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Victor Arcaletti is the pseudo name I gave Mike Conley sometime around 1997. I was on a Kerouac high and made up names for my best friends in order to create my own little kerouacian world, a world that Victor Arcaletti made interesting for me. I have stacks of journals that tell stories about those times.
From 1995 to 1999 I spent almost everyday with Mike. I wrote feverishly in green military journals with pencil trying to find some meaning to my life. And while I was scribbling away and reading as many books as I could get my hands on, Mike was showing me what he had already learned and discovered. It was all so new to me: The jazz records of Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Dave Brubeck; the words of Charles Bukowski, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Henry Miller, all those little things that made a big difference. I completely embraced Mike and my life began to change. A true friendship was born.
When I got the phone call from Scott Duff about Mike’s death, I couldn’t believe it... I didn’t want to believe it. But the truth was told and The End fell upon me like sharpened icicles from a freeway overpass…
I still struggle to this day with his absence… The beautiful part is that without Mike, I would not be who I am today.
I have an obligation to Victor Arcaletti, a commitment, and these words are that promise.

I will be finished with this book by Spring 2010.

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//////////////////////// JOURNAL ////////////////////

Procrastinating Reality // November 6, 2009

This is not happening
It’s all memories
Syntax Manipulation
Mental Trickery

But those who wish to believe
Wrote poems about
Procrastinating Reality
Their irretrievable loss of innocence
Painted on the canvass of captivated curiosity

And it was all written down inside a green military diary…

While Miles Davis sketched his sketches of Spain
I drove through alleys in Downtown San Diego
Watching bums push over-flowing shopping carts
Through empty parking lots at 4am
In the dark…

Staggered streets
And Visions blurring
Beneath a dim light
Voices can be heard
Football stars six feet tall
Blow hits on college careers
Near old brown curtains
As the morning appears

Through hollowed out eyes
And fading dreams on 21ST Street…
Gunshots ring out
Beneath Spanish tile roofs
I’m running from the truth

Life’s turned into
A black & white movie
An 8-millimeter film
From the 1970’s
Big screen
Small mind

Thought things would be normal again
Palm trees waning in front of the California sunset
And I’m determined…

I think and I think
Clock ticking away
Mind racing
And I’m scared
Can’t show that now
Made it to LA

Tucked away behind a gated project community
The year is 1999
Big down jackets and 40’s
And there we are
You and me

Waiting for some substance
Blue in Green loud from the speakers
I’m nervous and drunk looking around
With your reassurance
I sink back into the Ten-Measure Cycle…
Sort of feeling like Freddie Freeloader now…

Returning is our man…
In the backseat
Blowing big clouds now…
Can’t sleep…

So many nights
You and me
Thinking back
It’s All Blues now…

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Friday//May 29, 2009//9:23pm
Time puts things to rest. The memories fade away and the summer develops new vines around new hearts and some of the former ties twist their roots into the ground and fade away beneath the soil... I dig my hands into the ground from time to time and cultivate the old memories... the deep seeded feelings and thoughts of lovers come and gone... it’s like yesterday over and over again... being away from everyone I know makes me cherish each one of you that much more... the memories and laughter and intimacy shared between two people, or the first moments alone like blooming flowers reaching for the sun... shadows and movements in the darkness caressing howling hearts beating fast with mouths open inhaling moments so thick with blissful memories and shallow make-believe intimacy hidden beneath the folds of a skirt bursting with chemistry… the newness it can bring… and the madness created by wanting more… we strive to get back to the beginning and start over again… it never seems to happen the way we would like for it to happen, but on occasion it does, and we slip back into the rich soil where the earth is moist with our treasure...


 

IN LOVING MEMORY OF MIKE CONLEY 1959-2008

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