Friday, September 25, 2009

The Happiness Vibe...

Your happiness is a vibration. It balances things everywhere. It gives good energy to those who need their own happiness, it does this without diminishing yours. Discuss:

Thursday, September 24, 2009

The New Saphin Album "Him and Hert"

The New Saphin Album "Him and Hert" has been reviewed by world renowned Producer, Engineer Harry Maslin (David Bowie's,"Young Americans", "Station to Station", John Lennon, Paul Mc Cartney and Michael Jackson).

This is what Harry had to say about "Him and Hert":

"Regardless under what name he chooses to use in releasing a particular project (Saphin, Tim Essquare, ...?), Jeff Saphin continues to produce music that rates right up there with the best. In a music world drowning in clones of cloned pop songs, Saphin continues to release music that has his stamp of originality and excellent musicality. If this "partial" album is any indication of what's yet to come, partial 2 will be my next Saphin."

~ Harry Maslin

Write your own review too!

Follow the link below to the Saphin catalog on iTunes:

Open Doors (9.8.9)

Open Doors (9.8.9)

It was one of those mornings he wanted to crawl back into bed and re-dream his dreams, not the those that woke him up, just the one that lulled him to sleep.

Eggs and bacon from the local deli wafted through the open kitchen window. For him, It's Cheerios and Silk this morning, it's Cheerios and Silk every morning.

There's a ripped flap of latex sitting on the coffee table, The iPod has been on "repeat" all night, "Sorry is a Sorry Word" by the Temptations again.

She wasn't very sweet as she picked up her clutch careened out the door leaving it open as she screamed, "fuck you, you sick bastard". The equestrian like clip clop of stiletto heels rhythmically disappeared into the natural reverberation of the stairwell and then echoed off the buildings walling the 6th street sidewalk. As I said, the window was open.

He put on his red collar and Crucifix for another day at the Church. He was a Pastor. The kids came in at at 8am. There was an elementary school in the basement. Outside, a rusty metal fenced playground overgrown with weeds, ivy and plastic "Have a Nice Day" bodega bags stuck underneath the diamond fence mess (leftovers from the NYC winters). There was also a paint faded basketball court (nets long gone) and sandbox not even a cockroach would dare dig in.

The basement classrooms hardly saw the light of day, they were dim and brown (but at least they stayed cool in the heat). Of course there was a cafeteria that served overcooked everything: Grey string beans, what almost looked like mashed potatoes, though seemed closer to soup, creamed corn, which in my opinion is already ruined when you buy it. So in this case it was always an improvement.

The spaghetti and meatballs was his personal favourite, but he loved the boiled franks and sauerkraut the most.

She wore a lunch lady shower cap and a very unflattering baby blue (housecoat (?) that she'd happily leave there each day). Even with that humiliating wardrobe, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever gazed upon. Maybe even more so since the cap revealed all of her divine facial features.

He would politely say, "hello" as he passed down the line, it wasn't really the pasta or the dogs he was there for, he could have avoided that heartburn by packing a lunch, it was her and that heart warming smile. She just so happened to work that station.

Sunday Sermons to prepare, passages to read, quotes and apply.

The Vice Principal is usually the disciplinarian, the watchdog, the asshole of the school. Not usually a sought after job for a man such as he, inherited actually. Pastor Quigley was perfect for it, that was until he was caught taking bribes from the parents of the troublemakers. Guess who was next in line....

Almost all of the kids loved him, flaming red collar and ornate cross. He always found a way to go light on them, and still solve the problem, get around the punishment and end on a good note. Yes there was still a clot of hoods in the school, (well hoods in development), they hated everyone, including him, but mostly themselves. They had no idea why, it was mostly because their "heroes" were gangstas, and who doesn't want to emulate their hero, at least for a little while? Make no mistake though, he knew how to handle them too.... Ex Cop and all. Actually, "Handle" might not be the operative word... more like, "outsmart". Yea, a few slipped thru the cracks...

