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There are circles and x's drawn all over road maps scattered about my apartment. 

Highways are highlighted. 

Byways are black lit. 

We will take the scenic route, constantly. 

----

I'm too on edge to stay focused, my back hurts, Swedish vodka taunts me, I'm alone and sad here. Feeling depraved. Hungry. Viscous and hungry. Faltering. Guilty of most self doubt. Delusions of ungrandeur. 

Needless to say, excited for the trip. It is necessary. I will sap the marrow from life here and there and everywhere. No one will prevent my longing. as=dfkjpskdfj[opasdjf[pkajdsf

july 15

The volume of cars passing by grate my ears like children screaming on airplanes, or even like fox news, or like parents yelling back at their children in airplanes. The morning after, a sickness of distraction, we thought we knew what we were doing, with tears in our eyes and with departure on our minds, this summer will last forever. Just once. Tires squealing, breaking rhythm of words and realize the desire to be alone rises above the desire to be around an old friend. Sad to realize such a gigantic cracking earth. This is pangaea and we are all islands forming from volcanic soot and rock. Sitting pretty with keyboard in front and drummers replacing drummers all of the time. The percussionist is a behind the scenes mad man with a heart full of despondent words. They come from foreign places and desire to be removed from stereotypes and the southern american species devours diversity like it is a fucking pot roast. Singled out even more for my desire to understand. I have no questions to ask in this setting. I am a silent observer. I feel like I'm trying to give nice, loving compliments to a new lover, some seductive, beady eyed girl on her back, cooing for attention like a baby kitten scratching posts that hold up the foundation of ignored marriage, and failed attempts at love, at love, at lust.

July 13

There comes a decision on what to write about. It begins with motive. Then words. Then excitement. A fire burning inside. Comes out through all pores. We will survive with this kind of thing in our midst. I will write music and it will feel great.

Just wait.

and now to remedy the situation...?

I've got the red wine blues. the liquor store, which label to choose. when you take everything for granted you've got nothing to lose. no freedom to choose.

up on the emerald coast, you've been such a gracious host
your paintings won't go to waste
I've buried them in the back yard
with the weight of the 2nd floor
the garden will lose a sense of dignity
and the flowers will now grow wildly
weeds won't kill themselves
they need lethal injection
they need chemical fraction
miserable reduction
a sickening health
with conditional wealth


---------

up those stairs into a mystery of dusty photographs and collected paintings. an art collector and dealer out of the converted top story of his childhood home, his elderly parents still living below, never had a license to drive a vehicle, always had a ride or a shuttle, someone else responsible... 'my how tall you've gotten' he would say while patting me on the head and I brush beneath the faux chandelier in the front room and gentle we mask our feelings for each other in the alcoholic haze of wine tasting exuberance, fast cars and nice collections, german motors and leopard print, dvd players with wide collection, mild recollection, my childhood was disallowed from that foreign upstairs region of the house. the wild remodeled version for which I'd never grown accustomed, and the burials cease to fuel my longing to come back up. this is not the first time nor the worst time. he never came down those stairs for the superficial presentation of christmas present giving or receiving. or nothin'.

remember to rolls royce. the extravagence. the wine tasting. the exceptional and shining rings on each finger like beacons of some foreign wealth I couldn't comprehend, it took all of this time, my window opened and my bubble burst in some short confetti explosion, with all of the things we never did with one and other..... I remember distinctly helping, on multiple occasions, with yard work. I trim the enormous hedges covering the front yard of the house. For privacy. With a black santa in the bushes.

drinking wine in diners

I remember spreading beauty bark and oh the smell. That forlorn scent amidst such scenic beauty. This man guiding the maneuvers of such a lost youth. years back. drinking lemonade from a shaky old woman's kitchen. she needs the help of young men like us. my uncle and I. trimming branches and wielding the bucket out through the dead or dying leaves and understanding now that many others would have done this without complaint for a fraction of the cost and without musical amplification that I had... the dear hunter... the color spectrum... the most beautiful bark spreading of my century. and this is an enticement of his exuberance. afterward starbucks. he bought me a coffee, sandwich, and a cd. bon iver. this is something I couldn't understand. buying things like this was out of my head. a starbucks cd? how beautiful it was. listening to it with my mother while discovering yosemite valley and beauty of such sights and such pleasures. when you're used to beautiful things you are conditioned into believing the weather is an honest factor.

I hope this trip is something exceptionally placed in my history. Self learning experience. Not just driving around. So much to explore. I hope I have a spirit, however impossible, to guide me. The spirit of my estranged exuberant uncle, who lived upstairs in my childhood grandparent's home, the home he always lived in, the upstairs he inhabited until now, until an untimely doom with failed kidneys in a nice facade of a hospital in monterey. I thank him for his advice. He treated me so well for so how unknown we were. All through the grapevine.

