May 30

I fell apart in the shoe store because there was a lovely California girl.. nameless and pretty, lacing my shoes, among the tattered remains of ancient employment opportunities (once applied here years ago). Extreme confidence in that ability to ask and to react appropriately to the situation. Ask her where she is from, man. Do it. Shoe lacing talent. A similar pathological sense of humor. (incorrect word but it came to me that way.) Much like I fell in love with the twin sisters from a mountain lodge just before Mt. Rainier national park. Way out. Deep past the dam and the passes that get closed, snowing them in, through winters. They are bundled up by fires drinking champagne in the moonlit snowstorm. Body warmth in the arms of the furnace heat. Electricity cuts in and out. Teach old dog new tricks (practicing). Playing board games and having strange thoughts. Sipping red rum out of cheap plastic cups and contemplating the idea of final winters and hot tubs overflowing with shame and rage. There is no spa here and all backs stay crooked. The lunatics in the area prowl through the yards screaming in lustful drunken violence seeking. Needing a hero and falling for the dumb jokes and the questionable glances towards the front. Lovely chandolier in the middle, all of the paintings... my god.. you are beautiful like the figures in the paintings. The lake reflecting.. the mountain standing in awe of itself, all of the liquid reflections allowing self indulgence... they are natural and untanned. they will never hear of my band. My world is not the same as theirs. Somehow are fateful paths converged and neither of us knew how to react, understanding how transient the other dream-figure was. This happens constantly. Or maybe it is just me. I cross paths with an angel and wonder what forces of fate or crude chance compelled such interaction. I say all of the right things. She reacts openly and without an heir of arrogance. There is mutual interest. Or maybe that is also just my reading. Until I am told later that my gut feeling was correct. Wondering why I did not act further on this whim. Something urgent and incredibly timely. Now or never more than ever. These are transient angels and I have no room in their wide hearts to fit. They may think of me, an ardent wanderer, from time to time, in the dark, or in the recap of a long day of work.. always happens at work, for them... ridicule my tattered shoes... wonder why I bought two of the same pair... shoe shopping like a woman. trying on tight pants like a woman. and somehow everything will work out better than ever expected... I can't deny the access to income... the rent paid out in due from grandparents. I am forever indebted. But I must fully into such opportunities or else these monetary gifts have been wasted. ( Meet the girl. Rock her world.) The back drop of her store and the music... the helpfulness... I fell helpless... charming and attractive. definitely my type of lady.

may 29

Thinking about death about mortality and friendships. We stare at walls trying to see through them and fall into junk food habits where we can't find ourselves in our skin anymore. Our skin becomes sagged and fat. We are round bellied like pigs and consume alcohol like air. Addictions to the simple relaxations but they are all harmful. Trust papa and his tinkering. The world has so many things to offer but we can only ever sample it all. No one can do everything. A single mom who is also a practicing alchemist who works in a treehouse in the back yard, incognito. A nuclear engineer who drinks hornsby's hard cider by the 6, staring at 4 or 5 computer screens, mostly projecting stock market stipulations. Fall into six screens of sex and wait for girlfriend to come home after the night shift. Wait. Wait. Wait. Explode. She will be tired but you will be vigorous and red-eyed. Untamed in the wild like tiny children roaming through paradise. The walls seem to be crumbling around all old standing structures. No one smokes hookah on rachel's balcony. No one throws classwide parties and the cops are bored giving out M.I.P's. Maybe we were the last generation that had fun and suddenly everything is changed. We are broken out of the roles we sank into during close range tight nit high school hallucination. We are so removed. A year long friendship shooting jokes across the classroom in spanish or whatever. We find we have less to talk about because we don't keep in contact with everyone. Strangely it seems this same transition is happening with everyone. To each their own. Fuck everyone else. We are entirely separable. With perforated edges to let us know where to tear. Squares all have the same numbers of sides. There is a feeling, citywide, of lethargy. We are on treadmills when there are sidewalks to run. We watch action movies rather than performing actions. Celebrities captivate our minds and eyes although there is very little substance behind the people. It is all in the production. The people are terrible everywhere. Find a small loyal group to commit yourself to, link arms, and try to stop the tidal wave from taking out any devotees. Find a few with sure feet and burning eyes. Too passionate not to pursue the exact pipe dreams any naysayer would brush off of the wake of teenage angst. We are the future. We are the new generation of workers. The world is overpopulated. Somehow, somewhere.... (here, my god). there is a place of acreage and a huge sky, feel like I'm in a dusty snowglobe looking up into the space between stars... this space of course covered somewhere with a more distant or less visible star.... the trees are silent guardians. I think about high school dreams and mistakes. Realize more than ever how I can blow off many of these activities. Why does it feel like I am ending a chapter? Well maybe I'm not. The contents of this last one will still be important in the next one, with allusions here and there, reminders of prior action... but this is new mystery. New ground for our eyes to follow in unison. Left then right then left. (the age of miracles). This is the newest chapter and we are writing it with a rough idea of the characters aside from the humorous protagonist who feels he has finally found himself in a musical backdrop... the others are well-enough-developed for side characters... no prediction for any sort of antagonist... we watch the rippling water expand and wait for everything to happen for us..... let me in your heart! I want to love everyone I have ever met. I want to take them out to dinner and discuss what it means to know someone so briefly and then to actually understand them in greater depth. I want huge resources. Deep wells of deeper friendships. Connections everywhere. I want to wine and dine the greatest of my graduating class. Ask them how their lives are coming along... oh you're a body builder now... or an actress. a model... a photographer.... a make-up artist... works at sears... bootlegs DVDs and lives in a van.... rock band musician... indie band musician. jealousy perhaps trumps the rest... we have all been hurt and broken... mostly our fault though. It must be overlooked. The past should propel you forward. It is certainly nice to be nostalgic and to remember but there is too much to create! All the time must be spent in creation of things to tell the friends and the family... the old loves.... the dusty old fucks in down comfort who wait for men who will hold them... never abandon. I hold onto nice memories but wrote down the bad ones. They all float around somewhere. I remember hating and loving that aggressive music in the similar apartment. The very same? He lives in Colorado. I live everywhere. I am like a rolling summer mist and no one knows where I will land. Why do I need to land?

5/28/12

"what a shame on a beautiful night"

awareness of elements required to be of memorable material. cheers boys. my weird opinions aside, there are worlds out there for you to enter. Tall cliffs, the walls of castles protecting the entryway... underneath grave vines in a telephone booth.  Yeah we know humanity. In case of all encouragement. We kept it vague and provocative both. Tie those elements together with some great attitudes and create a wonderful environment for everyone involved. Although young, they caused the all important tension shifts that make a song what it is. This lap top is a frightening example of the unknown. Not too bad but I am awfully sloppy and the slightly larger keyboard and both speed and comprehension are reduced. dangerously. and harmful. I can't keep up with my thoughts in the least. The standard outpour is choked and throttled. All typos aside. Forgive me grand editor in the sky. I will make it up to you sometime in a dream. Hear me out before you call out my friends. The ego and the altruism combine and we form into super humans.

May 25

Fall harder into the part, the indefinite role, frozen in place like an insect trapped in tree sap and then fossilized. Rescue DNA from such natural traps and resurrect a failed species. We write orchestras. Seasonal affective decisions and moods depend on the number of planes in the sky. Overhead at the otherwise pleasantly relaxing beach. A sanctuary for the deaf meditative. Or an isolated patch of beach for a jogger with an ipod. Aside from possible plane crash on lap. Everything is possible. Maybe you catch the gleaming reflective shine of a treasure washed ashore. An entire chest full. (your heart and lungs). The rock gardens alongside the windswept corridor of a channel. They are too perfect. I'm sure some glue made of horses could keep the equilibrium. Normal adhesive would not trick the eyes and most spectators would realize the sham magic. The fake brilliance of such a carefully executed hoax. It is not so right to deceive others. Don't tell them that directly. Speak in tongues. Curl your tongue. Speak in circles. Shape your tongue for correct syllables. Don't stutter and never speak too low to be heard. Bold and assertive diction is what everyone must adapt into if we wish to grow as a society. Direct and honest language will connect us in ways impossible through our deviant white lies and alibis directing the majority of social interactions causing a marathon across flaming coals or egg shells, the pain threshold passed, but we wore the correct brand name shoes, the design acting like a cattle prod, or rather a branding iron, to be ever scarred with that recognizable label, on charred black feet, never quite afford necessary removal surgery. (he watches and I listen).

May 24

Fear in my heart from the protective dog. Keeping savage watchman outside, in the motionless dark. Voices heard over the fence. Violent convulsions of the pulse and the heart rate monitors skip. No one. Just shadows and voices. No real humans at all. None left. Just creatures of shapeless malevolence approaching from unseen sides and opposite corners. Directed to the light switch because I don't want to have to feel along the walls to reach it. Can sense the light but cannot see anything in mirrors or pictures. It is all in description and for that. Any question I can answer and visually describe in decent detail. About life general secrets and observations lost on the unfortunate. Nice and loving family. Do I sense slight tension? Maybe. Maybe not. The water drain off. Flies or mosquitoes buzzing inside ears. Sister sensed all of us to have had too much wine by the time she came. I sang the Beatles softly at the outside table. Half on the grass, talking of medical cases of the drug, poor joke placements, seemingly confused. I am curious. I wished in my heart to stay and to talk into late hours. Develop full and personal understanding. Meet co-workers of sister and talk and flirt with them although they probably are upper class in a sense that I can't afford the luxury of taking them out. Maybe my lower (than them) class charm could do them in. Turn them into coin counting vixens who love a rugged wild man. Am I that rugged wild man? Not as I'd so much like to be. I want to climb mountains and use my hands as resource providers. Crack open a few shells with rocks, dig out a quarry, climb inside. (the corridor of my mind.) Just when all seemed to fail we notice the details others left out. Their vague perfection is a sham and a veil... Oh how I miss the sound of a legitimate laugh from a woman of a similar age to my own. A legitimate indication for some found joy in her life. Nothing put-on or abstracted from the present through a million categories of past preparation. No try outs in mirrors to get the shy and crooked smile quite right. It is pure. It is beautiful. And it becomes impossible. (make a funny face and it will freeze that way). Can that same hold true in the opposite direction?