Each day School day was more or less run of the mill. Not to many surprises aside from the odd vomiting incident (surprisingly few considering what that cafeteria had to offer). Janitor with the red sawdust, you know the drill... and the fire drills. All in all not to bad a gig though, rent paid by the church, a livable enough salary for two, and a clergy badge that pretty much allowed him to park anywhere. He never took advantage, well, not a lot.

This weeks sermon subject: Sodom and Gomorrah.

His style was far from fire and brimstone, gentile though powerful delivery No axe to grind No knife to wield, No guilt to give.

Sunday came, the Sermon was a success (whatever that means). He greeted his parishioners at the door as they left. A few private conversations. Some gossip, and the day would be done.

But this was Monday. The morning he woke up wanting to go back to bed. He wasn't in a bad mood, nope, not at all. He was still thinking about the night before... Candles, gourmet food, great Music and....

Another day finishes up, He waves to the departing buses, hands out the pull down windows, some waving back some hanging, some leaning faces pressed up against the glass.

The office needed a little tidying up, some quick meetings with a few teachers and it was off to 6th street, home again. As he walked in, he left the door unlocked. He always left it unlocked. Whose gonna rob an ex-cop Pastor?

He couldn't hear her enter, she wore sneakers. She passed thru the open door and scurried into the bathroom, he was watching CNN, in his shorts, a beer nearby.

A shower. Strange snapping sounds and a zipper. The bathroom door opens and the clip clop of stiletto hells reverberated down his apartment hall. He didn't so much as bat an eye. In fact he took another gulp of his Amstel and kept watching CNN, remote close by.
She came up behind him, put her arms around his neck, gave a slowly tightening squeeze and whispered in his ear, "how did I do last night baby, did you like it?"
He turns around and grabs her by the waist, "More than you could ever imagine". She, softly in his ear, "What games would you like to play tonight lover?" "You decide tonight baby, Holy shit that was a perfect exit this morning, wow!"

They disappear into the candlelit bedroom... the bathroom door still ajar, sneakers and a lunch lady hat on the floor.

©2009 Saphin
All Right Reserved.


Harcourt's Token Theorem (9.6.9)

Harcourt's Token Theorem (9.6.9)

Harcourt eats a sandwich sitting on a subway bench in the 14th and Union Sq. station. He's there all day and night, every day every night. He's not homeless, poor or incommunicative, not waiting for a particular train either. He's actually quite well off, a learned man with a Masters Degree in Astrophysics and Mathematics.
He owns a duplex on upper Park ave. which he now sublets month to month to some self important celebrity of the week chef.

He's made a fairly good amount of friends in this particular twist of the city bowels, some Homeless, some poor, some commuters. Strangers give him money and food. The familiars just food. He eats that, the money goes right to his subterranean pals. The Transit cops have turned a blind eye to him, because he looks "clean". In other words things are status quo with the quid po-po.

He often engages in engaging conversation with the station "roommates", regulars and passers thru, some of which (the roommates) have equal if not better credentials than him; just the luck of the draw that circumstances landed them there. The most common question Harcourt is asked is well, I'll let that one be your guess, I've no doubt you know what it is... Harcourt is pretty cagey about this topic and hurriedly though diplomatically evades it every time.

The mentally ill are somewhat different scenario, Harcourt gives off a sorta comforting vibe, enough so that there are really no issues when they're in his vicinity, hence, the cops don't notice them at those times either. odd.

Bathrooms are an issue. The police don't usually let the the dirty ones in the public toilets. Harcourt is an exception, but this is a privilege he doesn't allow himself.... Not because he feels an allegiance to his cohorts, but for fear of missing the trains. Am I contradicting myself, not really....

