2/28

8:13 - 8:35

I will water my vine and leave the windows open when I'm gone. Hopefully ambient sunlight will nourish it to grow up around the balistrade, the well stained handrail of carpeted stairs. Then, of course, the asparagus fern hanging off of a piece of wood I nail across two window frames. It is happy there although the tiny spikes on the branches, an evolutionary defense mechanism, betray my desire to reach in to find if is dried out. Only once parched should one re-water. (I water myself now as a reminder of what good it does to my body for flushing toxins and giving my complexion that radiant glow we all think about when we see someone we love).

Ocean currents, photosynthetic bacteria, floating objects al bound up in the North Pacific Gyre, oil spills from ships or BP get the attention though our everyday activities add up to infinitely more crude oil spilling out through storm drains into the canals, the rivers, streams, the ocean at once seemed boundless until we found out how long we left the water running --- I could study this because I have a test on these subjects and more (hypoxia causing 'dead zones' due to a low level of oxygen in the water and the chain of events that can cause these scenarios... nutrient loading causing algal blooms which can lead to oxygen deprivation after decomposition and respiration of bacteria.... exhale). I could study, yes I could! What if I finally wrote myself into a meaningful story about my experience with an open mic night and made it relevant to the radio station's website. It could masquerade as a sort of editorial. An advice column to amateur musicians or perfectionists who spend all their time practicing and sharpening up their (personally evaluated) 'dull edges' instead of revealing the true nature of their artistic spirit to the eyes of the world. It is good to be self-aware. Criticism from kindred spirits is valuable. Go to a coffee house with a microphone. Bring your guitar. Play that one song you've been kinda sorta working on and finish it mentally before you get on stage. You are the element of surprise. Surprise yourself and see what happens.

On a whim, that spirited day where angels seemed to come from the woodwork to offer me advice. They were just students like me. One of 40,000 or more. We talked of our ambitions and I told of an opportunity for this open mic paired with a lacked of preparation on my part. The pianist angel, with Icelandic dreams, told me not to worry. "The worst that you will do is just be 'mediocre.' You will not fuck it all up beyond repair."

"Okay. I'll do it. Now I'm going to be anxious all day," I replied after a moment of hesitation.

That is what you must kill, creatives. Those moments of hesitation are no good for the ambitious, desirous mind. Be brash and bold, feed your spontaneity. Write your name on lists that will be called in order. Go first. Nervous energy will feel silly compared to the weight of an honest passion.

Take your paintings to a gallery without a meeting. Force your talent to be reckoned with. Get published.

No more bullshit.

2/27

When silence is desired, the horrible, arhythmic clicking becomes loud and congests the passageways of the ears (click click CLACK click CLACK cli CLACK CLACK click click...) like that but with no pattern or tempo whatsoever, like audible heart palpitations, irregular waves of blood flow and we all die of a lack of blood to the head. Tired when awake is required, the comforting sounds of the music replaced by the horror of the dark morning and a head full of foggy mush, a cold countenance, a warm glance, red lipstick smile, clear to grasp, hands held in secret, while supplies last, hand drawn images of our demise with fires and stares across liquefied glaciers...
The dreams were of terrible social situations. Guilt and remorse, an out of body experience that leads to the systemic destruction of all relationships I have in place now. All relationship.
The gulf, the rooster, crusted eyes and the teasing promise of a young woman to love on her birthday.

feb 26 14

7:50 - 8:10

Their words strip my nerves. I wait with little patience for the conclusive, climactic watery steam release sound of the mr. coffee who marches through toward his odious task, unassuming what it might do to my teeth or metabolism. He is archaic technology and he knows it. It is a hollow sound, a molten lava flow with clicks and taps between and silence from the kitchen. A murder of crows caw wildly at something, an airplane and its huge, resounding doppler effect crush the air like a breaker, and a car horn intermixed. Sounds of that unimaginable outside world when the blinds are closed as they are. I tell myself this traps the heat in. (at 7:55 I went for coffee and returned a minute later, to be subtracted from the time I have left in my life.)

These nerves, like channels to irrigate cloudy waters or the sun reaching branches of the great washington elm tree and cherry blossom dendrites dance in their somewhere, with a purpose, I'm sure. They have striped them, yes. With hollow thoughts echoing through canyonlands, egos that could blot out the stars, and even, for one at least, the belief that an omnipotent being created the stars out of clay. Comfort can be found in self deception if you bury it deep enough to no longer be sentient of it.

