap, and we’re generally just choosing between who makes the lie more palatable, or makes us feel better about ourselves after we set aside our disbelief knowingly.

In this light, I turned the news off before the opening music for Good Morning America, and took my coffee and my “almost attitude,” to the front porch for some reality checking come to Jesus moment.  I pray and meditate for a bit, and ended up really just listening to the world around me.  I sat there enjoying my coffee, in my rocking chair, far away from the world it seemed, at least the human world.  The non-human world, was alive and already doing it’s day.  I was listening to the morning happen, and I realized something I have realized far too many times and set aside.  The earth and all the creation’s non-human inhabitants, were really just ignoring our foolishness.  Even in areas where we have made the living more difficult with our “progress.”  A wonderful cool breeze, brushed over my skin lightly, cooling both my temperament and my body, preparing me for the wonderful life-giving warmth of the sun that would come; the fragrance of life and death, trees, flowers, things being born, withering, dying and being born again, filled my nostrils; hungry animals were eating smaller ones; the Kutzu vine was at work trying to drag my “groomed” yard back into the wilderness it is naturally.  There was beauty in both life and death all around me.  Yet none of it, none of the animals, none of the plants, trees, elements, none of it seemed the slightest bit concerned with the plans and schemes of mankind, or whether my day was busy or not.  Then I remember a lyric from Bob Dylon, a song called “When He Returns, from the album “Slow Train Coming” released in 1979:

Surrender your crown on this blood-stained ground, take off your mask

He sees your deeds, He knows your needs even before you ask

How long can you falsify and deny what is real?

How long can you hate yourself for the weakness you conceal?

Of every earthly plan that be known to man, He is unconcerned

He’s got plans of His own to set up His throne

When He returns

-Bob Dylan © 1979

And then once again, life seems set right by a Dylan song.  I know from interviews with him he hates being called the poet of a generation, but he has a simple wisdom.  Simplicity is the new complexity.

So today, with my wonderful cup of Dark Roast by Ugly Mug Coffee, and the momentarily cool breeze ahead of the 90 degree humidity coming today, the “air that you wear,” I reinforce in my heart and soul the reality that so much of what drives us, inspires decisions from us, and taints our every day lives, so much of what we live for, and sadly die for, keeps us awake at night, so much of what we fight about, and get angry about, or strive for, well so much of it really doesn’t matter so much, in light of eternity, and the greater blessings of this earth.  I adjust my head once again for a new simplicity, and text my daughter and invite them to bring my Grand child and come by to Sunday dinner.

I decide once again to try to live for what matters, and to keep a growing list of all that really doesn’t so much.

 

The Fading Silence

“The Fading Silence” from “The Jake Collins Band-The Fading Silence” by Rob Krabbe, a novel about endings and beginnings, an album, and the band that survived the end of the world, to be released late in 2012.

Close to the path

through the mind’s maze

the callous gaze

the sinners and the mockers.

Deep in the blinding darkness

You’re a dreamer,

let your dreams breathe,

Let your soul bleed,

cast your nets again.

Don’t be afraid of the fading silence

Just take the moment by the hand.

Don’t be afraid of the fading silence

Just take the moment by the hand.

Turn the volume up

Place your cup, upon the altar.

Burning bright, and filled full

with your heart still beating,

still wanting, desperately needing,

a way out of this long dark night

Hear the words

of the captive’s cries,

though the world’s lies

confusing misdirection.

Don’t be afraid of the fading silence

Just take the moment by the hand.

Don’t be afraid of the fading silence

Just take the moment by the hand.

Try to hide, the lonely one

And the sun, high, and bright,

trumps the plan to cast a shadow

hope that might have won.

Shake the dust, off your feet

Walk as fast, as you can

In the falling, cleansing rain

Pouring down, like a clear water stream

And in the healing of the wind

let your fears blow away.

Don’t be afraid of the fading silence

Just take the moment by the hand.

Don’t be afraid of the fading silence

Just take the moment by the hand.

End of Chapter Six from “The Jake Collins Band: the Fading Silence.”

An excerpt from Chapter six, by Rob Krabbe to be released summer 2012 in Hardback, Paperback and on eBook and Kindle, by NoonAtNight Publications.