My sister saw him change from a functional adult to a vegetable. He died before they could pull the plug. He would not want to be alive in such a state. Such a state of prolonged existence. With tubes entering and exiting. all sorts of dialysis and kidneys destroyed from such years, all 62 of them, the eldest uncle and the oldest brother, the oldest son for the elderly parents who outlived one child and are full of wisdom but without alcohol their entire life, never touched a drop and the smoke of a cigarette treated them like an avalanche treats a sleeping village. none of us are safe but they are ridiculous in moral straightness. a rigid and beautiful experience. my grandfather. my papa jim is a man of much motivation for me. he is a wonderful example of a life well lived. I need to hear more stories now that I know that I need them. I need to find a family tree with solid roots. I do not want to see anymore gravestones in its shadows until I get the full story. I need no more gallows under my family tree branches. I will also die. Everyone will. I must accept this. Not without an understand of an awesome past for each of them.

It takes someone to die to realize how little you know.

There was distance between myself and everyone.

Always.

Now to remedy the situation.

wine stains

Dark nights with wine stains under our heroic eyes and we wield our swords drunkenly like our holsters have fallen off with all of the saturated muddy war field erosion, the kind to carve out desert canyons in the dry heat of illuminated consciousness, with peyote trips in high mountain tents or teepees or igloos if we were crazy to think with the same rational for far northern escape into wilderness, with American countryside in mind and the diversity of its geography, is that enough to believe whole heartedly in capitalism, with the awful repercussions to the actions of small business when affected by the small intravenous intricacies of the lawful and righteous arm-sleepers, those who voice their opinion after election but never vote. The smiles wane like setting suns and the mythological stories of realistic claims against the atrocities committed are wonderful indictments of creative, passionate souls. The light and soft hip hop beats to guide a resting mind to sleep in the turmoil of the Spanish civil war between elitist communists and the rebellion of liberal threats. Threat to the whole vivid spectrum of color and violent fighting. The undecided factor of everything. Your father does not define who you are. What they did is certainly interesting but by no means any indication of who you are. 

Wine drunk, in charge of a modern type writer, wishing it were classic and soon to fall asleep in the weary arms of a lovely night rest. This is far too late to be alive on a tuesday morning. but with the abstraction of time through movie nights and wine after dinners with the silent elder crew, who retire to the self same programs of distraction every night, we fall into a rhythm of movie watching where at least we can get the allure of foreign influence into our hearts, and the sickness of opinion, the American way, they say, of believing in the country in some superficial way... seeing the beauty of it will not forgive my feelings toward its people and the wild unsustainable habits of all... maybe it will.. maybe I will be humbled into feeling something like remorse for the self-hatred. More likely I will gang up against this normalcy, this status quo of influence, and die valiant on the charging battlefield of oblivion. 

I will disappear faster than a grain of sand in a time capsule. I will pretend to sleep and rejoice when the weight is finally lost. I will escape from these bones with the marrow intact. I will seek out the new moments to excrete such jovial artisan personalities from the spinal cord, there are surgeries for such creativity. Could do something beautiful and creative but that free time is spent on relatable television shows and on the comfort of repetition. For myself the comfort of falling into the condensed theme of an intense movie. Slit open mouth. Sew his eye shut and painfully recollect all memories from which these music cues derive. 

Die freely on open ground. The guilt builds and swells. Good bye world of martyrdom. This is something else. 

Sleeping without music

I want to sleep while listening to music. It is much too hot to sleep peacefully without the assistance of a fan or an A/C unit. My girlfriend is already asleep. I've fallen asleep next to her with headphones in multiple times. Now what. What can I do? I'm filled with a sense of hot indecision. The air everywhere untreated is hot and painful to exist inside of. I can't sit downstairs and write at this hour. 1:13 am. It is simply too exhausting. My brain is fried but I couldn't ask for drunken privacy like this at any other hour.

A writer's dilemma. 

Better said... a writer never published... his dilemma. I have not found the right resources to launch my words into the atmosphere. 

As of now, 400+ blog posts later, with infinite notebooks and deleted, shameful, high school writing. I have a back ground history of diabolical writing. 

What to do with it. 

It's too hot to find out these nights. Shouldn't the air be cool and comforting to bundle up? Wear multiple layers before existing the house? 

No. It's comfort in the stupid heat. Brain cells rot and grow tired. They take on the form of tourists on vacation in a state you moved to. We die dumber than we were born. 

It's too hot for clarity or argumentative philosophy. 

I know he is a good listener. But no one else cares what I have to say. They love to be absent. They hate the idea of being constantly present to the situation. It is too intimidating. They have their alcohol and tv shows to keep them warm once they set the A/C unit too high. Nothing logical or demanding of rhetorical evaluation. God damn it. Breathe with me alone. You're absent mindedness is no longer cute and high-school. This is real life. Grow up. 