Here the constant haircuts and English prose. Here the history of the ancient streets ignored. Our descendants. If they can whisper any beautiful warnings into our sleeping ear. If the voices that interrupt our conscious thoughts can inflict truth. No, no. He believes that one day he will be rich because he is a good disciple of god. Many people in America believe this I'm sure. That bible belt must have been wrapped around their throats as children, constricting the blood vessels, starving their malleable minds from oxygen, because they grow up forced to church and sunday school and somehow never question if this belief in god is only a conditioned effect imprinted on a young, previously blank slate, mind. I'm looking at you, Descartes, when I think with fear of the thought of predestined belief in god, that you are innately born with the desire to love god.

Terrifying, right?

I saw a picture and it sprang all of this. False prophets with arms around girls and ugly, cheap smiles... Last night as I was drifting fitfully to sleep I tried to mentally imagine the layout, the blueprint, of my day today. I did this in a minor way the night before, less forced perhaps, and the day ended up beautifully productive and warm inside. I failed to remain calm last night. The thoughts that overwhelmed were of guilty stupid and petty crimes I've committed and the consequences of them, the roaming about of Arizona and a faint buzzing in the background of consciousness that tells me I'm not worthy of the experiences I've had. Nonsense. I need to justify my actions through word and song. Share what I've gathered like a caveman showing the one who created fire his bundle of dry wood.

Let the mind at ease. Rant so hatefully it might just reframe my day into something obscured by these emotions.

What about the open mic night success? Another time I guess.

feb 25

11:17 -

Met with some silvery angels today with my accidental alarm sleep through lethargy, wake to the sounds of radio writers communicating and jobs opening up here and there, oh look at this performance space with the crooked folk art and the attentive, smiling artists communicating convalescence, or a communion, even if unspoken, back to the corners of existence. One goes to Iceland, one plays music with his friends, the other doesn't know what to do with his eyes when he sings, up giving a presentation, what do you look at, close them, hide beneath the weight of the songs and let them grow out with a life of their own, beautiful raspy voiced poets and artists, the crowd of thrones and squeaky wheels, oh a guitar and the walk uphill, the words soft spoken and the songs sang and connected...

I sang two songs at an open mic tonight. There were many interest characters there to expand on some other time.

Feb 24 14

12:17- 12:40

Reflective surfaces washed out like a freeze dried landslide, all raincoats and hands jammed into pockets, the skin of wrists is not visible anywhere, rainy day attitudes with slippery floor dreams, dangerous in their intensity and focus, every sign in a foreign language is a warning, though everything is foreign if is unknown, the danger of knowledge is in the realization of all that will forever remain foreign no matter how hard attempted to assimilate or learn or grow. Those are called the 'unfathomables' and they haunt the educated, surrounded by dusty books and growing spiderwebs, the sour mash breath of a fire breather, the countenance of the condemned to suffer by the words of philosophers at their prime, all coaxing and jousting... "your revelations are but sad trash to the extent of our collective knowledge and what you strive to say has been said countless times in the volumes of history," so the intellectual mind suffers to the point of extinction and writes a book about it, to add to the creative pressures of future generations. To justify his existence.

Blue speckled umbrellas, shared yellow ones stolen from U Village at the bottom of the 45th street bridge, that ramp with so many white dipped peaks scattered about, transient in the clear days, the reflective glow of triumph to life oneself to that impressive height, to collect ones thought in a rhythm enough, with the motivational vision of future success.... blind ambition to create a collected thought... red umbrellas spread open wide, one has an image of smiling sun with black glasses on, others huddle together under one, shared with mutual human warmth, the cultural boundary unaddressed to my American culture, singular cover, the rain doesn't care, these scattered colorful umbrellas like flashes of images in dreams, softly shifting through the esoteric gloom of it all....

I walk through this campus of lonely Bumbershoot nostalgia, those gorgeous notes serving as a backdrop to my companionless exploration. There the crowds thinned in the falling rain, afraid of the elements, the natural power of water to carve canyons and smear off make up and pretense. I float through these crowds like a soft fragrance. Obvious ghost metaphors available but inaccessible because I've said them all before a million times, like a corpse that keeps dying over and over, with diminishing agony, though still hurts.

