The Inevitable Conclusion

No poetry.
No wisdom.
No insight.

Just life
and work
and mental illness
and discouragement.

I always said
if I'm not writing,
then I'm not a writer.

This blog mocks me
just waiting for something
to give it purpose.

So, I'm going on hiatus,
as they say in TV land
where my dreams of writing began.

Thank you for the kind words.
Thank you for your attention.
Thank you for making me believe
I wasn't invisible.

There is a heaviness
in my heart lately
and before I surrender
and let it win,
I need to get offstage.

Maybe I'll be back,
but if you ever want
to get in touch with me,
just read what I've left here.

When you read me,
then there is no existential question
of whether I exist,
whether I matter.

When you read me
I am in your mind,
and if I ever make it through
to your heart,
to your soul,

well,
that's closest
of all.

With much love
and respect,

this is your humble servant
Buddah Moskowitz

signing off
for now.

"Yay, Fullerton!"

We were transfixed,
watching the
slow-speed chase
that Friday afternoon
in 1994.

A white Bronco,
an unlikely center of attention,
carried
an even more unlikely
murder suspect
who held a gun
to his head
threatening
something,
as his narcissism
would not allow
suicide.

From our
Southern California
living room,
my Pop and I
watched
as the newscopters
followed O.J.
from Mission Viejo
north to Irvine,
Santa Ana,
Anaheim

and as if on cue,
we both looked
skyward out of the
sliding glass patio door
and saw the
tiny army of helicopters
that was taping the chase
from above,
the chase that was beamed
to the world
and to our living room
in Fullerton.

We smiled
and cheered,
not for O.J.,
but because we felt
a perverse pride
that our modest hometown
was part of this
huge,
ludicrous
news story.

“Yay, Fullerton!”

It’s still one
of my favorite memories
of my Pop.

Sippie

1982 and

synth washed New Wave

was the soundtrack

of college days,

and my college pub

modestly marqueed

“LUNCHTIME CONCERT:

SIPPIE WALLACE.”

I couldn't believe it:

The Texas Nightingale,

and her heartache

wise blues

would be singing

for the blonde-haired

blue-eyed

Born Again Christian

twenty-something

Philistines

at Cal State Fullerton?

And no cover?

Must be a mistake

I thought,

but I got there early,

took my place

on the side

of the stage,

as her time drew near,

she was escorted

to the stage by the pianist.

She leaned against

the piano,

a legend,

a modest mountain

of passion and pain,

laughter and learning,

singing her slightly salacious,

saucy songs from the 1920’s

and I loved every minute

of it.

The crowd wasn't interested,

they ignored her.

Sippie and I were both

outsiders here,

and I stayed there cheering

her on,

basking in her glow,

the halo of the gifted.

Her set ended,

and rather than escort her

backstage,

she was unceremoniously

seated out of sight

behind a speaker.

I had to go to class,

and as I walked by

she appeared in thought,

perhaps wondering

how she was received,

where she was,

I broke her reverie

with a stage whisper

“SIPPIE?”

“SIPPIE?”

and she looked at me

trying to place me,

and I smiled and

stage whispered

“I LOVE YOU”

and she beamed

and cocked her head

in acknowledgement,

and we connected

in the way that

the blues connects

us all.