So he goes were all the others go. Disappearing into the darkness with a look of reluctance and fear, to emerge soon after exuding one of relief. Not just for the obvious reasons, uh uh, because no matter how much time one spends down there, once you've walked past those flickering fluorescent station lights into the dim dampness of the dirty tunnels, there's no knowing what you might encounter. Ask any of the "residents" (including Harcourt), and they'll tell tales that would scare a Navy Seal. Not so much those cops though, they just go conveniently deaf and arrest the poor souls, again, should they report what they've seen, or worse, experienced. Not good. Harcourt never complained or reported anything.

So Harcourt doesn't leave, no station bathrooms, dare he miss what he pensively waits for.

Harcourt came up with a theorem.... it's based on a sequence of events involving the trains that pass thru the 14th street station. You've got the "4","6", "L, "N" and "Q", they run pretty much all the time (unless the construction dudes are milking their union contracts), and then the "5" and "R" run during the day with the "W".

Now, to some degree, it wouldn't matter at all if he was there to see if his theorem was true, (you'll see why), but he felt, as a responsible scientist, he had to prove at least part of the equation so as not to leave it purely empirical: There was a connection between a seemingly common, though random, sequence of subway events and a newly discovered galaxy 1205 light years away, deemed m-467c6, soon to be renamed Harcourt's Galaxy. He had discovered it at one of the Mauna Kea Observatories in Hawaii sometime back.

The trains: It usually doesn't go this way, (well it usually doesn't follow any logic whatsoever) but if the L, N, W, Q, 4, R, 5 and 6 trains ran in that sequence, at anytime, m-467c6 would be safe from being sucked into the vortex of a nearby black hole. There was just no way of knowing when and or if this sequence would ever happen. Even Harcourt's advanced calculations could only approximate the chaotic NYC subway system's train schedule. So he waited. it's been quite sometime without a shave.

Sleeping was another annoyance. Not because he needed to stay awake, but because he was a very light sleeper to begin with. So he'd never miss a train for the noise. Ever heard the squeal of a NYC subway coming to a slow and agonizing stop? Maybe that's why there's so little glass (left) down there.

Harcourt subsisted on handouts, micro-naps and hope, hope that his theorem was correct, and correct as soon as possible. This was not even vaguely enjoyable for him.

The fatigue was too much. He fell asleep (rush hour no less), who knows how long it was, an hour, a day? Trains and trains and trains passed thru Union Square Station. Harcourt fast asleep dreaming of a safe m-467c6.

BLAM! He woke up in a shuddering shiver and a cold sweat. "Oh Shite!" He'd missed it. He was convinced he'd missed it. He became seriously suicidal. He was going to throw himself in front of the next train shooting thru. But yup, you guessed it. Around the bend the lights grew, brighter and brighter as the thunder of rusted rolling flanges on rail grew to a cacophonous din. It was an express train speeding it's way uptown. It was the the "L". Harcourt froze, for whatever reason, he couldn't move. Another train, the "N", then the "W", "Q", "4", "R", "5" and "6"!.

Harcourt backed slowly away from the yellow plastic caution strip. Quietly took a deep breath, straitened his tattered beige patch elbowed corduroy blazer, turned around and walked up the stairs and out of The Union Square Street Station.

He emerged in to a cool New York night. Parties, the the welcome smell of street food, restaurants and garbage. No goodbyes. No looking back, he never rode the subway anyway, felt it was too unhealthy.

Harcourt hails a cab, Tells the driver to drop him at Columbus Circle. It's beautiful out, he takes a quick gaze at the unusually clear starry packed sky. Walks slowly thru central park to his apartment. The chef, gone. He just so happened to move out that day. No trace of him except for a pile of rent checks on the counter, including first, last and security.

Harcourt drops his keys next to the checks, walks down his hall walled with galactic Hubble photos. To his room. Sits slowly down on the edge of his bed looks at the clock, !2 Am on the nose. Leans over and peacefully falls asleep in Kubrickian fetal position.

It'll be light years before we'd know if Harcourt was right.

©2009 Saphin All Rights Reserved.