May 23

"Small town minds stay small."

Hand me down some of your old rock star clothing and we can create a new line of such designs. A new world order. We are championing this new product. It is in development. You will be surprised. Although my fears are of creative stifling. Of lack of motivation to grow beyond pop hits and simple song structures. We are talented enough to transcend typical boundaries and this is what the world needs. There is a niche for such music. A big enough one. The cover of Rolling Stone? We looked like rock stars in the back of my grey sub compact. Juxtapose your position and I have complete faith that over this riotous weekend, you will be unfaithful. This is not fair because I have tried to be unfaithful but my chances missed. My trajectory misaligned. What makes a city great is the constant sex that goes along with it. But when there are no comforters to readjust for company. When there is no one to tell your dreams to. Talk to yourself. Grow deeper into paralysis. A paralyzed state of being. From hockey star to guitar superhero. I need to be the bass player that others aspire to be. How do I become that? Learn music theory. Buy some books. Soak it in. Get a job to afford the books. And food. I have barely spent any money here yet so I feel guilt-free. Mostly. Home-cooked meals on the horizon in a few different states. Nearly played in hot air balloons to 40,000 people drunk off wine living in the past. But that is not the way we should explode. My own light box and microphone?

There is a confusion. I am trying not to resist but my heart is fully in this. Pool table shots. A recreation of Abbey Road on Califa somewhere. Everyone in Woodland hills bachelor pads. Where are all the women hiding? Invite some girls over to hang out and talk with. We already feel so comfortable. I just let you guys know that I would be staying in your midst. To grow and to learn. Hopefully my presence demands a sort of growth and learning as well. Bring down the art supplies and get cracking on some new logos for websites or whatever. Watch the interviews and the live footage from boulevard feats. One day I will be playing a music festival, one that brings me back to such wonderful places as the Gorge or Treasure Island or Seattle Center... or even Capitol Hill. Nice weather for a block party, spray the audience with a fire hose. They'll just cheer for more.

Poison the water supply and keep everyone sedate. In their lawn chairs outside of waiting rooms. Long boardwalks of people, living horizontal, faces north. Hold onto your desires and don't let them go. I fell in love a while back but it is not stopping me from becoming a dream figure. The only thing stopping me from success in full is my own confusion regarding my role in this new environment. I am not stifling myself but I do question the boundaries of creative control... where the image and the acting takes over for the genuine and the golden gems of our writing. We need to live in a cabin and work together in a harmonic duality. Collaboration and camaraderie. The word of the day is camaraderie. (mutual trust and friendship among people who spend a lot of time together).

* * * * *

I can't sleep. I can't dream about sleeping. My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth and thinking. I am so anxious. On edge. Feeling like stifled explosion set off in my heart. Holy shit do I feel misunderstood. I can't sleep because I am so conflicted. I don't want to sing about god. I don't want to sing about god. "feels like a worship song to me." Should I wear a hat? "I'll have to pray about it." Pray to what? Let the force be with you. I need to get my fucking act together. This negativity is terrible. It makes me resent every wonderful thing around me and fuck up great opportunities. Image is everything here. As fucking awful as that is.

Will I ever write for money?
Is gas too expensive for me to join a gym?
Will my originality become destroyed because I'm supposed to be something so secure... Fucking work out. You fat ass. No sense of fashion. Who gives! When I am no longer me. Let me know. Anarchist. Atheism. Negative. No god. No government. Only us and them. I have become a cog in their wheel. Tonight I can't seem to cope. 

May 22nd

No lap top available. Text to self late at night.

'Everyone looks like an overfed actor and all objects are overpriced for the false feeling of prestie. We are not in a more valuable environment. The drinks were smuggled with visible outline. Seconds from visual. Hallucinations are real and dreams are mostly invalid sources. We dream of stardom and material possession. Designer clothes. Too excited to share. Nice clothes. I can't wear my normall attire because I belong either by a pool or a rain storm. Flannel over thermal and white wife beater. No hat available. Look like clerk on break. Middle school kid. Work the right attitude. Natural and realistic like a real dude. Interpret the situation. Be real. Approachable.'

May 21

Is there a hole forming somewhere essential inside of my body? I feel it now as I have before. Life in the studio is grand. But there is outside world that I am no part of. At the moment. Switching out miscellaneous acoustic mics. Spitting snus into red party cups. Twisting around ice, small chunks partially frozen, cruising down muggy streets with intentions to find an elusive coffee shop. I wanted to explore. To go on an adventure. Ended up at Warner Center, which seems far now but will become progressively closer as my radius expands with a black car and an engine. A sub in the back to bump tunes and drive around looking for trouble. Or guitar parts. More likely guitar parts. Getting drunk and working on the album is one thing but the expansive loneliness fills up more of me than I would like. All of the interpretations aside we set up mics and try to take long enough breaks where we all can watch meteors land and gladly step aside from their fiery destinations. Witness heart-warming family miracle as they all are in each others presence for the first time in as many months as their are bodies. Two boys, two girls. Bachelor pad. Living minimum. Loving minimum. Feeling needed as that extra ear but 'fresh ears' apparently means a bong hit. Nothing negative, I'm just in full realization of how much fun some old friends will be having tonight, together. I am only a cog in this wheel. I've tried to get out and see the world. The area still so unknown.... I believe I am facing south right now on the couch in the master control room. I will not double check now. If I am right I get credit, if I am wrong it will emphasize my confusion. I see help wanted signs. What do ya'll want help with? I will be some type of hermit. I have barely ran into passable women. Anyone to hold a conversation with and ask for sushi. (Use the waiter as a wingman. But that could back fire. Make a joke of it.) No way would I stay mad very long if I got pranked out of a good date. Just trying to get laid the old fashioned way. With a ring and a dream, so many options to choose from but no one self-medicates harder than when they are completely alone. Will anyone ever come to my attached guest house and deal with a snorting english bulldog and some smaller type of dog named after a sports team I dislike with me? Have a trailblazers hat from december. Zero accredited high fives. We are all in this alone. The wine and balloon show was called off because another man filled the shoes. We are not a one-hit-wonder 90's band. 'At least they had a hit.' but there is something electric in that idea of playing a music festival in front of 40,000 screaming lunatics. (While he records acoustics, will he need any lighting?) Great memory of different chord fingerings, he never has to deal with the standard guitarist issue of looking straight down at his fingers... This is to his extreme advantage. He can work without much thought other than how whatever he is playing sounds... Strangers in a stranger city. They finally arrived and the house is beautiful, mostly unfurnished, two dogs become brothers and the pieces fit like a puzzle. Aside from a back spasm and a rigorous recording regiment. I am tired because I drained my energy cruising over cracked sidewalks and down curving hills (sometimes no sidewalk at all). Watched a squirrel run across the road, said 'be careful, buddy,' and cruised on. Suddenly, a cosmic type of jaded loneliness returns again. But then again... I am under no wings. I have my own path to fly. I am emotionally invested into this album because of the time I've spent vegetating, listening, reworking and shouting out ideas for parts or shutting down ideas for parts. Living a musician dream. but there are still elements missing. such as a car, a girl, and a sense of direction. Just looking for trouble in all of the wrong places. Rather than fly things up, I'll probably just slide boxes under my comfortable queen-sized bed. No one will know where I am. Neither will I. Shopping centers with many screaming children and disgruntled mothers.

* * * *
sinking into pleasant, cheerful departure from standard songwriting. Same eerie lyrical deliver yet someone gave them indie pop lessons, they went through boot camp to make it a more presentable album. Although I agree it is incredibly infectious, if not catchy as hell. Beats underneath interesting lyrics and voice. (your mom's got a liquor head.) distract yourself in that same cadence, as other times. Hard pressed to call it a bad habit as it always ends in positive refrains. Music is a life saver. 

may 20

Maybe bring it up the hysterical. "It is I Arthur, King of the British." Nostalgic for neon lights in small time clubs, where people go to disappear, cutting up paychecks and sliding fragments into jukeboxes and slot machines. The coins spinning and hearts turning until aligned with the stars. Some magnetic pull to keep the icons in unison. Half a heart attack. Binging and purging on soap and sterilizing lotions. Gradient from blue to red. "Have a great tomorrow." The hair of the dog to improvise social warmth and feelings of union. Body party paint, speckling over ripped and tattered clothing, staining car seats and making crowds of naked girls feel artistic. Dancing until the paint dries, lights bumping to the music until the beat dies. Close your eyes, you don't want colors inside. Because they lace the walls with cocaine, if they ask if you want a line, please refrain, for your mother will thank you for abstaining. (Most pregnant women drink very little.) Dance floor conception, the conceptual moves evolving until bodies float up through the fog machines and rise like spirits on their miscellaneous and scattered highs. Dropping low, if you fall you will be trampled. Keep your feet up. Or your head will follow into such dark crevasses, sink holes in the desert oasis, palm trees lining up runways, everyone here thinks they are a model or a starlet with dreams of pornography. At a loss with how great the tone feels. your body vibes with mine but still outside of the musical rhythms. on another plane of existence still, closed off from the outside world entirely. Falling to pieces in the arms of all past lovers, but they melt away into mist. Disembodied spirits dancing above gravestones of other more famous dancers. The ones that culturally invent acceptable means of transportation in a dark, black-lit setting. You can't walk in there without swagger. All eyes on you but once yours come up they cast down to their feet. Counting stitches on shoes, the more glitter the better, that can be vacuumed out of car seats but the memories remain. Grabbing a balloon from the concert and escaping the crowd unscathed. Many threatened to pop with their keys or a deft lighter. But we succeeded and fell asleep with visions of live performance careening through our heads. Carving beads out of stones with disposable tools.

We carry the vision and describe things in full color and shape for ones without vision.

may 19

I'm alive in this beautiful poetry
searching for my own meaning
you try to sell me your clarity
I won't let you spoon feed me

I've got your scent
trace it back to your apartment

its all based on interpretation
this is all in your imagination

all of the right words elude me
they are all constantly moving
disintegrate at rapid pace
disappear without a trace
and I'm left tongue-tied
in these bright lights

I'm dying in this beautiful scenery
searching for my own meaning

* * * *

There are some universal truths hidden behind such easily ignored symptoms. (you were having nightmares last night. I heard you.) We breath a collective sigh. All exhausted. Feel tired and fat. All of  us feeling deflated and short-fused. Just too much time in the studio. The guitars.