In this fugue state, like someone cast adrift at the mercy of ocean currents after a shipwreck, I walk aimless to find a place to haunt for awhile, eat something slight, drink a cup of drip, feel the weight of my sensations pour out like a sieve, a broken dam, feel them in the moment, gone and forgotten, replaced by strange approximations of what it was I actually felt. In this retrospective I lose the passion I felt, the eyes burning with fury and concealed warmth, the passion of umbrellas as personal flight devices. I am an umbrella. Let me provide you shade and comfort.

Feb 23 14 - night time

Experts at life say that it takes a month to develop a habit. Probably much less time if it is heroin. I've spent two months uncertain. At the end of the first month I had a developed habit of uncertainty and the next few weeks after proved to be a continuation of the former. Now shattered expectations. I'm going to dive into the art of imitating life as if it were my own body moving through space and now the vast mechanism of instinct, beyond my intelligences and senses, extending past all hope for a better past. You will forgive me when there is blood coming out of my ears from having slipped on the thick, wet moss in the middle of the drive way. The serene peace of the trees hanging overhead like watch towers over the garden of eden, in paradise this laid flat home with pretensions and lackluster charisma. The week of planning and fortification. These are hours to spend well intended and heroic in endeavor and mind. Sober intent to perform the glorious exercises of an intellectually searching youth where the glimpses of truth set fixed in the comrade's eyes are helpful affirmations of the subsequent loneliness arching it's back near the conclusion of such a day. Fiend for the flesh and the amiable smile, victimless crimes of giving and receiving whilst under the fragrant mist of magnetic love, these arms are heavy with doubtless simile and the round face and upturned slashes of black above the eyelashes coerce me into wonderful bliss, so often and well intended though my sensibilities and insecurity feel this, all of these gorgeous sensations to somehow be attacks against my free will, though I thought I had let down the drawn bridge of my guarded castle, why must I give the impression of swimming the moat? alligators and all? There is a beauty in throwing your body at another as swift as jet stream youth. Transcend bounds of skin pact, we dance with our fingertips on the dance floors of our exposed bodies, those printed fingers, coarse or gentle, well maintained or distracted in self involved studious carelessness, the attenuation of glorified reckoning, he is trying to inspire himself to try harder, to resurface and to give her the good graces required and deserved to keep this unanchored dock afloat, two souls swam up on it and decorated it with found objects, sometimes she would grow out her gills and dive to find treasure under rocks at the depths, splashing him playfully with her tail, the timidity destroyed and compassion regained like assured footing on a narrow precipice after surpassing a crippling fear of falling to one's death, maybe a rock slipped out from the shoe, or the shoe flies off down into the chasm like a tiny parachuted soldier, meandering until smoldering in a crushed body instantaneous death, or the cease of the relationship with one and one's footing, the gravity success eminent in the trends of a Italian restaurant role reversal and a great big pile of unrealized dreams sneak up and haunt like a whole graveyard come alive at once, hands burst forth from underneath those ancient mounds and thus our relationship is rekindle with a fiery passion, oh joy.

Feb 23, 14

11:00-11:20

Spin a globe and stop it with ritual death, at our longitude that velocity is east at around 700 miles per hour. Sweet jesus! Imagine that topspin if we were on a smaller planet. Indeed, our human species make the planet seem small because of how we have the power in numbers to reduce much of it to plastic debris piled up 500 feet, old television sets busted in and a closed off landfill where the antibodies to your dreams plan our demise. (Focus is too intent on music to keep the flow moving steadily, I will now attempt to write perfectly in tempo with the songs, regardless of meaning conveyed)

Here, in a purple sweater, meant to give away years ago, felt hostile against my own kind, the body parts all connected incorrectly, the hip bone attaches to the shoulder blades, cuts the teeth, sharpens those phalanges like a phalanx and then once my bones and soul are broken I will need a medical miracle, the western sciences to help reattach my mind to my body, ground me from the waist up and my legs will swerve on their own accord entirely. Bright orange water bottle to flush out toxins, erase the impact of harsher chemicals introduced to my body irregularly, in that inebriated fixation on the orange sky, now grey, once was black with visible stars, fog rolls in over the eyes and I realize part of my personality disorder is a failure at acting well as a long distance love, that romance is diminished and I feel ashamed strangely for the geographical anomalies of our rendezvous, the giving or the getting and the harrowing accounts of the one who feels resigned to disappointment and commiseration at the sound of a tiny bell in my blinded ears, forget the small details and crushes me under the weight of a simple smile a collateral solution to achieve stretched out goals of enlightenment, a means to end all means, the teddy bear collective, floral garden and hanging vines, post cards from my inward travels, paint splattered t-shirts, old projects exposed as new because I painted the border.

