unsuspecting calm before the vengeful storm

An eerie windy night outside. Tree branches scrape on tin roofs. Animals howl and wrestle in the distance. Dogs aren't barking because dogs are not outside. Too much fear of the unknown. They could run away. Their could be a predator lurking. Humans are just as fearful. They like bright light and electronic humming sounds. The white noise of a modern kitchen. The television acts as a sedative and we all know this and appease it's satellite gods. Beam us down your power of choice. Too many channels to choose from. The night is black. Inside, objects reflect back unseen red light. No sound in this attic without hearing aids shoved in ears. I can hear my own voice louder than I need to. That's why I can't talk to you on the phone. I'd rather explore this insomnia-tunnel with perked up ears and a head lamp/hat like the tall unknown neighbors without compulsion to meet. No lives are lived in social community. We are isolated in our historic homes like the roots of a family tree growing beneath a city side walk, fucking everything up. Nature reclaims what was lost. I hope there are beasts out there in the stormy night. They come when others are locked away in their castles. No moat. Rain reduces footsteps approaching. Sharing stories of fear, nightmares are deep, dark deaths, friends and lovers in a blood bath. Nothing nice to describe. They conjure images to implant forever. I want to see the horror of lunatics with weapons in the woods. The haunted corn maze that hires real ghouls and psychopaths. Sign me up. I want some fear. I want the eerie night to enter my bones and turn me white, skeleton white, with fright, skeleton fright. The wind carries voices of dead souls seeking vengeance. Avenge your grievance on me! oh spiritual breath, this evil masquerade. I wished to be killed prematurely and unjustly by a ghost accidentally exacting vengeance on the wrong human body. Therefore the ghost thinks it's haunting has ceased and rest is here for him. It works like magic because he believes that his wrongs where righted by my ghastly murder at the river with a drowning by invisible hands. I become another link in the chain, on the other side. I can be aware of a vengeance to seek. I would choose someone at random and then study them. See if they have the guts or knowledge to continue the tradition of vengeful killings and a continuing story of afterlife confronting life. Freak accidents happen when the weather is about to turn like tonight.

November 5

There is a weight on my spinal column caused by a frieze embedded with a great idea. The idea is a shallow relief. I must chisel away until I can form the right tiny characters and the epic battles presented like sea monsters versus cargo ships in the pre-flight night. The only way across that vast pearl-blue sprawl was a fearful journey by boat. You would wear a uniform with a little tin flag affixed to it upon your awaited arrival back home. That shipping village comes out and throws a party, with floats and parades, streamers waiting for your silhouette to appear on the horizon. I guess they had nothing better to do.

The great idea causing neck pain is about making some sense of all of the writing I have done over the years, the manic passages of pain and loathing, searching and questioning, all of it. I am baffled by the best way to go about it. This is a mighty project, an undertaking, especially if I wish it to flow well. I could arrange them into poetic divisions, with titles, if the transitions can't seem to be smoothed out. It just requires a step back at each individual part of the machine to discern its purpose. Everything becomes possible. In sound production, whiskey bottling, denture making, and writing the greatest focus for the efficient execution of a beautiful glimmering final product is to be aware of signal flow.

I must understand how the steam is passed through the pipes to turn the latch. Sound comes into the microphone. There are wires attached to a computer. I hear the sound through the speakers attached to the computer. Every mechanism for creativity can be made into simple machinery if all of the parts are figured out and the grease helps the correct hinges. Run of the mill creative output is a grand machine of social misdirection. Everybody influences everybody. Many concern themselves too much with the desires of glorified strangers on the glowing boxes.

Even with the perfect formula, only an altruistic mathematician would use the equation for purely good. The mad scientist is a power crazed genius. Discovering a cure for cancer that also kills all of the rainforests in the world. Ethical and moral dilemma of the artist/scientist/professor/engineer.

I need to sift through all of my old ramblings and try to piece particularly grand passages into some wonderful prose-poetry, partial autobiographical, non fiction narrative. It would make a discordant narrative if I did not have a thematic intent in mind.

I could write a chap book about Arizona surely. Otherwise I must isolate an emotion or a feeling and search through the tomes for pieces that fit.

I'm finding gems in all cavities and sections. Must find thematic similarities for a congruent-feeling portrait. I can sift through these reams once more for other intents and purposes.