* * *

All of the gorgeous women in the world, dancing along with fabricated beats, the stomping of hooves on the hard ground, the flashing of brights to indicate the lighting of indica. No room in small hearts for people with big hearts. Those vast mysteries. I fill my head with nice words to thematically layout my dreams prior to sleeping. Controlling the outcome of all events inside that closed subconscious. Expanding internally until a whole new unique New York universe opens with all characters and mutations of characters from real life. I could write about anyone. Take the features from one person I used to know and put them on a body with a different personality. The sister of an old baseball friend, who had a dirt bag dad as couch, a dirt biking young legend, with aspirations to make money somehow in that world of bumper sticker slap stick endorsement. An awkward arrangement where girls came over and smoked with his sister. His friends sort of. What could have been done to make it all better. Know now what to say and everything would be so much different. Perfect grammar and spelling does not effect the outcome of most social interaction. Take your head off and tighten it back on, straight and lined up with the spine. That coiling marijuana feeling, snakes under the skin, spreading warmth, sinking into couches and feeling nostalgic for times by the waterfront. The cross dancing and dangling back and forth as they passed a joint through Europe. The secret and small farming roads between rich establishments. Every year there is a mudslide that dents the guard rail. Or breaks it off completely, in more drastic situations. Or when they lit candles and had good sex in dorm rooms with the window to the world wide open. I imagine they listened to perfect music. Probably Passion Pit. That happened a lot. Most likely is happening right now. College campuses all over the world. Those enlightening candlelit nights where everything is absolutely perfect but the recognition of this fact is dry and deceased. Arrives too late, after huddling together smoking American Spirits in the parking garage. The twisting architecture and the small stencil of a tank on the converging beams of ceiling, like cross hairs. We were there and we knew time. I dream about such lovely evenings of self-exploration at the hands of another human spirit. Did these events happen somewhere so far? They took pictures of themselves on my lap top as he squirmed in discomfort. Try to sneak an arm around someone. Watching a silly movie. Sipping on hot buttered rum or something more ghetto and inconspicuous like a spiked drink. A lemonade or a soda half-full of cheap booze. We try to focus on the movie until our eyes quit focusing and our hands reach for each others under the living room blankets. We lived in these rooms. We lived too much in these rooms and the history is a tidal wave when returning. My god. If I entered the very same dorm room to witness... The second removed pair of roommates... Using my old bathroom. My sketchy, sliding door. The red paint splatter on the ground from some other lost generation. (Where is the culture?) I remember times spent going out to the park blocks to smoke something or other. A light rain comes down through the trees but they offer enough protection to keep the ends glowing orange. No need to dose our flame just yet, god. (I realize that the religious person sees religion in everything. Some of my writing could appear religious to him although my intentions are clearly of a different category.) Music is my religion.

 There must have been that one regrettable day that you stripped off your flannel in harsh, revealing light. Piece by pretty piece you disintegrated into a stranger. You told your friends that you were well aware of what you were doing but they are too distracted getting theirs. "You do you." And everyone ends up making out in closet bedrooms. High school graduation day pool parties. Minimal connections on this west coast haunt. Realizing the amount of remaining work to put in. Over 100 hundreds of editing and re-taking and tracking. Maybe people will recognize what we have to offer and those crazy enlightening nights will begin again. For now I have been living in a comfortable repetition of music and booze and sleep. Exploration today.

Witness a fender bender. Screeching tires, screaming underneath. The crunch of metal on metal. Drive off because it was entirely your fault and there were hundreds of witnesses. I did not catch the license plate but there appeared to be no damage on the vehicle bumped into aside from fear and whiplash on behalf of the driver.

Wonder what crazy careless nights lay ahead. In a frenzy, in a wild ecstasy I will swing from the rafters. I will smile from ear to ear. As if it's all I'm here for. There will be no shame and I will speak true and straight. Living for the road and the moment. Intelligence breeds intelligence and it is out duty to spread the word. Imagination is the heart of all important matters. The washed up screen writer who wishes to relive his best shots through a younger, more promising individual. Gave me some information. Not to represent me. Wishes to be a mentor. Give advice. Be a teacher again then. 

may 18

professional guitar tuner, olympic medallion, sleeping dog to my right. late night, salt and pepper chips numb lock and load, Criminal guitars should be locked up. Lime disease comes from lemons. Harmonic squeal. Finger smear. Black dog. COunt that out perfectly live. Drink into a stupor. Almost too hazy to function much in the way of any help. Too tired to do. "But you didn't have to cut me off." buy you a bag of chips later. random suggestion. 'one wet sock' improvised the melody. learn the harmonic parts. note by note. record lead vocals then back ups using our voices and his voice combined. tuck them in and under the carpet. the magic carpet. the grandfather clock.

* * * * *

Song like the Foo Fighters. Man with two back packs. Front and back. Eating and drinking well. Changing strings on a black couch. Dog attack. Thousands of dollars of guitars resting on top of a leather jacket. Made for the singer. but not quite his size. Make a screw driver. Fix the broken pieces of an amp at gun point. Needle point. Lighting in the room. Tracking guitar all day long. Dirty chicken. Something made me sleepy. Probably alcohol. Take this to the limit. Opportunity to play at a wine and balloon festival. Hot air balloons and nice suits. Your own worst enemy is your apprehension. Weed dealers in between the sheets. We drank ourselves under the sheets. Dark walk through the streets. To keep the dog in check and the body alright. Run down toward victory. Listen loud through headphones. Enjoy the smell of flowers passing by quick enough to keep my heart rate up. Blood pumping in my ears. (old girlfriend in new relationship. most are these days. but I do not feel alone). Breathing in this cadence. The broasted chicken (broiled/roasted) akin to fried. Distant opinions floating around intimate opium dens. Controlling the outcome of the situation. Hair trigger decisions. We will play amon the bands on stage from nineties compilation albums. Many years past their time. But these new up and comers with obvious talent and an incredible back story. Video footage from the studio. Studio updates. Video editing software. I used to do them on my old computer. The warm colored video footage. With all tricks. The pretty women around these streets. Porn stars. More here than anywhere. I've still yet to talk to a true california girl. Living for music. Listen to the songs, representing a hopeful transition into a more creative part of my life. Dissent from above. The flying trapeze studio artists. Engineering with a dog attacking you while sitting in your lap. Camera for leads but no big deal about rhythms. Just a maze of chord progressions. each turn more complicated than the next. Growing vines from fingertips. Planting seeds for flower pots on building tops. Calling old girlfriends or crushes beautiful but in sarcastic ways. No one really understands our lineage. Any sort of history is replaced. Revision to the conceded mold. Contradict yourself into full fledged anarchy. Selflessness. There is no person behind that ghostly mask.

You are a figment of my imagination. But you move so well. I love how you carry yourself in black dresses. Big age-defying sunglasses. You will hide wrinkles beneath them when you are older. Now, tears. Empathic tears because you realized how fragile life is after accidentally flattening a poor creature on the highway. No damage to your car. That turn will always haunt you. An innocent daredevil of an animal tempted fate. Your car the vehicle of its fate. A thud and the creatures soul entered the atmosphere in confusion of blood and ephemeral fulfillment. (Short life anyway). Lifting ethereal from the battlements. The tangled of pipes, leaking, and hot metallic underbelly. (mac battery signal red). You are extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for the world.

Coffee, Bailey's, a blunt, and a national park somewhere. "That sounds like a dream." 'I make it a reality.' On tour with the guitar technician and a pay-to-play regime. Time for regime change. Money in our pockets after days of sweat and blood through music.

Sipping on a screwdriver, flat head or phillip's, and being a harsh critic of chosen tones. Ten days and I've already placed myself into an album. The catalina wine mixer with hot air balloons. Getting faded on fades between parts. Bends and dive bombs. A witness to the genius the whole time. Remembering fills after the first run through of a take. (Talking to someone while they are recording is like yelling during their back swing).

Close your eyes and pretend you are on waterfront property. The man with two back packs used to live somewhere nice with supermodels feeding him grapes. Now he waits for a bus that is not coming.

* * * *

Pink explorer, entering and exiting caves, with a distinct sound. A mating call in some instances. With the types that understand these types. Otherwise forever alone. Utilize the same technique I would have used to push up heavy weights with my thighs at the gym, for chest press, horizontal, free weights. Pre-work-out muscle formula. For those desirable stretch marks that hollywood actors hide professionally. Like tattoos get removed, stitches are unwound. "Did you hear something?" Push the remnants of a orange-colored drink to me dry, chapped lips, with the same thigh I would a weight. In the mirror wall of the room where dudes with bigger biceps making loud sounds while looking at girls at the pool. Whole waves of them. Living out here years ago remaining incognito. Lived out here before but made no friends. I should have seen that to be an obvious and recognizable probably. (My input lost to the sound of the waves crashing against the beach. The same sound a disappointed child makes when turned down from one of his brilliant ideas. With all options in all directions seeming to feel just as important and crucial to further development. Beyond Erikson's stages.) Outside of those deeper categories. Deeper seated. In the ground so much. At one with the rats in the sewers below the gutters. The run off of human waste. The pay-off of all pipe dreams. The resin at the edge of the glass-blown bowl that can be balled up into the hash-scented wax. Through some scientific process they guard with securities. Cameras in the corner and men dressed in camouflage lounging in surrounding foliage. Catch the scent of the criminal activity in outlying neighborhood around the studio. All of the petty crimes shrink and the more hardened criminals scatter, a result of trickle down crime waves from Los Angeles. (Although we are a northwestern suburb.)

"Do I dare disturb the universe?"

* * * *

Don't let the bastards wear you down.

Ties in with Pink Floyd and Hunter S. Thompson among other eclectic sources. Your own bookshelf resembles something with those that are now considered classic. Why does it have to be new to be good? (One of the top best selling records still.) That old movie. So depressingly vivid. It is a visual movie, I guess. All of the gross sensation of sounds and sights. The people, paralyzed in their spiral of addictions fall into old red dresses, losing weight the easy way. An artistry of a tapestry. Woven with storyboards and drained from waterboards. The writing room becomes the torture chamber and all innocent victims are whipped twice as hard as those who are guilty, damned guilty, and damned proud of their crimes. Spout out the truth of the matter. Hands like hurricanes. Powerful. With grasping and divergent thumbs. Hands like a warm embrace. No desires for the weekend. Those bastards barely get away with the murder. Killing off of ideas. To replace them with selfish and self-righteous ideas. Hear me out and let me say one more time twenty times and get away with it. Cool to have me in the studio perhaps? I have no clue. I only know how tired and excited I am and feel to be.