. . . “You got to be crazy . . . do you know what it’s like to travel that far?  We may be going twenty, to thirty miles or we may be going hundreds of miles, or more.  I’m not stopping till I find her or die trying.”

“Chicago is a rotting corpse, we need to get out anyway.”

“There’s nothing outside of town but death, disease more death – you know that, you’ve heard the stories.  And who the hell is Bradley?”

“I have indeed heard the stories, and Bradley, he’s my son. He’s special, you’ll see, you’ll like him.  He has been here all along, watching us.  He takes care of me.”

“What do you mean special?   What are you saying?”

“He’s God’s gift to me, he’s a special boy.  Well he’s a man in age, but he’s sort of a child at heart, and a bit of a beast really.  He’ll protect us.  People used to call him horrible things like tard, stupid, or just plain murderously and psychopathically crazy, but that’s just ignorance.  Jake, listen carefully to me.  I want to tell you something important,” he leaned in towards Jake, “I know it’s over for this city.  Bradley and me, we need to be out of here too, a new start.  This is the right thing to do, and I think you could use the help, we can help each other. Bradley will come in handy too.  He can be very good in certain uh . . . circumstances.  He has some very special talents.”

“I need to move fast, I think Mara’s life depends on it.  You will only slow me down, no offense, but it’s true.  Besides, there’s something you’re not telling me.  What is it about Bradley?  And what changed, just a few days ago you told me you’d be the librarian till you died.”

“Being a librarian is a state of mind, don’t you ever forget it; Bradley, well Bradley is Bradley.  Trust me, you couldn’t possibly understand now, but having Bradley along triples your chances of not dying.  Me, I go on and on, talking too much, and Bradley, you won’t hardly know he’s with us. He has a certain economy of words and complexities; we won’t neither of us slow you down.  I am in much better shape than you think.  Besides you don’t have a choice in the matter, we have a bond you and I, a non-negotiable accord.  You owe me, and I’m collecting.”

Jake sat down on a box, and put his head in his hands and just sat for a moment trying to think.

The old man continued.

“You’ll like Bradley,” the old man added, “and, he already likes you.”

Jake sighed.  He knew when he was beat.  He had agreed, and a bond is a bond.  He owed the guy two favors.

“Well, Librarian, we need to get going and get there fast.  She is in danger, if she’s still alive.”

Peering from behind a door, hiding, watching and listening were a set of steel blue eyes just taking in the events of the day. They were trying to size up this stranger.  He knew he didn’t always understand social aspects of situations, but this was not so complicated. Someone, a young girl, was in trouble had been stolen by some bad men.  She was hurt and needed help.  That was enough, he hated when people hurt other smaller people; most everyone was smaller than Bradley. Plus his dad said they needed to help.  Bradley was already thinking of what supplies they would need, and weapons.   He looked back through the crack.  He did not know this man, this “Jake” but his dad seemed to trust him and that was enough for Bradley.  Bradley trusted his dad for the awkward social languages.  Bradley figured he wouldn’t kill Jake, but he wasn’t totally sure yet.

“This could be really fun.” Bradley said under his breath, as he silently closed the door and went about packing.  He had a very large grin on his face.  “Really, really fun.”

Eternity, South of Tinley Park

 

Sometimes rain,

Oft-times sun.

Pleasure and sadness,

wanting done.

Then from deep under,

Escape, and flight.

Soaring in shadows,

deep in the night.

Moonlight wisped fog

naked on the ground.

Ghosts and demons

and love making sounds

echo through the hills

from the house down the street.

Whispering. Pleading.

Taunting, complete.
South of Tinley park

under a tree,

I burst from a grave,

and I’m magically free.

Then at that moment

I drive inside; your love,

vulnerable, drowning

alive from above.

You succumb to the shattering

power of love,

and I lay back destroyed

‘cuz it’s never enough.

Feeling my lover

weeping beside me.

Destroyed, and like me,

tortured and lost.

Floating in a hungry sea.

Deep healing.

Love revealing.

Promised and sealed,

There’s no limit to forever,

But love’s never free.