We applaud you for that

Figure it out. You've got a head on your shoulders. Don't waste my time. There is nothing inside of me that you can't find out completely on your own. There is a void of personality around you, sure. This does not mean it is inside of you. You are full of life. You swim late nights in the pool even though an underage girl gets horny in there and the camera's eyes have seen it in progress. They've probably had sex in there and the water feels great regardless.

You are not bought by the casual, idiotic desires that they reach for without a second thought. You know what it is like to sleep miserably on a couch made of thorns but not in the sense of martyring for an entire nation of believers in invisible spirits and ghosts and unicorns. We are not idiots. Our brains are for so much more than we allow to exist inside them. You know this. You take advantage of books and the literature available in libraries. Great resource. We applaud you for that.

Do you think that you are a free thinker? Do you think that thought costs us nothing? Ridiculous imprudence.

"I am what you want when you don't want anything else."

You drink enough water every day to fill a pool.

Does that make you a fish? You insolent fool.

July 5

Light my brain on fire with a gunpowder-wig fuse and see if burning hair smells as glamorous as it looks in civil war adaptations. Sit on this lonely couch and reminisce the awful effects of melatonin used improperly. (I hear the street sweeper roll by on Roscoe, trudging on like a slug).

Last night we watched the silhouette of an enormous tree become illuminated by the crackling greens and flaring reds of a poorly choreographed firework display. Here we, stupid mouth-breathing humanity, setting up lawn chairs across the street from the mall, with traffic slowing to a halt in front of us and light pollution ruining the bright mystique of such explosives in the sky, the Chinese gun powder specialists who created controlled astral blasts in order to entertain and to attempt to resemble the power and mystery of gods on earth, we can create star death and expand the imagination of millions of children with eyes wide with awe or terror depending on temperament.

The colors were grand. They make us look up and go 'ooo' and 'ahhh' and the fizz and pop like military grenades made of sizzling confetti. Sparks fly and shower down toward the Earth, decaying into nothing before setting off fires. Low flying planes watch for fires. It was 100 degrees and everything is dry and arid.

We, stupid sluggish humanity, sat transfixed by the road with the slow moving vehicles, bumper to bumper with lagging, staring, empty eyes. I made faces at them so when they scan the crowd to meet me, they laugh or go bug eyed. This is a ritual for many. Many cultures represented. Middle Eastern children chanting something in unison while running around. Different languages. Diversity of human beings but none of them feeling all that patriotic. I felt like a clown, personally.

Sitting on this dog piss soaked matt of a grassy knoll. Street lamps and smog killing our view of the stars. Headlights, car horns, and greasy machinery taking away from all of the biggest 'booms!' from the park. These cars are trapped and the people rush to get a better view. We all knew we were ripped off. Our families gathered around us. Tiny dogs at our feet. Listening intently to the young couple's observations. They have clearly seen better. The Fourth has always been about beautiful fireworks for me. Something uncanny and out of the ordinary. A gathering of fleshy bodies to the Gig Harbor shoreline to watch the brightest explosions echo across the bay with no planning for finale but rather a display of awe-inspiring color and sound. No patriotism for me. Only false and humorous. Listening to racist american music and drinking cheap beer on waterfront property. Making a 45 point turn to get out and get moving toward the next mistake and the bigger bonfires with smaller people and greater fireworks. Backyard barbecues on fire, people screaming and blowing out birthday candles from trampoline flip heights and pools have sexual deviance floating around in them with mild and disgruntled apathy, with tired minds and hasty smiles, with deliberate menace and stupid nationalism, with greasy burgers, cake pops, rich kids with generous parents, filth and squalor for a dollar or more, nobody weird enough to invite over, the soiree would die in a battle with no heart. No music could be played well enough for everyone there to listen to with the most patience.

Bright lights in the sky
Spinning floppy disks
Helicopters shoot them down
over prepared for warfare
against fire

the situation is dire

we need more freedom and less individuals

we need an enormous sinkhole on the 405
during rush hour
that nobody can see until they fall in it
into hell

100 degrees

Oh don't you fucking worry. I know I'm stupid but not enough fall victim to certain illusory comforts. It all falls away. I know what it is like to be unable to make eye contact with your lover at the end of a drunken long night. I know how to say no. We vomit up our expensive dinner plates with much haste and birthdays are ignored like common folk ignorance in the best way. The sense of community is disappeared and no one gets along better than when they have to and when someone is paying money for them to get along. The price of the peeling van is never appealing. The floorboards soaked in blood. The open containers of alcohol buried underneath seats and the open availability to be constantly fucked by the law. We are unable to get away from these demons. They constantly haunt us in our beds and destroyed our brain matter. We forget our first dates. Never know what that Indian food tasted like. Tasted like used book stores that take up blocks and music pavilions without competition. They are all building each other up, god damn.

We waste currents on these dilated pupils and dilapidated roof tops.

We are all fucked and it's 100 fucking degrees.