"I'm not trying to impress you or anything but my musical taste will make you jizz your pants."

may 17

I can definitely feel it. My sore, road-worn ankles and fatigued fingers. Extending beyond boundaries with this effort. I can feel a hollow point in my tiny bed. Listening party. Girls to talk to. Laying down bass tracks and realizing that I saw the potential although I know less than ten people in the city. I love you guys but I love to branch out. Do things. Do music. The only way to get good is to practice.

I feel it somewhere. Pulsing for a late night high. Kicked the habit. Good riddance. I am a vocalist now. More so now than ever. I was told I have great tone and this is fantastic news. Give me the advice. Relax a bit.

A bit brain dead from all of the recording. Entire band stayed through the bit.

* * * *

The night of. The living dead. We are on a budget with our minds. No time constraints my god. Full involvement in the studio. Chewing on water bottle. Only minor involvement with any outside sources. Walk across the street and lie about a cross walk. Warn of curbs. Witness the purchaser of different strands of marijuana. A bogus security guard like the neighborhood watch. Jokes in green outfits. Re-visit guitar riffs and parts. Experimental placement of microphones. Bipolar dog tries to consume some whiskey. Attack and bark at me. Then be gentle. To my ears oh lord a breeze. Heaven bound and haunted. Asking something for nothing. Put a room mic in a broom closet. Hold your head up. (Electric guitar kits, fun and easy to build.) Swat away mosquitoes from sun burns. drinking whiskey in the recording studio. I did not make them drinks. I brought them drinks and ice. A nice gesture. Take me a minute. Coke or sparkling water. Cracks in the pavement. In the flesh. Kindred spirits of west coast cities. We need guidance of a kind or another. Needy dog barks for attention. Turn the lights down low so he forget we were in here. In the darkness. Recording ourselves

May 16

Alcoholism in the field of dreams. The field probably doesn't even have a legal name. the nickname eventually invaded maps. The vast expanse of giant farm machinery paired with thousands of frantic, laughing, twenty-somethings, stomping the ground and filling up trash barrels with piles of beer cans and half-gallons. Knowledge that the temperature drops considerably at night considers a certain type of preparation. (More lighting. Blankets). That box wine might be laced, it turns out. We rambled around. Trying to find clues for the enlightening effects of a positive mob mentality. We are all here for the same careless feeling of basking in the glory of our youthful days. How quick they are to pass! We combine secrets and open up to strangers in the night. No one gets restful sleep. We are too cold and excited. Looking for warmth by traveling tent by tent. The one with the loudest speakers. Tiki torches used as baseball bats. Throwing bottles at a friend from afar. Toilet paper littering the campground entirely. Burned out all of his brain cells. (Never been the same since. I've never touched the illicit material since then.) Designer drugs, designed to make you feel great for a little while, then terrible for the rest of your life. But everyone here is willing to do that in order to feel so great for so little. Everyone pitched in the ridiculous amounts of cash (Will call, I had to run across a football field and hurdle a fence). A stereo system with a light show. Inflatable mattress to bring girls back to. Preferably ones covered with neon paint like the black lines baseball players put under there eyes to deflect some sunlight. (black lines under eyes baseball). glare reduction. The target audience is a girl carrying her high heels on the rough terrain, yelling, in hysterics, waiting for the right music to hit her ears. Sleep with the first person to play her favorite song (a top 40 hit). At least some of these fuckers dig deeper and appreciate the true beauty of some of the other bands. This chaos begins next week. They build up there endurance with keg stands while a friend with boxing gloves attacks you. Pushups with shot glasses beneath the face. Smoking joints until you almost lose consciousness then a girlfriend cat scratches you. Hair pulling and soaking up ransom notes like they are ultraviolet radiation. Smelling marijuana. Cool breeze. Train without deodorant. Let the clothes stick to your back and rent out a port-o-potty to use for all cosmetics. Flavored, spiced rum in coffee in the morning before work. Grab life by the throat and pour beer in its face. Throttle your excitement. Hairpin turns. Traverse the travesty. No fear. No pain will be left. You will be immortal with the rest of the lunatic kids, looking for kicks in the spring field, the gorge and the view. The music and the intimacy. All problems last year will be fixed. The lines will be shorter. The joints larger. We will hijack the stage and start Biz Markie sing alongs.

* * * * *

beautiful optimistic run through rose bushes, all of those ghostly hollows, the cracks in the pavement, leaves strewn across the ground, go for a walk and a talk, outside to keep the juices flowing. I was in high spirits at the dawn of my run. No fear I'd go too far. Lost the key to the gate. Reasons unknown why I had it with me to begin with. Sugar from a soda. Fueling vocal chords. I looked for a key on the earthquake-ruined, sometimes overgrown sidewalk. Too many hiding places for a key. Half-expecting to find it on the steps on the church. Cliche enough message. Passed two churches in fact. They are probably at war with each other. Or in front of the book store that is selling off all of the remaining books. A dream for a dollar. Years of hard work, sweating with self-consciousness and cigarette burns in the carpet, dogs underfed and escaping. Witnessed tiny bird being consumed by smaller ants. I could have put it out of its misery. But I didn't dare kill. Looking for a key. I took it as another minor sign. Meaning what. First off I must take the necessary precautions. If there is an urge. An itching to get something accomplished.... Why did I take the key with me? That thought in the back of my head to stick it in my shoe. Ignored for discomfort. Take precaution despite discomfort. Haunt me, darling bird. I could have been the master of your fate... or rather intervened with the master of your fate. But I let you stay down there, hopeless. I was on a different mission. Unsuccessful one, naturally. Longboard in the sun. Burns on my neck. What the hell does all of this spiritual swirling mean, in context? 

may 15

Home alone she says. Another one of those nights where she feels no one is listening. One of those dark and godless nights where no belts from drunken step fathers are unbuckled. Bruises have time to heal. But she is left with an emptiness. She takes pictures of things. The way the sky looks between certain angled branches. (dudes drinking whiskey, girls getting fucked). She listens to sad music to accompany her photography. Looking at the same overgrown children's toys left strewn in the yard from halloween so many years ago. She wants to hug someone but doesn't want it to be weird by association or dissociation. Everyone knows someone. What it feels like to fall limp into someone's arms. A figment of imagination, a dream-character comes into full focus and sweeps her away. Think hard about that one, lucid dreamer. You are so successful in your self-experimentation, where it seems I always lose the necessary confidence. To change completely. Into a blue-haired, maniacal, character. Itching to find something to scratch.

She is on a beach and it is raining. Sideways rain whips it past her face, uncovered, and the feathers in her hair sag from water weight. She smiles and stomps through puddles carelessly, consciously avoiding the dry spots. Small feet protected in thick boots that allow no liquid through. (I've sent good vibes. I wonder if they have been received).

We drink box wine with measuring cups. Cook chicken fingers and tater tots on large trays while dribbling a basketball. We rearrange our errands until there is enough potential talent to float us through our slots. We only have a few chances before they take more money from us. (Do not think about the mic you use. The one that costs $100 a day to use. Cover songs. Singing nonsensical. Learn the right melody.

* * * *

Hold a conversation while having a vicious dog (labrodoodle) attack your hand and arm. Cool scars though. Make it look like it was a much more dangerous animal. Tell them that it was, as well. Talk about philosophies of life. What my dad is like. Poker and james bond. Dirty laundry. Enough clothes to make it through a few more moments. (towel fell into the toilet earlier). I can borrow yours I understand but still I would like to use my own. I turned off the tv and they went downstairs. Guitar genius. Thinks of it a different way entirely.

* * *

audio tabs, a wonderful idea but one that made you realize your son is just that much more unique. The low desire of the program isolates and illustrates this...

I wonder, sitting in the closet of the apartment, the mains hidden in this closet, there is a leather jacket. Two weeks or so in the recording studio. I'll find something great for me to be doing. Exercise in the sun. Run around and sweat and enjoy life. Take off and run somewhere. Well we are all here. I could not tell you much of what happened today. We nailed harmonies down from about noon to 7. Then I don't know. Changed strings of bass. A stranger in the street said hello to me. After my pancake breakfast and writing ecstasy. Wrote about the waitresses as I talked to them. Beautiful eyes but not great teeth. Teeth don't need to be great. Just not obviously crooked and jangly. She was nice and I tipped her.

I wonder, though.... Will I meet anyone here? Will I have friends outside of the band? Outside of this circle? Everyone here seems to be isolated into their own world... The orlando studio scene. The hollywood production scene. What am I? Sound cannon. No los angeles frame or network. But with live harmonies and badass bass lines people, important people, will enter my life. I am more vulnerable to be thrown to sharks if I have less of a network. I am more likely to say 'fuck it let's do it' if I have no one to ask if it's a good idea. Drinking everyday. No frame of reference. This is what these guys do. All of this music and the vibes and the harmonies in the songs. I will wake early in order to remember the parts before practice.