I become an anxious beast in this extravagant captivity. With my tables and chairs, the solitude is immense and oppression at times, though inspiring to break out through it like a flash flood carries debris down a deep canyon, wiping out all knee deep hikers, like our past selves. Inner demons keep making the mistake of surfacing when I need them hidden the most. Glue pock marked skin, razor burn, smooth skin, hypochondriac notions of suffering, these newfound nervous tics with no zen solution, zen degradation, eastern haughty philosophy, imprisoned rats in purses, here I miss my convictions to perform at a high level of consistent excellence, with otherworldly ambition and activity, that lazy time in the sun may have stained patches under my eyes where no light have prior pierced, causing some sort of motivational blindness, because those beautiful ideals seemed to distance themselves from me while there, without my realizing, until they fell into orbit around our earth and I only seem them sometimes now.

Broke off at the right time. Now in the interim I feel stuck under the weight of responsibility. So easy it was to drift aimless in a sea of careless, reclusive escape addicts. To become one of them was simple, sit on the couch without talking much, attempt to contain the angry building inside as they play video games with all the windows slammed shut on a mildly sunny day, the abundance of sunny days became a plague due to the crazy intense frequency and sweaty walks passed the guy who lived in his RV, deformed and abandoned all hope for salvation, only goes out at night, always a free parking spot around there, the trash filled streets, an entire city becomes a land fill and the dumbest still sparkle like the place is fabulous.

"For sound evolutionary reasons, most of us are not nearly as good at dwelling on good events as we are at analyzing bad events." Martin Seligman

Feb 22

9:55- 10:21

I live surrounded by sleepy hearted people, in their little dream cottages with blinds closed and neighborly love forgotten with wine and headphones plugged into television sets as to not upset the others. It is neighborly fear for sensory complaint. Wake up like the weather: grey, silent, and foggy. Pressure behind the eyes for the success of every endeavor. To make love to the world .... 

shut up dude. they might hear you and cast you out. 

There are lime shots, eastern edges of housing developments, quiet, paralyzed communities of sound refuges, darkling and reminding us of our inadequacies. Used to have to wear ear plugs for the two stack noise we made in that mahogany jam room, or over ear studio headphones where everything is cut but the rumbling, grumbling bass. This is insulting to my personality to be told to turn down my music even further. There may as well be no more music for my hands. Also had a ridiculous smell complaint due to the falafel I was frying. "Please open a window." This is when the spiders must have crawled in to colonize my hanging asparagus fern. The one with spikes that prevent my hands from investigating if it is dry. 

Last night was Friday night. I am a late sophomore. This might be one of five nights I remained entirely sober through the brunt of it. No whiskey smiles or beer battered tongues, nor THC infused loop pedal jams (they would have been too loud and I would have been too high to open the door) nor intoxications of overdosing on over the counter prescription drugs like the others do, or the drugs designed in basements of pastor uncles holy homes, the grandiose feelings of superiority to sober self when on some of those intoxicants is dangerous. If any commits suicide while on drugs it is either because they already wanted to die before ingesting the drug and the carelessness of feeling gave them courage to go leap off the bridge, otherwise it might be the dark self assessment and how the drug makes them feel how they can't in reality and the futility of a return overpowers all logic in action. 

My life is worth living. I can convince myself of that sober. How nice. Strangely, however, although I had a sober night last night, where I painted frantically and never left the sad, huge apartment of mine, I feel almost hungover. This could be a metaphysical withdrawal symptom. My propensity to drink during my late teenage years lead me nicely to continue similar habits while more abundant in Portland, then Arizona. California even worse because I had nothing to study and would get piss drunk and try to play drums 3 or 4 times a week. It was the community. Now they are in London and I get sound complaints as I work on sounds that mysteriously drop in recorded volume over night and all my editing has been futile. They are exploring the world with tightly closed up minds and I'm exploring my world with a semblance of an open mind but I am blocked horribly by some evil imprint of me. Something ungodly. Otherworldly and terrible masquerading as myself but only in outward appearance, though the down turned lip and convulsively negative self talk is entirely a different beast. Could it all be tied to envy, jealousy? Withdrawal from the easy comfort of alcohol or the slovenly life I lived and how they get to perpetuate their filth overseas? 

