april 30

I have a heightened sensitivity to sounds and the petty whispers of hushed tone humans. It is not comforting to lose an identity within crowds. The painted smiling masks and exaggerating giggling of these little girls who never fully mentally mature and let the camera roll on a lazy projection scene. Bickering endlessly beer taps and a harsh inability to grasp with the material from this class or that, the sunlight too bright, the classroom too stuffy and crowded, shoulder blades all exposed in this heat wave and the complaints or the hermits destroyed in their own filthy self absorption. Blah blah blah. I can recount the observations of my lonely day. All the heat and noises that become abrasive no matter where in the world I've been. Just so damn tired. Cheers to a commitment without beer for a month and the tactics to find a healthy medium between work and waste, education and haste, slow down and soak up the sounds of life and let them glide past you without tightening up. Those exposed tan shoulder blades should not be so offensive. You are not disgruntled parents trying to ban books from fucking public school. You are not the old dead era of closed off pipelines, of fenced off houses and blinds raised so high and no vulnerability ever accepted as an opportunity for growth.

I had an image. Sitting here in Cafe on the Ave, but it doesn't necessarily have to be here. The long windows and hanging glass art lights and paintings and everything would be hazards. It is 77 degrees in here and I wish it was winter. I wish it was winter and people still treated the world as they do now. Maybe not. I can have winter fields to myself. Spring is over crowded. So much more free time to be outside for these preeminent summer dress dolls with make up smears on the backs of boyfriend's hands and the broken off eye contact before any voiceless communication could take serious place, before both us could be suspended in a realm of blissful coexistence, like in old cartoons when the pretty animal character kisses our silly protagonist, dumb yet harmless, on the cheek and he floats, floats, floats up and horizontal like a light as a feather stiff as a board scenario witchcraft in the dark forest where trolls can be imagined under bridges or in the trees cheetahs and tangled up around telephone wires are poisonous hungry snakes waiting to be brave and slither off.

The image is one of an earthquake suddenly shaking everything and being confused. In a bar or restaurant with liquor or kegs. In the confusion, stealing away from mighty gulps from the top shelf bottles that miraculously survived their suicide leaps.

Otherwise. It is time for me to use my faculties wisely. There must be a hydration of thought and mind when once was starched out of color or parched out of common sense. Time for the body to feel great. The intelligence and the recording software and the incomplete ideas worked out and noted for their individual worth. One at a time perhaps. Long term goals, putting pennies in a jar. A large jar. Over time there is hope for self improvement. One can start immediately but the teeth don't whiten over night. The hydroxy cut doesn't shave off pounds in a sitting. You wheel chair couch potato. Everything takes an immense effort and you are ready to jump in. No more folding into yourself. This is a glorious life and you must be opportunistic and willing to wake up to yourself without forcing it against its will. Your saddle of personality is waiting. Who cares where it ends up. No need to think about that. Only a little. Remark on the little things required to get closer to the ideal. The ideal is elusive of course. Don't fret if it becomes impossible the deeper you climb. Your best self is like all fields of strife and learning. The more you know, or the closer you get to a more complete knowledge, you realize how far the potential knowledge extends in all directions. This should spark your curiosity rather than make you feel inadequate, small, and unworthy. You are powerful and infinitely capable. What natural talents you have are not enough to sustain the bigger dreams. The dreams that develop over time and forever remain a constant morphing entity.

april 26

My brain feels haggard and uneasy, splashing over washes as a boat does turned broadside to the harshest wind, buffeted by unseen currents, a symphony of little splashes when the chassis of the ship boards falls apart, the decay of the wood over time, natural acidity eating through and the luggage is soaked and worthless upon arrival at that other shore... I'm afraid for our lives and our well being. The possibility of arguments and insecurities when estranged. Might find a clarity I need in order to get through these mental grammar blocks, like cubes with different letters of the alphabet on them (based on frequency of use algorithms) so they can spell out many things cast out as light from a stray bulb without lampshade - the light burns me. I switch it off and feel my body sink into darkness. Above here the old glow in the dark stars taped up haphazardly from hallway corner to center, representing no known constellation, though undoubtably this exact formation within the cosmos is plausible and as theoretically sound as yarn theorem. The fabric unwinds itself in a fit of bumbling transformation back into a spool. Naked. Back lit.

Began in a Pike's Place food/booze rush with sidewalk width channels for patrons to smooth themselves through like gliding fish. All crowded and loud. Many voices all going 'mmm' or making snide remarks about the activities of other participants, 'this guy looks like a pig when he eats' among the spicy pickles, waffles on a stick with sriracha, raspberry liquor, artisan sauerkraut, beer samplers in tiny round cups, for wafting and swishing and swirling when the spirits are too settled. Here was a nice, crowded chaos. An empty belly with food administration shadow bourbon tasting, with the switch over to a more kind and centered motions when going about the small business, local, booths. Angry clouds mounting over the Olympics, the ferris wheel shone aquamarine, like tropical waters when compared to the mystery of the Sound seen juxtaposed. It stops to left someone off. They are lonely or bored to be alone yet worse with the comforting hands of a lover during sunset. A man practices boxing moves on the black polished metal public park structure. It is a dull clanging sound and reverberates, disembodied, over the railway, through the street, over the salt water with the drifting ferry boats, the industry with the cranes removing crates from ships with Japanese ensign calligraphy painted in strips on the side, reflective currents of the tidal force when compared to the petty wake caused by a slow moving ship, with passengers and their cars, move through to do the abstract, the strange and wild, the untellable because it never happened for anyone else.