Basically, I am on vacation... but I must be making connections and frameworks before I truly end up living in the attached guest house. (Basically a room in a house with thin walls but an independent door lock. Will be waiting for me to move into next month.. Month by month rent. Needed the flexibility. But truly a hard situation to deal with...) Now I am in limbo. I will be suspended for the next few weeks until the recording is done. We need to practice the songs though. Over and over. Have full practice. Have harmony practice. Rhythm section practice. String instrument music theory practice. Wrote out all of the mapped harmonies in every song. Make it sound so much more full. Give me a microphone! Yes! (I just have to block out the lead vocal and tuck in some back ups here and there. While rocking out. We are a four piece so I will get my own side of the stage and my own light box. Have to be perfect before hand. Practice every single day. This is all I want to do.) We almost sound really solid. It takes a hell of a lot tighter practice to make this all worth it. Because I have nothing else going for me at the moment.... running beyond my immediate control... like painting or drawing.... I see all of this empty time as time that could have been spent with the full band. Learning how to make each other tic and work. I have the passion. But once I'm settled in and have found a shitty job, who knows how willing I will be to work then. Most likely, willing to do anything to pull it off. Thought the work ethic would be more rigorous... that's all. they all just relied on me to be a quick learner. This I am but they still don't seem too excited to practice through all of the parts. We won't do any harm. Heavy drinkers. Heavy thinkers. Dispute about god... worship song for him. Music is my religion. write about god but in ways that leaves everyone into deeper thoughts about other things. those who are religious would probably pick it up immediately though. I did not want that to be the case. Music theory music theory. Tell me what notes to pick for what scale and in what key and why. Tell me that I have a beautiful voice with a great tone and that many girls are scrambling to find out my location. Will I become a hermit? We'll see. But who cares. I can be a hermit as long as I get really freaking good at everything in the mean time. Didn't I say this about Tempe though? But hey it worked out on bass and working out, probably. But not for my body. For my exercise. None of that.

May 14

Prime time to see your name, huge, in neon lights above the marquee. Finding yourself somewhere on stage every night. Sexy voice attached to that body and everyone will fall in love with you. Find your thick blues voice upon that dark stage. Light boxes illuminating highlights in your hair and everyone feels your smile crush them to pieces after you sing sad songs and have the happiest eyes out of any cursed girl on the planet. The way your body quivers when you hit notes in a higher register. Just out of reach, but you stand on your toes and extend enough. With a purple guitar, dark eyes, and a winning smile, even if it may be rare at the moment. Turbulent hours spent in confusion. Arms extended around. There is nothing I can do to take back my participation in deviance. Those night traumas. (Now you've got me thinking I'm amazing) I am a nightmare. I am that creak in the bed across the room that you hope is simply another dream. My dream. Fall asleep with headphones in, wake up strangled. There is no limit to those dreams and sometimes they are recurring. I am always there, as a participant. You are the witness. I am the cursed radiant demon. Feeling for animal warmth. In caves of red tapestry and white string lights. I am the dark carpet that soaks up dark wines. I am the ear plugs and the blindfold necessary to outlive my nightmare. How could you hold something so fragile in your heart if it never cared for you or yours? I was so ignorant and stupid. I could have been in stupid love with the sad girl. There is an eternal connection but I severed to much for full repair or full love. Go to it mister. Have yourself a great time. I took pictures with you in the art museum. Promised to draw a sketch each week, at least. Have the time. No commitment. Strike up conversation with everyone I remembered that I used to love. See where it goes, if our respective paths have any bearing on the other. Great indifference. Sleep with me tonight in a tiny bed in a closet bedroom for two weeks.

* * * *

Converting dog years into human years and back. We are invincible. So far suspended. Bonding and fitting into a mold set out months ago. Progressive metal jam. One for the record books. Making up relationships. Just as the doctor ordered. Good luck and good night.

Send out good vibes to all. In my waves. My high and low points. The crest of the wave, share the wealth until drained. Nothing left but spare change. You're only coming through in waves. Spare change fair game.

Out of the rain, into the desert and into a mid-range climate. Kind of becoming a vegetable. Hermit. Only life is the band. The writing is spontaneous and random. If only I were committed to other things like finding a job. Can't get one and start immediately with a week break. The band is my only priority right now. The apartment is fully settled. The guest house with a pool back yard and two lovely dogs named after basketball players. The shared wall. Unimportant. I will be relatively quiet. Be able to blast music in my car shortly. Two weeks about, bumming in a closet bedroom above the studio, a dreamhouse, a dream treehouse. A dream tea house. Coffee house. Golden tongues from sharp angles. The higher frequencies are heard less and less.

Look into bass pedal.
Plan ride to Burbank.
What to bring up?
What to bring back?
Drum head, sticks..
Change bass strings
Bass lessons
Music theory
Vocal warm ups

* * *

Feel like I did nothing today. At the end of it am I any more or less intelligent? We played the songs earlier but should have again. Too tired due to the music. Incubus sounding the best in comparison to my beloved Seattle bands that no one else ever enjoys fully as much as I. The beats are sick and the instrumentation.

We have met no ne. Just us. Now I have a room to myself with a double door and a closet. With a preamp in it that powers the incredible setup below. Have to wake me up to turn on or off the switch. I am well situated up here. I will set myself an alarm and seize the day tomorrow. Because today was too high lazy to be true. Enough of that. 7/11 and ice. 

May 13

12:41am

Working on decent habits. Waking up in a matter of hours to bike to the coast. See the ocean again. Haven't seen that vast expanse in quite awhile. Thankful it is still there to witness. My god. Favorite sight when I cried in the maddening wind. Just like mom taught. ALl I have now is a headache and a desire to sleep. PLaying drums and feeling the rhythmic interludes between songs. I need my privacy or else I will explode. the drums the crash the bass the low levels the intense beats and everyone is locked in to each other. Totally aware of each others parts.

Become a goddamn musical genius.

*****

No open coffee shop on a sunday afternoon. there is only 7/11 french vanilla or mocha, very much syrup, out of a machine... Favorite explosions.

May 12

2:09 am

It is like a gigantomachy in terms of talent. But of course a valiant fight or else no Greeks or Romans would have ever cared to carve it out onto columns and tiers, dorian, the temple frieze, above the offset architecture, forever embedded above seaside housing. No one loses in this battle. Using polyrhythmic drum parts in construction of bass lines. If the metaphor would continue it would say that both sides end up forfeiting, raising white flags high, or rather fate compels them to band together in order to compete against a greater and darker evil. A more ferocious enemy. Lining up at the gates. At the threshold of our powerful new alliance. (no trench foot but bizarre bug bites on ankles).

I jump into the void with my arms open, embracing. There is open air and there is a feeling of hopeful floating towards underground magnetism. The polarities of the earth aligning with certain constellations as never before. As we shift on our 'why' axis. No one truly understands every complexity. There are myriad specialists on any subject, the world over, in every field with a deeper understanding than previously thought possible. Some specialized at subjects no one else in the world is interested in. But collaboratively, combining the elements necessary to bring about full, superficial awareness... If we were all specialists but then also were trained to teach as well as learn. We would soak each others talents like sponges. Suddenly superheroes are born and they can juggle everything. All of this previously impossible. Work in groups. (Aim for the stars. Land on the stars. Bypass the moon.) Reaching up towards light fixtures and turning the lock. Lost coastlines.... Summoning all of the songs listened to while sleeping and the nightmares they've caused. A Friday night spent with wax and alcohol. A lot of music, to the point of callouses. On both hands from drumming too hard.

How could you have no control over your life? Even living under your parents roof? Fix the situation. Adjust the levels and come to a nice conclusion about your place in that family. (Brief story of discovering old singer dead in his house in between the biggest concerts of their careers... All left behind on the southeast coast). You guys like oranges huh?

Try to use the time alone to summarize thoughts and feelings about this journey. Feels good knowing my life is all out of sorts because of this thing. My teeth are yellowing and there is food in my gums. My fingernails are dirty and untrimmed. Big callouses on my hands. I haven't looked in a mirror. (Get to know him and understand that he copes more than you would be able to think. his spacial awareness is incredibly acute.) I have bug and seeing eye dog bites on my arm. My stuff is tucked away in an outdoor closet. I sleep in a songproof mixing lab. The soundboard and all. (What it would be to have a touring rock star for a father). My tan is fading. My muscles are weakening. My back, aching. I haven't worked out or ran. (Drumming for cardio). Sharing great music. (Silent D.) I haven't shaved. I don't know the marginal points from where I sit. I do not know where the nearest bank is or where I will be living at the end of the month... But my soul is strengthening. This is exactly what I needed. I am eating really well due to some parental investment in the future of his son and the wishes he has. With all of the elements there, all numbers scratched on the lottery ticket, we just have to cash it in. Who cares if my fingernails are long and dirty. My hands are becoming stronger. The physical signs of a different and more advanced model. I can have the confidence to become who I would like to be.

********

The atheist in the foxhole. 

May 11

Hipsters and hoodrats. Burritos and chicken wraps. (A shocking bit of footage viewed through a shitty tv screen). There is a fear of perfection. Of being swept away into generic and into intervals of fifths and thirds. I am a first year student in this language although I've naturally used it for many years. The difference is astounding and the same could be said about English, nearly. We've all been writing essays with guitars out in back alleys. An explosion of built up emotion. No one knows anyone. The only for me here is the record. The studio. The band. Dirty laundry and so many dreams that fall apart in their strenuous preparation. Head out on a Friday. Play them all again and again and again. Until perfect and then again. Sit away for a few days and then revisit. I must have predicted I was not going to find a frisbee partner out here because I deliberately forgot my frisbee. I am living out of an outdoor closet. With tiny baby spiders that will infest my clothes. (Keeping a careful eye on the cue cards). Well-rehearsed sorrow. Experimental music. Send feedback. Become the musical prodigy. I need time away to explore all of the facets of this imagination. On a friday night, normally looking for liquor stores and neon lights. Ridiculous run-ins with the law but the Arizona state troopers can't track me over here.

Leave all of my friends behind. There is nothing here but music for me. No more college. Just music. No girls. Booze and weed and rock n roll. Somehow affording wonderful meals. We are growing together. I am weaker than him. But sometimes we complement. Justify your case. Gregarious curious researcher, invade your personal space and envelop the world with dark thoughts about bright people. All of the world is full of opportunity. Early 20s making it. Give them a chance at remembering the song title. Give us a chance for creative naming. I will always clash for the more genius ideas to win. Fight for it. Barely know where I am. Ventura Boulevard and Topanga canyon. No hollywood stars for eyes for me. I am underneath the floorboards. Banging around with my pots and pans in boxes. My life reduced to a bag and an sad apartment reduced to a few boxes. Shameful memories of forgetting a beautiful lady who desires masculine attention but swats away any attempts because of me. Flattering sure, but we all have to move on. Let yourself be taken advantage of sweetheart. I am confused out in these hills. 15 minutes from the waterfront. Somehow. Give me a sense of your location. I'll trace a route on a map. Take a straight line back. Over the mountains and treetops. Had a bad year sure. I'll resurrect all of my old hobbies and turn them into careers. Give me a paintbrush or a microphone. kaleidoscope with one eye closed. Pull your hair out imagining all of the groupies and sluts with orange skin all around. Amazed you never made friends. I made friends with small birds early spring before they migrated north for the summer. Mosquitoes would just evaporate in the heat. Not in the heart. The feeling I get when I look to the west. Your own worst enemy is yourself. You are both the protagonist and the antagonist. There is nothing more than your own lack of motivation that busts out your kneecaps. There are no hidden cameras. They are all in plain view. Become a celebrity and some sort of animal on stage and in bed. Let everyone know that you exist in this world and this opportunity will present itself again but not in the same form. The same formula would not come true. Different ingredients. There is nothing but kindness. His kindness is insatiable. Nice guy making a personal investment. Yeah I'm quirky. I can deal with this.