There is irony. I have to turn down even painting alone in my dark sober delirium where no substances can be held accountable for my thoughts. They can be drugged up in a huge tour bus, handed everything, accounting for nothing. Pained expression of my mind's eye and I suffer still. 

February 21 - 2014

7:33- 7:53 am

Terrible anxiety rising up like a dead zone in the sea, the words feel ridiculously forced and misshapen to perform any semblance of good deeds for my soul, I am a guilt ridden victim of these tangential thoughts but it seems so hollow and cruel now.

I am too comfortable to write anything genuine and beautiful. All I can do now is literary criticism and overwritten essays on medieval writers I've never wanted to encounter before now. I need to get out of my apartment to resolve this. The walls close in like trash compactors, paired with the incessant, unintelligent clicking of the heater, the absolute rhythmless teeth grinding of some invisible mechanism that eats up my dreams of creativity while spitting nothing out, no bones even remain, it is a jaw clenching morning since the measles prevented my spring term registration and the coffee I made is spicy and stomach ruining, I set this morning up last night, destined for greatness but something terrible has happened in the interim. I've lost the desire to fix my sensations, to tighten them up for a genuine and gorgeous experience, free of negative thinking and all of that.

Walking like a ghost, consumed in thoughts up the avenue pass this or that thai restaurant, cigar shops, hookahs, credit unions, hand-me-down clothing stores, university of washington themed this or that, university avenue with the brick layered buildings shining in the golden falling sun when the temperature drops back to harsh, biting, piercing cold, like tiny little spears of ice jabbing through our clothes with the wind gusts and forgotten platitudes. Suddenly caught her eye, some luncheon class mate with a yoga stretch countenance, black framed glasses, mysterious wisp of smoke she is embedded into the dorm life like a brick in the wall covered in graffiti, the skin pulled tight and drawn on with infinite ink. Those lustrous minds turned inward when she smiles, revealing her full naked form with a far sighted glance, that friendship grown from having had sex with the same person and probably complaining about how bad it was, though there are two ravaged bodies and a single guy with a truck, honking in traffic or when people cross in front of him at cross walks.

So I see this girl, ethereal and mystical, never existed outside of the pretense of an academic setting, stacks of books at our table that we could form into a great castle if we cared enough. I wander openly up the street in search of sustenance before skipping the free indie concert beneath the art building, the parnassus cafe and string lights and passive aggression that becomes mostly aggressive, those radio station kids of all temperatures, the sweating with nervousness general manager and a grumpy, tired seeming live audio manager, loses interest quickly in conversation if it isn't using the technical language of his job description. Why so uptight?

I skipped the show in order to go home, edit a paper lazily, drink tea, organize some thoughts... my intent for the weekend is a good one for the body, an avoidance of alcohol completely.

How invisible have I become to walk like such, say nothing, nod my head at strangers who could be friends, avert the eyes to their minds, turning away at the first possible chance and conflicted visibly, walking up the street like a great monster made up of the pieces of old versions of myself until deformed and demented, stitches in my sides for this recreation... Bestial and monstrous, hunched over, walking and holding my guts in from falling out. Let the guts spill.

I need to accept all the people I've been and let them meet agreeably on street corners passing the thai restaurant hysteria of university avenue.

Fit the most of my body possible in those windows of opportunity. Dangle out over the void.

Written word self positivism

Sleeping pill beauty, concentric circular mind, faraway places like that thousand year stare after witnessing the brutal execution of an idea you loved. Replaced by science so brash. How great, though, hey hey, to enter my old mind state of inevitable creation and beautiful prose, an organization of mind that I have ultimately failed to accomplished here in Seattle. A perfect stability between the work of the day and the rearranged nightmarish writing at the end of it.

Sometimes it would be first thing in the morning mind awakening exercise where the words do not come so rationally, as I may be still partial to the pull of my dreams. These mornings of livid and fierce quick typing are generally sloppy and incongruous. Shifting perspectives and issues like those fairy tale fancies of my night eyes.

20 minutes, yes. I must return to my regiment even if it reads as shit the words need to spill out with a passion once again.

