resurrecting my daughter Robin daily
resurrecting the Holocaust daily
resurrecting Claudia daily, the nameless daily, the flash in the pan,
the poet daily, hope the child, the devil’s garden daily
resurrecting Brian, Steven, Gabby daily, the recalcitrant dreamer daily
resurrecting Raymond, Christopher daily
my parents I’ll let rest
redemption my ass not a chance, wouldn’t know where to begin

Almost everyone I know has lost a daughter or son to something, someway. Not by having a daughter or son serving in the Iraq or Afghan war, not by having a child caught in the crossfire during a neighborhood gang shootout. Just by being a civilian from the neighborhood, each passing on to their children a genetic code
 encrypted with a few terrible surprises.
 And because they know me. I’m not a good luck charm. Not looking for sympathy, I’m the common denominator known to them all. Howard Blume. Weltschmerz.




3 thoughts on “AboutFace

  1. Howie.
    Last night I attended a party in Baltimore at the home of my son, themed to the anniversary of the first manned landing on the moon — an event which took place just a month before the birth of that boy, my second child. Answering the question “Where were you when…” I told a story of how I’d vaguely followed a man’s one small step on the radio while busy copying string charts needed for a recording session scheduled the following day to lay down music tracks for a short film entitled “Hello, Mustache.” Googling for info to bolster the tale I discovered very little of record on the film but a good deal on its writer/director. So…hello (again), Mustache.


    • Jim Higgins!What an amazing surprise. Of all people, the guy who went around MacCann Ericson  carrying-on about, espousing the genius of Hindemith; what a profound meaty name I thought, “Paul Hindemith” The name stuck; every time I hear the name or listen to a piece of music composed by Hindemith I think of you, Jim Higgins. TRUTH! It’s like some version of demonic device — Hindemith. Higgins. Hindemith. Higgins.You made a great impression on me, warm, talented, soul, never forgot you. Lets not forget the music for Powder Horn Marsh.  Never got around to making a digital copy, left the last print of Mustache in New York, possibly at EUE Screen Gems where I worked or on the farm in upstate New York — long gone in flames of escape/renewal, would like to see/hear that opening scene again.How are you? Where are you? Baltimore? Still making music?


  2. Jim Higgins, Saturday– dragging an upright bass around to everywhere weddings, standing your ground against those damn electric bass guitars. Monday–brushing your moustache as you sit with a pad and pencil. Rejecting ideas right and left until (explosion goes here) boom you leap to your feet and stomp from one side of your office to the other. You see it now. Rush to your board and start sketching something, curly hair bombing and weaving, then stopping to restart a sandwich you had started fifteen minutes earlier. Now back to the board. Mustard somehow now entangled in your hair. Life in abundance. Chicago 1971. McCann


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