 

The Deep Pocket Groove

© 2012 An excerpt from “The Jake Collins Band: The Fading Silence,”   by Rob Krabbe, to be released August 2012, from NoonAtNight Publications, LLC.

. . . The drum groove; the laser light show finale exploded into light waves dancing around the drums and drum cage.  Soon the bass guitar, played by Stone himself, rif’d in and joined the drums.  This next bit was where Jake’s band shined.  They were great showmen, but they were better at just being “kick-ass rockers,” as the last issue of Rock Magazine had said, “They share one heart beat.”

This kind of groove; a “kick ass deep pocket groove” of course a truly technical definition, was like loose big pockets in comfortable jeans.  Their music had been called “Zen Rock,” a term coined by a music critic named David Shimmer, who smoked way too much reef, but re-invented the band in the write up from the release party of the album that the JCB was touring now.

“The Murph” was then unleashed to lay down the guitar back-groove “crunch”, of the century. As he did, his cigarettes, one hanging smoldering from his lips, and the next-one-up tucked between his strings at the head of his guitar, the already massive rhythms became even fatter and deeper, drawing musical blood like a arterial gash.  It was a ball peen hammer to the chest.  A heartbeat had no choice but to adjust to the tempo of this groove.

It couldn’t have been a better hand off.  The band built the perfect foundation to the lyric.  Jake’s job, now, especially in the last encore, was to make love to the audience with the microphone as if each audience member was the only one in the room, and screaming for it.

He felt the need building . . . a sexual hunger, the need to let escape, the first words of this, his favorite song in the set.  It was no wonder that performing, when it was right, Jake described in sexual terms. He smiled, and allowed the rhythms being laid down to bring him to the place he wanted to be—and to bring the audience to the place he knew they needed to be.  The crowd held its breath, waiting for the first words.  Jake’s ability to transport an audience was already legendary. He helped them escape to a new world, if only for a moment.

Jake stepped up to the microphone, and looked at the faces in the first few rows. Then he closed his eyes and swayed a bit with the groove.

     For this moment, I know

     I can see it, in you

     That’s the place, we will go

     Until I

                 Scream in you

                 Cry in you

                 Die in you

                 FOREVER.

The audience was breathing in unison, short of breath, a few hundred close to the stage proscenium hyperventilating; Jake continued,

     From this moment, no will

You and I, then until

     Now’s the time we will go

     Until I

                 Lay you down

                 Hold my breath

            Live in you

            FOREVER.

 

Completely hypnotized; male, female; in unity.  No tragedy and no pain.  Free from life, fear, everything.  A moment away, from struggles and stresses, jobs and problems—every man, woman, child, brought falling into the soul of the song, the singer, and the chorus.

A thousand years

            Take my soul

     All my tears

            Make me whole

     All of me

            All my life

From this moment

From this moment

I know.

FOREVER.

An instrumental break came next, and a drum rif followed by a razor cutting guitar solo, ripping open the wounds and tearing away what was left of the defenses.  The guitar raked over the crowd, leaving them gasping.

Then came a crazy eternal tom run. Down from the high can,  traveling as if through a rack of a thousand toms, through the cross toms to the floor, leading to the moment unexpected to the audience: a planned explosion timed by a tech-sideman triggered by the cross-snare hit, this set off several massive pyro-techniques and lighting effects explosions.  At that very second, when the blast charges fired, blinding, deafening explosions, Drummer Dave’s cross snare against the rim of the giant brass snare-drum, a “rim shot” like a freaking cannon stopped all the hearts in the room.  It was ear splitting loud and amplified through the sound system, almost broke eardrums.  The explosives timed to the exact same moment, the lasers flashed, the “light cannons” aimed right at the audience fired, blinding the already deaf.  It took seven computers, on a trigger time code, working twenty banks of dozens of relays, all on split-second time, triggered by Dave’s rim shot, and a couple of 12 dollar an hour side techs hit the final cue – a complete sound and lighting black out at the very second of the explosions.

The lights . . . out.

The band . . . silent.

The Techs holding their breath for fear their breathing could be heard, in the middle of the pristine silence.  The full back engineer even shut off his board light, thinking he was being lit up like a Christmas Tree, and it might spoil the effect.   The kind of total effect and detail oriented planning that had given the band that extra something. Their crew was one of the best! Jake thought,  it all seemed to go perfectly.