Or after the day is extinguished. A fiery ranting retrospective, seated on the majestic throne of hindsight... all of those jumbled up events and actions... subconscious and conscious observations both. all scattered about into a document, concise and clear cut with poetic flourishes.

Where did these writings go? The passion?

Maybe I've emotionally flattened. The literary writing perhaps has strained my ability to reach a full state of 'departure' through these kinds of word tornadoes.

I need to fill my cup with emotions and get back to writing down poetic thoughts no matter how or why, or what. The people I've met. The classrooms. Professors. Conversations. Walking through campus. It is all already a beautiful clusterfuck swirling beneath my consciousness like the buried percentage of a glacier, ready for extraction through close knit and well framed writing.

Some developed style of observational humor. A rational mind turned inside out so as to look at itself, irrationally. The skin peeled back so the veins and pulsing vital organs can be seen in full glorious view, while remaining alive and outside of tragic pain.

Write. One day a great idea will consume you. Prepare for that day.

poetry removed grey water

One juicy big apple, some half assed yoga, folk music, half old, half new coffee, free music downloads, lukewarm almond milk and unfrosted flakes knock off, the toes are cold on the carpet and often hearing the jaws of the trash receptacles open and close, eating trash or compost or recyclable with vicious finality. Where does it even end up? Never mind that now. Move forward. Away the entanglement of poorly designed systems of cities that gradually have injured the environment of natural evolution the human species has clearly upset. Knowledge of these things is dangerous because it makes social interactions seem so futile in comparison, the books to write and music to record, all of that intimate personal experience of life seems so much more relevant, but then the only happiness is shared, said some lonely old pilgrim, and the lower back feels a little pressure, the plane flying over head drops no payload, no army trucks on parachutes for me, unfortunate, no fire bombings or pieces of the plane itself, that sky network of so many layers of airplanes, huge and full of paying business people, interconnectedness of the world because we share the same terribly small trivialities or desires to escape from the chaos of a crowded sky with headphones in and eyes averted, steps tread carefully. Every day is a social experiment. Every waking observation is a participant observation, even trivia night for which I could have directed my thoughts clearly and concisely on a singular topic. In retrospect, go out to trivia night with intent to write about trivia knight, a short story. Something gorgeous with words and heartless characters whom no one root for to win as they look up the answers on their phones and win unfairly. They posture and stretch as I had once when I thought I cared. Now I write and glower.

It became too scientific. That old stream of consciousness is now sent through a treatment facility, coughing out as poetry-removed grey water.

bornghost

Is it possible to wake these eyes up from such a dark, deep slumber? Those slept through hours of oblivion where my eyes are still attached, dust in the corners, lights sweeps through the plastic, crinkled blinders and we do not have a clear vision, what we have is a strange dichotomy of conservation and prodigious excess, one inspired by science and dreams of a future, the other inspired by god and dreams of afterlife beyond the planet earth. Go to your afterlife but do not take the earth with you.

Back cracks like invetebrate jellyfhis. unaware of potential repetitive stress and pain, hear those eyes flicker like dying star lights and our poetic impulses fade and extinguish too quickly like superficial clotheslnes.

What am I really trying to say?

I hope that I can wake fully from through absent dreams and move through this day beautifully like a new bornghost.

feb 18

Question my own drunken motives with the discerning eye of jury and executioner, those terrible fallacious beliefs in a happy 32oz of beer, repeating over and over until harboring resentment to my poor orphaned liver, the prayers that go unheard fill up the sky with stars and my stomach bleeds angry tears, detox those hubristic thoughts, that daunting task to finish off the next beer and the better, or best and gracious, lauded applause, arrow points in all direction. The blue sky chased me out of my delirium though a gentle nice sounds rather harmonious.

Human all too human - Nietzsche

2/13

Thanks heavens my head cleared up. Burned up a walking hour to slow thought down into a low rumble like a distant battlefield, the deserters sprint at first, jog, and then trot, I wonder if they can find a peaceful stride outside a certain radius or if all bones collapse, calcium land mines, feral cats clawing through tendons, nagging sensation of falling--

Up the hill passed the catholic cemetery, with still cold statues moving slight steps with the earth's rotation. The sidewalk dips lower than some of the flat grave stones with grass trimmed neatly in squares or rectangles, depending on how the body was found, imagine aerial x-ray skeletons, though I am basically up to my shins in holy burial ground with the best view of city lights in the distance, low cloud cover keeps everything contained in one blotted mass. A vague anxiety saturates my blood like a river delta.