Just when you thought it was beginning.... Hold on over the railing and I will not let you drop far. To your death.

May 10

Slack on writing motivation. Something different in the head. In the environment. I don't have so many empty nights at a blank desk with idle thoughts. I need to rearrange my life to keep the important elements from spilling out. But here, in California.. there can only be growth. Seeing eye dog attempts to eat a metal coaster. Homeless man yells at a bush while trying to remain incognito. Coffee shops and lava lamps. There are so many things. The hills and the craigslist ads. Someone will fall for this decrepit old place with cross eyed determinism. All elements came together and unfolded in secret languages. Your own son loves to fight these facts. Natural and obvious how the growth will come. (You are only as good as your weakest leak.) Halo tournament. Dad brings pizza. We stew in our comfortable chairs and get a feel for each other. Skill at video games. Bonding in a way not easily understood. In it for the quick A.D.D. games rather than the full and engaging storyline. There are tall trees here. They are friendly and wide with branches. Input on the drum mics. Leave me alone. Go fro golden opportunity. Why do I feel I've been wasting away again. The hero has no home. The hero has nothing to love for himself. The backdrop of talk of murder does not present itself well to me. We still love to listen to music. It has not yet been ruined. Take time for yourself and listen to the things that make you feel human and alive in this chaos.

Let the current sweep you off your feet. You are alive and you are dreaming. There are waves taller than your head where the wind doesn't reach. And all in between is drunk and vague. We repeat the points and I bum around the studio. Sleeping on the couch day in and day out. Jam sessions every damn day. We get it good and we understand each other. Speaking music as a language. Working it out. This is all about jamming and improving and pushing the limits. Colors of fallen leaves turning into shades of grey at the fall of man. The straight A student leaves his dean's lists behind and goes off west. Chasing the sun. The shadows cast. Everything great and happy. Indication when there have been day-long gaps between writings. Silly mistake. It takes repetition to get good at anything. Even if it's just... blah blah blah blah blah. I am the bass player. The guy with an interesting sense of humor who has problems interrupting people. Remembering that no one cares (or can relate perhaps) to my various anecdotes about Portland or the Northwest in general. Great escape. There are awful hidden things underneath all beauty. We only talk about good things around here. I might not be stylistically up to par. Gel in the hair and bronze on the skin. We're all good. We're all good enough. Get along better once we move forward and mold minds. The greatest trick the devil ever played. Studio below the kitchen. Working on the drum tones. Surround sound and tv set up. Closet sized bedrooms. Necessary to control the outcome. We all bleed together and if we can just get along. (I had many compulsions to put my knuckles towards the middle of us. Four way fists. Bump. A powerful moment when the band comes together completely.)

Write write write. baby girl, write.

May 8th

Finding it impossible to write without privacy. Hearing the pages turn of a steinbeck in the other bed and my ears ringing from loud rock music. I earned a merit badge today. I will transition once more into a more realistic depiction of a dream-character. Speeding through light. Nearly in tears, comparing mother to a thousand girls at a daylight karaoke contest. Side by side with a hot dog eating contest. Hold on to yourself as the hash marks your trail from a to b and back. Tore myself away from Arizona. Somehow I am sitting in a California hotel, ears ringing with success... Somehow I have my toiletries in a box in front of me, a book on the bedside table... Car parked in overflow. Studio down the street. The second closest residence. Motel style. Nervous and wandering and wavering. I sense the tension for some reason. Preoccupied with something or other. This is real. This is not a dream. Help me see this through.

May 6th

Vacating premises with a day's notice, there is no better feeling than to purposefully get yourself legally removed from a place you hate. There are now balconies all over without string lights. The bandanas and carpet will be gone shortly. Cleaned the surface of counters and tables so the bottom of my things, pre-packed, won't get all messy or sticky. A small box full of important documents and reminders of important documents. An orange folder full of other important documents. But to who? Me? No. Something in me compels me to keep some things. Once it all blows over again I will burn or otherwise dispose of these miscellaneous papers. Must have meant something at one point. Perhaps I am a future-reader and these will be of ultimate importance sometime near or far, future. Blank walls. I slept in until 2:30 pm today. Crazy college kid. God knows when I fell asleep. I was watching tv shows on my lap top, plugged into my stereo in the living room. Eating perishable things until my stomach expands beyond my waistline. Glass after glass of milk. Still fresh but not for long. A single day determines the life of a fly. Somehow gets trapped in this 80 degree apartment. (10-20 degrees cooler than the broiling outside air).

Contemplate what it means to leave this place. This place I spent so much time thinking. For 9 months I tried to wrap my mind around the ideal in everyone's heads. I tried to understand what it meant to be a sun devil and feel empty handed today. Because I am not of vacant mind. I don't fold and stoop to their level and therefore I am isolated and torn apart. In limbo. Another transitional period. No doubt this time last year was equally confusing. When I made the decision to swap Portland with Arizona, the devil knows. I just remember a black dress helped me carry things and cried with me on the stairway before we drove off. Will she cry when I move my things out today and tomorrow? No. Days prior a student counselor came up to ask me if I had thoughts of suicide. What! But I was so happy. My only confusion is that I understood it was another transition. That I have grown. I could pour out the contents that built up over the last year... Also leaving that black dress behind. The bare walls in my apartment now hurts a lot less than in my dorm. (Their dorm especially. Featured in brochures. Mother.) A big hug and a little kiss and I'm off again. But a big fuck-you to AZ. Good riddance.

* * * *

The moon makes things lighter on earth. A few inches off of the ground here and there. Just hang out, smoke and talk. Good enough for me. It is suspended, naked, above the horizon. Beyond comprehension in its nakedness. No single person has ever received so much instantaneous attention. (Everyone with their lawn chairs looking up to space. Into space. Wondering if anyone is looking back. Anything.) I dream up quotes about nudity of the human body. I wonder where the hype comes from and why anyone is so afraid of their own anatomy on another body. Wonder why there is any fear at all. It is a different arrangement certainly. But nothing to be ashamed of. Even if the person gets deformed or fat entirely on their own accord, their own decision, there is nothing solid to define them as ugly. Ridiculous labels we place on each other. (I'm moving all my shit. Piles of it laying around. I have to organize based on what I will take to Los Angeles and what I will send back to Washington this very instant.) 15/16 full moon. Give me a sound complaint, I dare you. I'm just sitting in my apartment alone. Blasting. Nothing to be ashamed of or sketch out about. Yours truly. Feel the importance of clocking in miles and miles of open road. The itchy feet and the English curiosity towards my inspirations of becoming an American 1940's road rebel. In the sense of Kerouac obviously. The madness and the Buddhism are endearing. When combined, creativity blossoms. Play any music. Open. I am opening my mind. You will feel uncomfortable at one moment or the next if I shuffle all of my music. (Take your time bro). I am not doing anything much.

A few hours later, as expected. We own the night but there is no night if there are no participants. Welcome to suspension. Between two rock faces over a raging river, a good drop below, a valley gorge. All bridges I burned off in resin bowl hits. Passed among friends in a quiet and stupid haze. Some whimsical reasoning behind staying awake and choking back the tears that precede sleeping or dozing on park benches or in hotel lobbies. One hand in pants, one hand one bottle. Little regard for outside appearance. (Picking apart stems to find remaining green herbs. Just like the parents taught against all those years in some foreign land.) Years back when you matched your shoe laces with your hat. Years back when you owned a blow dryer and smoked cigarettes like a fiend. Fiend for that rush and hope it to be as strong and solid as the first one. All those years ago. Still searching. Searching through stars and space. The constellations passing by as the lucky ones enjoy b.j.'s in the back of fancy cars. Something classic and with shining rims. 

May 5th

Ticking clock, party with porn stars or collaborate with math problems. Do you have an idea how much I've written the past 9 months? I did not fit with the kids who hated English in the introductory level. Those who hated writing like some hated math. Then and again I did not fit with the kids who loved English and were pretentious with their scholarly intentions behind miniscule details in their (amateur) short stories. Mine was also amateur. I resented them and therefore I partially resent the idea of writing like that as a career. Such stale and safe material. Write about death and hurt and moral messages. Scuff your shoes on the gravestones of the literature giants of old. The best and the most in tune with language whereas we drown in our overproduction. I need to read or write music or else I die. There is something real and honest in that dedication. My god. I don't do this for YOU.

* *

Why didn't I make any friends? Or keep them. I don't know true motivations. I have always felt uneasy. Judged. Uncomfortable. The party scene meant nothing to me. Those people. Those clones could jump off the nearest bridge. (Would die of exposure before reaching one of adequate height.) Jostling and jolting. The electric currents behind friends. The stale breath of enemies. A musty odor in the air like a deflated birthday balloon from your childhood.

* * *

Sing along inside your hearts.

Okay, here we grow.

Yelling poems over soft and interesting music. Subtle in its interest. The front man is the main man. 

Wishing for Dos Equis. I want it to appear with two or three fascinating bronze-skinned, black-haired, senoritas. I want limes and corona. Tacos and sombreros. I want to fall through a stairway and become conscious in the midst of a great raging fiesta. Turn the red white and blue into the red white and green. Cervasa porfavor. Dos. Tres. Etc. I want to steal a car, black out, and wake up in Tijuana. I want to avoid broken legs. My spine is solid and I could fight off one or two of them. A whole group would accumulate though, as always. The outsider gets beat to death on the barren and dusty streets. Everyone out drinking joyfully but no joy for me. I am not sad or bitter anymore. All of the sadness and bitterness has been released. Just read back and see.