That final drum crack . . . reverberating for what seemed an eternity, echoed through the amphitheater, out of the park and into the streets, bouncing off buildings, street signs, bill boards and echoing and ebbing for miles. The crowd’s collective gasp was audible throughout the amphitheater. The sheer drama of it was incredible.

Stunned, everyone held his or her breath, waiting for what was next.

Then something even more stunning happened, unexpected to everyone. Something so incredible, no one would have believed it was possible. While hearts thumped waiting, as if the world stopped turning; the deafening silence and wonderful darkness from that beautiful dramatic musical break, in that glorious song . . .

 

Stayed . . .

 

forever.

 

A Great Cup of Coffee . . .

I recommend few things, but this coffee is on the top of my list.

Ethiopia has given coffee to the world and now we give back to their farmers through Fair Trade Organic coffee. Enjoy the caramel taste of this medium dark roast and give Ethiopian workers a just wage.

Dark roast coffees offer a balance between a smokey dark roast and a lighter high caff

 

The dark roast adds a caramelized flavor with a smokey touch, yet it is not dark enough to lose the spicy characteristics of the individual bean. It is an exquisite and silky taste that goes well with cream or black. Tastes delicious with a raspberry or blackcurrant white chocolate scone.eine coffee.

Click here to purchase some of this or the many other coffees and teas the monks make!

How to Make the Best Coffee Ever!

Yes,

I have found a really cool coffee roaster.  Plus buying coffee from them, helps their charitable activities, and also we make a little coin on it too.

Let me say, right up front, I would never represent anything that I did not think was the best, so I don’t do much “representing.”  I am a coffee lover as anyone who knows me can attest, and I have been on a lifelong quest for a great coffee roaster, because I really have found that fresh roasted coffee is way better than any of the coffee you buy in stores or in retail coffee companies.

HOW TO MAKE THE BEST COFFEE EVER:

(following these rules of coffee, will help you enjoy the best coffee possible).

1)     Use fresh roasted whole bean coffee, do not buy coffee pre-ground but grind it only as you intend to use it.

2)     Use a Bur style grinder.  Not the less expensive blade grinder, if possible.  The blade grinders heat up the beans prematurely and leave less robust flavor and can make the resulting coffee a tiny bit more bitter.

3)     Buy FRESH roasted coffee beans, roasted to the darkness that fits your taste, from a company that ships its coffee fresh roasted.  The fresher the better.

4)     Order only what you will use in a couple weeks, and then order again instead of ordering enough to last a month or more.  Coffee has a shelf life once roasted.  Most coffee you buy in the store is already far past that shelf life by the time it even arrives at the store.

5)     Use only filtered, or pure cold water for pressing or brewing coffee.

6)     Coffee drip makers are good.  Or old school percolators.  And believe me different coffee makers taste different.  I have tried many, and it is a “taste subjective” thing.

And finally, the final set of tips for the best cup of coffee ever.

Click on the Mystic Monk Coffee link/graphic, they are the best roasters I have found.  Order a nice dark roasted, or medium roasted bean, shipping fresh to you.  Use a bur grinder, and grind the amount you need to make one pot – and grind them to a coarse even grind for using with a coffee press. (grind will vary for other coffee makers).

Instructions for using a french press: I brew with a “coffee press,” because this is just, simply, the best and sweetest way to make coffee, old school great coffee. It is less bitter, more robust and will amaze you. Use filtered water, and heat the water to 195 degrees.  Not hotter, and not colder.  195 degrees! and then using your coffee press, stirring twice during the steeping, Steep for 4.5 minutes, not more and not less, and then press the coffee, and enjoy black, or with cream and sweetener of choice. This method will give you the coffee experience of a life time, and you can enjoy it every time.

The simple pleasures in life that matter most.  A blessing from God himself for those who are God believers, and if you are not a God believer, you may well believe in God after tasting such good coffee, a blessing that only a superior being could provide: a really well roasted and brewed cup of coffee!