It doesn't take constant inspiration. It takes persistence. The words will come out easier in a passion when inspired if well trained. Same with a guitar solo. Climbing a mountain peak. Each decision to take the stairs instead of the elevator, all of those lazy waiting tourists to the pace of this globe, even small steps for heavy hooves, getting torn apart by the winter and the wolves of night, but remember my dear, spring is approaching so blissful and inevitable.

Thought of a movie poster in some looming future that will come out after I die. I will disappear from this form of consciousness and others will see that feature though I'll find myself escaping, buried under ragged roots and torn up sidewalk. Lost into musical breaths aligned with silent lakes, free form writing suffers great with new born standards. The issue is the speed and that line thickened between my mind and my fingers. Contemplate what it means for this synapse failure to erupt so rapidly and then I'm typing as fast as I can but I feel a definitive mental block, a codex to my sensibilities, an ice form, carved out sand sculpture consumed by the risen tide, star fish on a boardwalk as tide shrinks away, the ocean eating human construction... one day, these deformed, fenced off buildings, the ferry beside the old pier. Each crumbling net shed pulled down under those heavy sediment waves and pulled down, down, down.

College writing rhythm. Own this new personality.

I should speak in first person. Develop a character out of myself to look back on. Closet bury those other versions and diversions, suffering the crazy shock of an electric guilt, when the pressure is cooking up boiling grease, stir fry projects and mind goes elsewhere or melts into the parts of these elements that phase change into steam.

"pull out your heart to make being alone"

Confounding what has happened in this procession. All oozed out in the end.

Contours of her skin, like familiar landscapes that come to life with sunlight, all of those blooming wild flowers and the air thick with ethereal scent, dreams of classical composers, travel writers, and the poetry kept me awake, certain echoing phrases needed to pour out of me like a sieve. I painfully ignored them and now they are lost. Disappearing giants, white night mare snow storms and musical mathematics make it hard to know if my world is spinning in the right direction, there are the classifications of species, the deviation, the hair styles, the confidence in chosen groove, or rut, that he finds himself in, with all angles tightened up around his throat until no more songs can come out, like a little song bird taken out of his natural comfort and chained to a gate in the studio, no more songs, nothing unique, all just flat jokes and poor ambitions. How can I contradict? Where is my trajectory when I need it the most?

Feb 12

My suffocation with the tight places I've been lead me inevitably deeper inside, the catacombs of coffee houses and well painted murals, found objects piled up until lost amidst the shredded paper trail of office buildings, those plagues on the landscape and it falls into synthetic pieces. This narrative falls apart as inconsequential and real issues, the truthful assignments become malignant and break off, have you grown a healthy forest of anxious arms around the jewel encrusted casings of your heart, with those diamond pearly whites of your eyes, shattered and broken down into black globe pieces, enormous pine cones, the size of forearms and a fist, musical ledges, those fiscal cliffs of dover, made up of ground up salt in a bloom, a frenzied feeding underneath your floorboards, those haunted smiles that don't seem appropriate even if everyone else is smiling for the same reason, perhaps an authority figure fell into a pile at the bottom of the stairs, that physical humor like sex is infectious, here we lay out and I can't place any objects on the ground without microscopic proliferation, and small bites, intense itches, rolling and turning in the bedroom of my attic house, here we killed our love and I felt so incredibly dead under the weight of those angular words, forgive me, my ambitions, I am not living up to your power. I must reconnect with that better version of myself, who knows what to say and when, never feels lost or helpless.

Harbor ill thoughts, feel melancholic chills when the wind mentions her name and the hearing is muddled, expressive of a desire to live, to outlive and to work, to over work and fall into a back broken fury, a pained expression..... shut up.

Careless with the word choices. They connect no dots and paint no picture. This is just working evidence of pain. Cringing at the sight and sound of these emotionless narratives. There is a girl that haunts me. She is everywhere.

------

Caffeine addled frenzy, holy christ is this the end of existence, this is an observation of my flushed emotions, all add up to painful reconciliation, those harbingers of good earth, bad soil and a poisonous attitude infecting the mind even though there is constant beauty, everything changes and can be taken for pleasure so simply, these painful precepts are irrelevant and awful.

This is time for growth not rolling about the floor in existential pain.