I'm left wondering what happened to time and the peculiarities of the spaces between. (sit still in your apartment... breaking tambourines every night.) Please baby, don't you worry. I am strong standing. I know what happened to me. I was afraid of molding in with these fools and enjoying the things they do because I did not want to become like them. I could not bare. Tonight though I have the potential to be whoever I want. Who cares how people think of me? Social interactions should not be planned and thought out performances, manipulating the outcome in order to get laid on the floor of a friends living room. Two girls, two nights. Go out with a bang? In the bare wall apartment. Empty and devoid of meaning. All of the meticulous precision to get the posters and paintings just right... I did this for myself. I felt it might inspire me to constantly me stimulated with colorful and beautiful images. Or of musicians on stage. Feel the inspiration. Did it work? Am I a successful experiment?

How is it possible I don't have anyone to hang out with on cinco de mayo? Where are my people and my festivities. Only loneliness and bleak sobriety. Run off some steam. Blue/red lights everywhere. Pulling drunks off of the road. I watched headlights plunge past and wondered if and when I would be murdered by one of their steel boxes, careening up towards Mill and the dive bars up there. All of the restaurants with drink specials based on imported beer. The beautiful women. Whichever bar has the least fat or ugly women, gets more tips on average. The more makeup and the higher heels. Stilettos. Tumble down an alleyway into the arms of a sexual predator. Ready and able. Willing and able. There are so many things you can't talk comfortably about. Why not? Let's talk. I can help. She can help. I kidnapped you to ask you on a date. I'm not crazy I swear to god. (Tear duct tape off of mouth). My heart burns warm blood (poison-free) and my fingers are tingling. The joints sore from reaching tough notes on the neck of the bass. I wonder what it would take for me to succeed in a good final night? I don't believe just wandering out and around will do. I have no business on Mill. I would be shunned further. (Possible?) I'm afraid of what. I just don't feel welcome anywhere around here. Sure it is a ghost town now. But it has always been a ghost town for me. The faces are never warm and friendly. The smiles feel like put-ons. The dresses seem to be flashy on purpose. I try to resist looking on the beautiful girls because they dress that way for that reaction on my part. Not me specifically. Well actually, yeah. People like me. They wear low cut tops to catch my scanning eyes. They laugh and tell their friends who laugh in turn. And walk away like I am a cockroach. They say 'tough chance, loser. go play your guitar and jerk off.' And stomp me out. In their eyes I will outlive the nuclear holocaust, scurrying around among the black powdered bodies of most other living things, but I am not capable of entering their bed or their arms. I am a rodent. Why do I feel so small here? Who did that to me???

May 4th

Catching up on sleeplessness. Living room floor has seen more action than my bedroom. All of the cabinets are full of groceries though. I'm sitting in a lukewarm, luke-bright, room awaiting a phone call to be taken off to the studio once more. With intentions to make the basslines stick. For the love of pete. I'm glad to partake. Awfully tired coming into it. Late night with mean girls and artistic, drunk, boys. Or sleeping on the couch. Murderous at pool. Making beats and paintings and taking hard drugs. Combine. Collaboration is a beautiful thing. Beats with music video paintings. (His life worth. His life work. A slide a day. 20,000 days). Lights going off and ranting about the preceding darkness. Yours truly has surely spoken. 'I just want something to grab on to.' Now, I understand the motivation to travel to Australia at 2 in the AM. She is on the floor too. She could be anyone but I'm guessing is an old ghost. One to remain in shambles of ghostliness. (Waiting for a phone call. Led Zeppelin ring tone... Beautiful girl. Where are you for me? What do I do that makes they stay far away?

* * * *

In a bright green corner of the coffee shop entry way, below cross hatch art work. To my left is a wall mounted bottle opener. But I've seen those thrown from walls in drunken rage. Lap top glows like a stop light that says go. Paintings and pianos. There is a man sleeping on his side with a house built on top of him. Fully representative of this or that. Stained steel and kung fu death grips, rigor mortis, drug test for a summer job and the red-faced champion takes the veil off of the trophy, to flaunt that careful preparation and dedication in full limelight. Girls squabble over it. First place, second place, third place. Shortly I will begin to pack up all of my things. My miscellaneous posters, littering the otherwise bare walls in the apartment. Somehow I made it all the way through. Awaiting news of disaster. Red door with a mirror where the eyepiece should be. No idea who might be outside, lurking and waiting with foaming mouths to destroy every bone in your hands and feet. The devil is inside of you. (simone, this is your dream).

There is a refrain. The sunlight melted my swagger. It is hot and unforgiving. There is no connection to anything and I feel a type of existential crisis. Questioning the motives of everything. Why is this door red for instance? The walls bright green? Why did they chose to be these colors? Young man wears sunglasses on the back of his head. He sees in all directions. My hands. I lost feeling in my left completely. Every digit felt like a ghost. The foot falls asleep, turns green, and never wakes up again. Atrophy. "Goodnight world, for I am done. I served my masters leg for as long as I could stand to. But inevitable I must take the longest nap. One that outlasts the cosmos. Stay strong. I can be replaced with something technological and new. Probably metal, ticking and beeping, with powers to develop its own intuition..." Yawn. And sleep.

Never yawn though. Don't ever. If you are bored you are boring. Be creative with your time on this world. Why is their safety in numbers? Certainly there is a better chance for an individual to last forever if they are cloned and duplicated across history. In that sense I am only an evolution of a prior model. And so are you. There are beards and tattoo sleeves. A young lady with many piercings has a yoga mat on a strap around her back. I walk to talk to her about Buddhism and the way and the way colors reflect in her eyes and the way that I am so misunderstood that no one who looks for me finds me. They see an exterior (unknown to me aside from basic physical appearance) my mannerisms are my own and I could only understand if I studied hidden camera video or was told about it from a reliable friend. To become a better person I need to black out and hide cameras all around. Later, inevitably, I will find or remember the cameras and review the footage for self-understanding. Enough studying and recitation will incite positive steps toward self-actualization and the goals of ultimate happiness, intelligence and evidence. (You can't prove your genius without evidence). Show me the hard facts and the paperwork to back it. You have a beautiful voice, probably more so because you didn't realize I was listening from a balcony around the corner. I am always flat. You impressed me with your harmony despite some drunken embellishment of talent. That motivation to just GO for it. Leads to awesome and heartfelt actions.

Take the shot glass in your teeth and tilt your head back. Acts like a tiny suction cup and the poison burns your eyes but your get very drunk. Reminders of hallucinogenic eye drops. Casting spells with a guitar neck. I only record in studios that are coordinated to the marginal points. I need to know that I am still a part of this earth... Fully involved with the click. The dream-like state that happens to wash upon us when we record and re-track and re-record the songs we wrote. Write parts again. Fit the best together like molding or clay. Roll the dice and choose fate based on the number presented. If that were true, Los Angeles is a 7 because it, statistically, will be rolled more often than the rest. No ideas about the acceptance to those other old colleges. Those tired old textbooks that I will (mother of god) be avoiding for awhile as far as I am in any understanding of the circumstances of my life. I may never have to wait in a book rental return line (in 100 degree heat) again. I will not have to deal with the stresses behind registration and the meticulous process of planning a sane schedule. Very much unlike my incredible schedule at the end of my time here in Arizona. Holy shit. I will look back on this (as I already am, a few days later) and shake my head in disbelief how I survived the term at the pace I held. Momentum, mother of god. I know how to be a student after 14 years. And I am intelligent enough to speak and think clearly, under most circumstances.

I miss nature. I miss a girl to wake up next to. I miss the freedom to drive home if needed. The cheap coffee. The winter coats. The inspirational people and moments. The greatest friends are often the worst influences. But sometimes I need that kick into the dark side to wake up from temporary comas I sometimes lapse into where every day and night look the same and feel the same in the same formula. The same formula. Wake up. Drink coffee. Eat. Show up to classes. Be a diligent student. Be ignored by all. Avoid eye contact. Return home and read for class. Fall asleep early out of sheer body necessity. Lose weight and become a superstar alligator wrestler. Guarantee that cavemen would explode if shown a car of any kind, let alone a hummer h3. Wide open scene. We look back into the past through inferences. Fossil records. First hand accounts. The authors of the time. Communication obviously became important. Cave painters shown a Van Gogh would also explode. They would worship a lighter. But that is no different than now on the whole. Art store goes out of business. Less trendy coffee shop gets shit for attention. (Good morning to be in the studio due to the fact that I might have had to appear in court today). Did they issue out a warrant for my arrest? How awful. On an airplane in a matter of weeks. Taken off and questioned. Searched naked on the scorching runway. Everyone points and laughs at the parade.

* * * *

To be a harmless college kid in a town full of violent criminals. Make us look violent. Great grades so far. All A's and A-'s. That is good. I am a great student but I must be going. I will learn and grown on my own accord from now on. If anything I will buy random textbooks for subjects I'm interested in and take notes like I'm in a lecture. For any of this to happen to any capacity... weed must be cut back. It is beautiful in some instances. Feeling good in the studio. Timing off a little bit but that can be fixed with the magic of certain installed programs. Doesn't matter about the timing. The tracks get a whole lot more feeling out of a stoned musician doubling up tracks they wrote and memorized a long time ago. (Avoid the cliche phrases when writing lyrics.) Look at me though. I can write but I tend to have marbles in my mouth with all of the compounded syllables. Unattractive phrases to sing. But wonderful to read. It takes polishing like a fine gem out of rough rock. Same goes for anything created. The first step is the process of creation which is in part a type of subconscious lunacy that compels the hands to work without much forethought. If an idea is to be expressed the hands try to bring it into real time and place. Without natural talent, this translation takes years of cultivation to make happen easily. Everyone still struggles but often artists challenge themselves with tougher, deeper and more difficult concepts to push the boundaries of this translation.