P.S.  Mystic Monks have a gift shop on line as well, and also make some of the world’s best tea, for you non-coffee drinkers.  In the gift shop are recording of the monk’s themselves in great chanting form too.  A relaxing experience, listening to beautiful chants by the monks.

 

Silent Tears From The Corner

by Rob Krabbe 1998

The rose,

soft and sweet,

it’s silk pedals crest,

the wings of my flight

from the nest,

dark and fallow.

The flight,

disguised as freedom.

the end of my dreams,

the sands fall to sand

though the light seems

far from coming.

The sand,

brooding, smothers

the tailings of life,

the moment of judgment,

and the just, fight

the slings of darkness.

The stone,

whipped, guilty, fast,

through the bone of my head,

dividing the beat of my heart

and spread the silence,

final and welcome.

My heart,

cooled down and quiet,

lay down like a virgin,

hopeful for wonder and love,

purged in, the kindle of pain,

blood and endings.

The love,

nurtured, it’s bounty

swings from the rope,

like a king’s feast,

before royalty and slave,

watching and hearing,

keeping and failing,

silent and burning,

deaths arrows sailing,

silent tears from the corner

of my deepest

darkest

grave.

Please Make it Stop!

© 2001 by Rob Krabbe, and Noon At Night Publications 

There are many poems, written in the midst of the darkness and the madness.  I’m never sure whether to post them.  But they are real, maybe more real than about anything else I write.  This poem, written in 2001, and others like it, when I read them now sometimes surprise me, give me a feeling of a dark nostalgia.  I don’t go to places like this very often any more, thank God.  I don’t remember writing this one, but I remember more, being in this place for what seemed like eternity each time.  And what seems like a very, very long time ago.   

Warning:  some adult language.

Gibberish, gibberish, makes

no slamming sense.

The words are come.

The words are go.

The patterns of sounds

squeezed into some uniform,

yet naked running through

the dark empty streets.

Dance and say,

fuck yourself, you fuck,

you, master of this castle,

plaster the mantel,

fish for men,

what is a mantel fish?

Watch and wonder,

blunderfully said, Fred,

but spread, and asunder

my words like thunder.

Lingual congruity?

no change

no annuity

standing

at a loss,

is the dead,

boss,

next to

my investment

lay the real cost.

So, bla, bla, bla,

the doctor says ah,

for a change

I stick things into him.

The last vestige

of dignity,

royalty, and

lay down to

rectal trembling,

and my head,

spitting open,

the bones separate,

there in cerebral tomes

the words of hope

I miss the most.

The ghost, I find

that my kind

sublime in my mind,

is in reality, just

a stupid rhyme

but it has a time

as in the empty lines

waits the demon,

like for an “e” ticket ride.

I’m screamin`

and scheme`n

you dogs and pigs,

you see and they

mate, and then what?

A dogpig?

What else?

The demons there

the boxes arrive,

the table scratched

the movers are high,

my head is so full,

god take it away,

fill it with hay, something

anything, any damned thing

that does not fucking think!

The Pirate’s Lament

from The Fading Silence, by Rob Krabbe, a novel to be released late 2012

© 2012 Rob Krabbe, NoonAtNight Publications

 

close yet far, tis coming when,

the horizons climb up whilst

night’s darkness falls and hells

fury stabs through, again.

 

the roiling sea, so wild and true,

close yet far, and death’s green,

not blue, the color of graves

turned open, and empty tombs.

 

ye be sure and thee may too, purses

and coins the strumpet saves;

yet trumpet and lute plays like

dolphins upon the tossing waves.

 

nymphs dance and sea turtles troll

along the undertow and these old

men of the sea roll on and on,

and call to me heart, and soul.

 

this, me lad, shall the foundry

of thy soul, press both treasure

and fodder of hope and long years;

yes, tis true and closer ‘een further.

 

For the sight of that kindly old sun’s sharpest

rays, can lift the heart of a bad many days.

and if thy countenance, peering, settle upon

me brow, mighty sun, mayest thee do so,

cajoling these old dusty bones, with

a song of, mayhem, dance and rum.

 

So then settle down, like the glint

of the moon on me gold’s eight,

and that ray of light, and a pint,

and a good run, then I shouldst

think meself a right lucky pirate!