Flaming Lips references and a smile to ease the tension. One to replace words with. I am now smiling. This is all over and I will come up with elegant solutions to my woes faster than I could possibly write them all down. I will be a solution dreamer and there, the blueprints, I will wake up with crazy clarity and an itchy feeling to grow beyond the normal tendency to fall through... These cracks are not wide enough. I am on an upward flight beyond the limits of my personality. These obstacles are all internal monologue... they are depressive tactics for the justification of sadness and inhibition. Did Mozart ever have days he felt inadequate or did his dynamic spirit murder all doubt and deliver him to excellence?

Where do I stand on my own two feet. behind books and inside the market place of vibrating sensations , waves of grandeur and all of those ideas that become increasingly difficult to micro manage, though easier to spot because they are huge, consuming the horizon and the leading lines all condensed into one straight forward arrow... there my future self waving back, coaxing me along.

"It will be alright. These awful feelings will pass and you will become me, organizing a stack of papers on the desk of your study with perfect health and clarity of action. These emotions will pass as soon as you accept them as a part of you... us...  Escape from them with full disclosure. Feed the parts of your personality you wish to flourish. Let the negative parts starve. They aren't worth your time. Become electric, festive.... and follow me into every sunset."

Hear from the outside what sounds like nice, youthful adventure on the inside, that abandonment issue I have when I get drunk, those scantily clad part going girls in the 20 degree February weather, looking for a valentine to take home and try out with creaking bed coils until the true date approaches and many suitors battle outside, gently without trying to rough up their bouquets or bloody up their tuxedos, and quietly as to not offend the neighbors, hey, hey. I was distracted by a mess. Telephone dissonance and a bar scene indescribable. I nearly started crying. Here I am once more missing out on the present tense, the insanity of this greek life I can't fathom, those spray tanned, long legs and their disciples at their heels, gnashing.

Good Morning Sunshine

Cold lower back, grazing the tan/brown carpet where divots form from chair legs, that black beauty acoustic gem of sixth string is to the immediately vicinity of my right side, glowing restless in the morning fog, those lowered clouds elevate my clarity although the views are obscured, vague and defiled, made like Bob Ross paintings before completion. Stacks of books and psychology yesterdays, mirrors in water sources or shiniest reflective windows, into the soul of it, the heart of this raw earth and our horrible tendencies, shake it off like a bad cold one morning suddenly dissipates, pull apart the infrastructure of those sad dreams, the ones with countless animal deaths and awkwardly silent funerals, no jokes or anecdotes, nor eulogy, or pictures, just downtrodden families dressed in a mock up of black grieving robes, purchased from the funeral director's wife, who makes these weeping outfits for rent each day someone is lowered into the ground. You can wear one around your face like a blind fold if you wish not to know who died. Is there some pane for broken glass? Excessive, gratuitous love on sheer cliff faces, belonging to the parable of Zeus, almighty with sharpened scepter, glaring down at unarmed mortals with an anxious, testy look in his eyes. No one has believed in him for so long, with all of these modern gods and jesuses, that he no longer gets to punish anyone for misbehaving. Poor old guy. He was able to decapitate those who stood against him in the olden days. Now vishnu would send elephants the size of meteors toward his castle battlements until it all crumbles back into those low flying clouds I earlier mentioned.

Seagulls and crows picking worms out of the ground water mud. Soft low voices humming from without like radios left on in between stations. All low frequency mumbles and static. A hen from the chicken coop next door calls her sun salutation as the rays grow downward, angular through my window like a plotted graph of increased solitude between here and her mighty, fiery globe hanging up there with eminent, unpredictable implosion or extinction. I hear the cooped up animal cawing for the sake of sun's warmth after a night of silent huddled shivering out in the tundra of cold waste. It is a rejoice for newfound life in sun light. An affirmation of existence and I should have a similar habit, my god Zeus, what do you have for me for my morning affirmation? Is it the written word, yoga, prayer and candles? Or something physically active. A icy breath jog up the icy death stairs, the grand stairway toward orion. Twenty minutes writing. Ten minutes cooking. Ten minutes eating. Ten minutes preparing for school. Ten minutes playing guitar. Or should I let the day come at me like a surprise attack each morning? Halfway through my second cup of coffee, I realize I have to run out the door and have time for no else. Good riddance morning. I'll see you again this afternoon.