Radio static silence, the breath of an independent sweet youth with her smiling feline eyes with a sarcastic smirk painted on to display mischievous intent, with heeded recklessness, a quick walking pace and a mind full of witticism, ideas, colors, observations, quotations, and paraphrase from literary canon the ideas of the whole. She is a beautiful soul and deserves better. Than me. Fear of flying, with the shaking dog kind of nervousness, a fearful way to go. Fear of death. Absence of animals and the moving away from them that caused an abandonment of love. I hear the sounds of love songs echoing in the distance. How can I sing among them again with this pulled taut heart string like a violin bow or flourishing harp played dancingly by the bridal gown adorned single fierce alternative women, with color in her hair and tattoos. Let's make music.

april 23

8:28

I am essentially the same distance away from 30 years as I am my 14th year. There is a whisking motion when time passes and all my grey hair stands on end and the stadium roars indifference and collapses. When I am 30 I do not want to look tired. That sterile mask would tighten and be the last one I wear for the rest of my life. The sleep of my life. The leisure of my life. Resting heart rate. Jagged mountain ranges flatten out into a desert, waterless plain, like a racing heart monitor that stops abruptly. Moisture in the air and the hair is folded over. Glory be the casual listening. My ears echo locate each note in a vast array of electronic signals that seem like big radio towers or the snowblind dish network transmitters with the computer labs buried beneath white powder in the enemy territories. 

Neighbors blow their noses like car horns honking up oil. Two long showers and then silence. Thundering around so that the floorboards vibrate. Move around furniture without a clear, demanding purpose. Guitar and amp now rest in faux tile floor dinner kitchenette area with the table and side table, a wildly growing asparagus fern, near the doorway an ivy attempts to cling to a pole where I settled it experimentally. Half finished art projects are now separated by style, with the necessary equipment portioned off (aside from the paints. they are buried beneath collage materials, all those colors and cut up magazine shapes) my motorcycle stomach revs. I keep having images of myself flash before my eyes of a saggy eyed old-young man. losing time and feeling it all whisk pass as I underappreciate every flower blossom and beautiful peaceful moment as they compile and close up into a chaotic scene with the thrushes and rose berry bushes the kind with blue and red little fruits just as a time traveling future self would tell me not to forget. 

The old 14 year in me is screaming too. Live! he says. Do what makes a better story! Every breath is infinitely important as it is transient. Every glare into the reflective mirror should be one of happy astonishment. (My! How did I get here? Last time I checked my watch, it lit up blue-green and I was on the swingset) the giant tires in the playground are now so small. Naughty things would happen in them. Urine and making out. Never at the same time as far as I know. 

This human passivity is a murderous time killer. Go boldly into the night. Do not question each action searching for relevance and intrinsic meaning. It must all flood out of you like the sensations of the world flood right back into you. This is a process of flow and of peaceful acceptance of all life, all humans, a designed flaw and a happy flaw. this mask needs to be a clear cut example of what it means to feel human. nothing more or less. 

don't let the bastards get to you. 

be weird and intelligent. 

not awkward and anxious. 

april 17

There was a stigma attached to it like a barnacle, a pervading senselessness and defeat, a lack of balance, the responsibility of pretend success and a buried personal failure, the skeletons that move about beneath the ground in canal or cave systems. the poetry that does not come unless force unwillingly and the veins under my eyes bulging with focus due to the pages and ages of reading resources I scour through to try to get to the point. The point of all. The information is irrelevant. I must remember that. There is logic to it all on a basic level. If Linguistics is not my jam I will still have to excel otherwise major points lost and they would not hire me anywhere. I'd be the blunt end rifle of the joke guns, the fake plastic watering cans and crying old widows in the windows, the fruit basket jokes, the serious jokes that no one is clever enough to laugh at, the blank stares and an incessant pencil tapping, I must have felt like a dark brooding rain cloud in every sense of it, waiting for a bus that doesn't come, that bus is a nitrous gas happiness when pulling teeth, throughout historical records...
the point is to make connections in the mind that have previously been dead ends. connect to synapses and let them speak through their intricate electrical wiring. who cares if I can't describe to you how this works anymore? I once knew. I once knew all about ancient egyptian artifacts. I knew all kinds of things. They are buried out there in my field mind. that illusive elysian field where worms crawl around underneath and everyone lapses with me when I lapse and nothing ever comes of it, those open mic poet trees, and the cord tightening around my throat. my larynx! the glottal stops, a fever of the belly laugh and the resonance chambers to produce certain sounds, it is all a repetition and a harrowing challenge, may the best man win.