Again, the first step is the mental vomit onto scrawls of paper or tape recorders. (One night. Drunk with a tape recorder or any kind of recorder. Later to analyze the results and to write down the words in a poetic retelling of whatever events are described). Let the cup tip over onto the counter top. Let the colors mix and chord variations figure themselves out with your hands as a guide. Think mathematically if you'd like. But it is best, I think, to go out and write without much in the way of specific intention. Once it is out there. The sketch. The chord progression. The lead riff. The outline. Then it is time to make sense out of it. To practice and retell the story. Re-write the plot and make a foundation for a sub-plot. Making sense out of that chaos surrounding. On how to become a modern musician. It takes commitment. I took it as a hobby to become committed. I have created beats for many years. Now I add notes to drum beats. Having the drummer foresight I can create interesting frameworks for beats and rhythmic variation. Tightening up with age rather than wrinkling. Something to be said about a constantly evolving band. Shooting the shit but through the language of a two or four chord progression made up suddenly by the keyboardist. We flow like lava. This is the first step toward meaningful creation. To pull a rose out of a garden full of shattered glass and dried blood.

Get it out there. Then edit and redefine. Make up a new word. Add meaning to it. Redefine it. Can you think of any synonyms or is it totally original? Let merriam and webster deal with the legitimate word-roots. Make up your own lineage of ideas. From Boston to Bossa Nova. From Frankfurt to Franz Ferdinand. Arcade Fire to Autopsy. The culture waste baskets our brains have become. I know more about celebrities than I do the people around me everyday. (Not necessarily true... but when I hear a conversation that starts "You would never guess what so-and-so texted me last night." You big powerful man. Territorial over your women like a wolf in collegiate apparel. Did you forget where you were? Is that why you rep the hood you are standing on day in day out? Your shining and tan abs. Your naivety. It is a put-on. But it is damned annoying. Who made you like this? What devil of a girl taught you how to lie and misguide others so easily? Act differently when a girl is around. No matter who she is. Incredibly self-conscious. But hey look at me too. I feel inferior so his alpha-male territory identity. For some stupid and ridiculous reason. But hey. I would never say 'I call that girl with the blue shirt. Who do you want tonight?' without feeling like a total piece of dogshit.


Eat sleep and fuck in self-defense.

 Pacific daylight time. Man-made systems. Like religion or sexual jealousy. We have these private parts that have the power to entice or entrap others. We record ourselves uses intimate parts of our hearts and cheapen the thrills. Everyone has done something more extreme than what you thought was extreme. Then again. We are all different. Black white.... We are all the same. Unique but confined to the identity society casts upon us. Weed to escape. Lighten my head and heavy heart. Make me forget the future. Quit worrying about the past.


I have fallen in love over and over again in this coffee joint. I wonder with all of my might if I will ever return to this spot again. Never will I study here again. Never will I dream of talking to the beautiful, interesting women who surround me here. No way. (My ex had those same tights. But they looked better on her.) Somehow I missed the lessons. I have no one to influence me. No one who will help me build and open up... These friends just give me shit for the conversations I butchered. Sounding creepy or weird. It is in the tone of voice. There IS no tone of voice in a fucking text. Where are you off to darling? Another beautiful enters and disappears from my life. Never to be heard from again. She probably is a whore working at the motel next door picking up her caffeine fix in order to finish off her clients and her work day. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. She whores herself in order to stay in the only skyrise in town. One with a pool 8 or so floors up. Infinity pool. It is a tall beacon of what this city could have been. Or rather. A beacon of the awful city this has become. I never knew it when it was good. Stay high and think less, they say and build loft beds in apartment complexes across the street, blocking off sunlight from ever reaching certain rooms, no matter what time of year. No balcony on the first floor there. Disco bass and drum beat. Vocals breezy and light like air. The keyboard tones are intense and sometimes aggressive to the ears. Nice hipster haircut, young thing.


Young thin. In love. I want to share a blended vanilla-flavored coffee drink with you. Suddenly I feel it in my heart to beat faster still. Be aware of your surroundings. Always. Embrace the moments in passing like interesting things outside of car windows on a highway. Rush by. There was a floral dress and some sunglasses that hid the age. 16-26 I'd say. I'm not a pervert. Not saying anything about her looks. Simply noticed the dress and saw her scramble her eyes away from me. Ignore me, young soul. Keep your eyes peeled onto the superficial blinds this micro world dreamed up. It is all a sham you see. Be weird and open. It is strange to notice a shifting of expectations in such a hectic climate. Normally I might expect to run into a conversation with someone (other than one fishing for tips).... wouldn't I? Expect, at least a little bit, to fall into an interesting little chat with a stranger. But this city beat that expectation out of me. I nearly expect complete social isolation no matter where I am. Strike up a conversation like a match in a tornado or a hurricane. Wet and windy and wild. It doesn't catch. Simply left with a broken match stick. Wondering if I had even tried. And what... what the hell... did I do wrong again?


Society broke me down like nuclear fission. Or fusion. I forget which separates the molecules forever. I give off an unapproachable vibe because society taught me to feel unapproachable. Perhaps there is something cyclical and reciprocal in the underpinnings of this existence. A fragile knot that I try to unravel and untangle into something more coherent and clear. Why? I must be open. Talkative. Nice-sounding and looking. Talented and inspired. I must be able to talk well with anyone, anywhere. I must also be able to purposefully isolate myself in order to create things (art namely) otherwise the skull will implode. Ruining all information it previously held. But it becomes harder and harder to feel inspired to talk with these strangers once the reaction becomes so predictable. They all shun the ones who step out of line and compliance is looked up to if not sought after. Ruin yourself. Break down and build back up. You are in charge of your self. Existential make over. Do not let society run you over. No matter where you are, even if you hate it... You cannot allow yourself to ever be trampled like this again.


Arizona kills its son. Or sun. Either way. Do not doubt the awful socialization that has occurred and must be reversed in order to retain an individuality or a confidence. (stay here through summer. alone. to keep the gym close.)

May 3rd

Approaching deadline for suspension into the middle of the air. Hands thrown up in dismay like someone trying to teach a bird how to fly. The bird learns of course and much better and more efficient than the man who is left behind on the ground.

Left the door unlocked. Hope no one tries to break in. Knock on wood. Shot of whiskey, the hair of the dog, I'll be living free in a cramped studio rather than the assembly line, shame shuffle across the courtyard and directly into prison. Someone owns each prison and operates a business out from underneath. Make phat grooves. Make the cut. Your children will thank you.

Count your blessings and stack them into convenient piles. Catalog into wallets of various shapes. Buy one to keep the system rolling on like the tidal wave it is. One big enough to wash over the entire earth and leave a film of slime in its wake. It keeps circling and is strong enough to wipe over every space of land. The vast uninhabited plains of old west. When the watch. When reality kicks in. When the girls leave suddenly and i realize more than ever that I could care less for them. Burning a table with a lighter beneath. Same dude complains about same roommate. Clean freak. I try to interject and say that being a clean freak is not a terrible thing. Not life affirming or life ending. Simply there. Helpful really. Keep organized. They smoke cigarettes. I contradict myself on purpose. Listen to groovy beats. Billie Holiday. Know a thing or too. It is good to be cultured and smart in this environment.


***

Psychotic break. Don't you ever forget. There is one life for each of us. Compile and store. Create and destroy in order to change. Replace and recover. Do all of the things they told you not to. Never grow up from your rebellious stage. Your life fulfillment, dream the big dream mentality! Why would you want to end up a mindless and unconditioned speck. (The natural knack vs the forced creativity). Big things coming to all of us at different times. You can be a failure and then you can be a failure again but you can never be a failure forever. It is in your hands to get back up. Quit your bitchin and make it happen the quick rise to success inside the heart. Making an impact and actually speaking to the cause but without preaching. Fuck it. You kids out there. Breaking mothers and each others hearts. Stop killing each other in your cheap first cars. Stop becoming a statistic. One by one. Like lemmings. I could dream up any fucked up scenario involving the consumption and the decision and it would most likely be true. Down to the last gruesome detail. A decapitation of spirit perhaps. Disperse the spirits. 

May 2nd

Walk around with two middle fingers raised up to the sky. Parents, your stupid kids look all the same. Children, your parents all look the same. It is an endless cycle and the system shits out clones. We follow each other through fake boundaries and stack coins into piles. The state of arizona vs nathaniel james anderson. Mystery girls by the thousand, beat me every time. They win and I sit quietly watching them walk away, sadly. Everyone so mute. Hot days. Gone outside to fish in the bullshit. (You can't cut surgically with a shaky hand.) Mug with a dead cat. Throw away closet doors. They are mirrors and you are a mirror I cannot avoid. Muggy. The moon reflects through. I read scripture in a blank, virgin bedroom. Dark with the blinds the way they are. Lights reflect off the ceiling. Feeling hostile. I am sore and tired and moody. Where are the positive emotions in art?

"A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world"

Remove self from environment. Like a giant eraser. Dirtied by other wasted bodies. Our youthful throats full of smoke and lemonade. Dangerous curves ahead. They all distract with their perfect assets. I am uninvolved. Making a social statement. Personal statement surely by keeping it in wraps over the last miscellany of months blended together like water colors. I wish I could name specifics but it seems like I mostly stayed outside of everything. Isolated like a hibernating wild animal. Nearly no difference I guess. I built up some more connections in my brain for the sake of constellations, musical notation, burial goods, the column of trajan, anatomy of a neandertal, literary techniques and theories, music as a weapon, music as catharsis, the effects of music on sleep, anonymous, whatever my english 105 papers were about. I realized, a week in. That my blood is too thick. It is all a whirlwind and I've never found my footing. Everyone drifts around in their lives. I am indifferent to their wasted time. I try to be. I feel stifled. All of the weight. I've made no difference in any lives here. I've done so little in terms of widespread change. SO little! Now to run and clear the head of this junk in a physical sense unlike my corner of room crunched up into a pretzel. Leaving soon. No one will know. No one will notice.
I am a spirit floating between host bodies. This body was sick and decrepit. It does not treat itself well and if it doesn't no one else will. Lovely ladies in the sun. Nothing from them. I am indifferent. I am different.

2:22

Piles of change disassembled by rattling bass. the cheapening of perfume and the natural scents that don't seem so disgraceful anymore. just a jaunt into the forced pathways between helping hands and current events. gather your electrolytes and let's jam in the sun. (I suddenly remember having played the drums in the park down town Portland. Hop on the jam train.) Great impressions. Happy, smiling faces. Good work well done and no one thinks I am an asshole. Probably someone does. My mannerisms. The unchangeable things about my outside appearance ruin impressions and I fade in and out of meaningless relationship... BIG SIR