Sleep through it. I am alone. I am anchored down and bottom trawling straight through thousand year coral formation and the escape is limited from this depth, this depth is not comforting. My most recent artistic endeavor is one of black light wrist stamps and facial hair growth - good to be anonymous when the "supergroup" idea is mentioned. Though all the graybeards and little muffin top church women glared at me with condescending recognition. (I live here now. U-District. Not Portland anymore. Who knows who I am? Do any of you? Parents? Girlfriend?) I ditched the ensemble to confuse directions and get verbally lost within myself, too loud of brain to communicate or articulate clearly the waves of cerebral emotions I felt.
They played nearly the same set as when I was more intimate. I gave myself to the physical performance over the technicalities of instrumentation. (Too many people to keep up with. I folded within myself because I felt eyes on me from all directions and wished to scream it out into a forgiveness never possible.)
Pointing and waving from stage. The worried mother in the back row. The ex-girlfriend. The current girlfriend. The masked mistake and the terrible presentation. All of it masked, it was a masquerade and a high school reunion, how do you like it? English huh? Writing? Does it make sense to do do you condescend yourself enough what about your own music the math and the technicality do you know how to play drums or is it a rumor and the short unnecessary responses for how I respond to this or that or this stimulus who knows with me running up to it with my trio of terror and the weight on my from guilt and weird inexperience, who do I tell? Who cares? Is it all a huge mistake?
When we make eye contact and I act drunk. Does that tell enough. Do we meet on solid ground. I was overwhelmed. High school reunion and an inability to be better or nicer or warmer and a horrible desire to run and run and hide and burrow. This is me. This is my fractional burrowing cowardice and I am a scared boy living in a mansion of a body amidst friends who aren't friends and musicians who don't care and drugs that don't work. but pills? but pills? I hear her snoring. I felt nauseous when she did in the car when the stereo stopped because the hearing is failing and the communication is at an all time worse and the story stayed consistent and the dancing and the singing and the self is lost and a huge grey area does it make sense at all... When can I reconcile with death? With the passing cloud existence of a hug for mother and a handshake for father a church going card drawing playlist for ... fuck's sake.
he bled and I barely danced. I went up front for frozen in time and sang along. a few people raised their flabby arms with palms upturned in a shoulder shrug kind of indolence and I did not care. they did not know my relation to this band and the turn out was decent and noble and kind. the bar was closed early and the staff was mean as hell and I remember Erica left in the venue for many hours with nothing to do other than sit and talk with us when we weren't busy pretending like our equipment was an issue that took 4 hours to resolve and the venue becomes a cave and then the walls collapse and it becomes the only place on earth and my despondence was long from the get go when I couldn't decide the restaurant. I couldn't keep a secret. I couldn't see my name on the cd label. Mike informed me that my thanks was involved. "You were as much a part of this as I was." he said. We have some making up to do, I think. I don't know. I could have gone down with my parents and walked through the woods to go hang out with them but they probably would have slept and smoked and the vegan roast and the weekends of familial hang outs and my issues are terribly tragic in isolated incidents though always meaningless in retrospect.
I fell in love a million and fifty times. With counterfeit notes and bills tenfold. Words cannot express my discordance with myself on this night. Nothing satisfies that curious exploratory voice. Nothing can clarify.. "I laughed so hard inside myself, it all began to hurt."
Angel Olsen. American flag draping. "I didn't like it as a table cloth." Wanted to ask what the hell for but bit my tongue because it is a generation gap that cannot be leaped sometimes even despite how close and friendly we can get. I was nasty and spoiled and oily. Leaky. Slimy. Bird's nest string light bulbs all wound up. Now I will drink cheap beer and wonder what happened to myself. The video audio classes in production rooms that are 5 years outdated now and the pool recreation and the high fives and the voices remembered better than our own abilities and the ingenious idea to play falling down with capo on first fret. and I feel I've missed riding the wave of the most pop band I'd ever be in and the metal licks and the constant screeching variable turntable warmth when the others, the others, the sexual relations, the musical sexual relations. the same emotional involvement for me. We had sex - all of us. Our memories fucked without roses or wine. It was a purely physical connection. Nothing else.
"Don't blame me..." she said. For everything, I guess.
"For what?" I ask.
"You know... hanging out with your friends."
"It can't be that easy. There are people you wouldn't want me with.. combined with people I wouldn't want me with. The old faces and the horrible enlightened exaggerated smiles- oh god tone it down!"
"...."
"Well they went up and you went out to smoke some sort of cigarette with some hood rats and I swooped down and took you out of there like the hands of an angel... """He's an angel.""" I'm the devil, I reply. I am sin and hate and judgement and nothing matters unless you are self aware and then you can die for it and realize the futility."
"But Oscar Wilde... Scare Tactics... Hasn't this been done before?"
"As much as fucking Hendrix. The seattle testimony and the anxiety regarding it all. the tokes and the cars and the crash and the stars and the glasses and the lamps, the booze, the clues the dead end end end end. why did I follow you fuckers back here just to be alone?"
"you stormed off."
"Why didn't I stand my own ground and enjoy a talkative night with them all. A presence to catch a ride and a weird stance taken my the mother, the child bearer, the astrology class, the insanity, the persecution... thinking of all of that now, this will end poorly."
"Why must you be so negative? Why blame me for your own problems?"
"I blamed you briefly because I know that if I hung out with her you would not have been happy. This is a dumb fear I now understand because no matter what you would have been passed out though I did spare my parents and you the embarrassment of waking you up from coma in the morning and the monday rolls on the sasquatch rolls on and the fear is benevolent and all knowing. our scars are tuned to a tight, tight pitch... our bitch problems so loud and grating that no one could withstand without fucking vomiting."
"no need to curse."
"fuck you, thank you."
"you are a god damn train wreck."
"you have no self worth."
"good fucking riddance."
Monday, May 26, 2014
Friday, May 23, 2014
May 23rd 11:15pm (2014)
METEOR SHOWER muffled by the orange/grey cloud coverage. If we could peel this orange we would be okay. Above that heavy blanket there is a celestial sphere beckoning the ol' spin. The ol' woozy with flashing lights and colors like adult children through free and ill fitting at the jungle gym public park. Indecent exposure to the ills of adultery. You must be 18 plus to cross this line and then you will always be looking back, screaming bloody time murder. A death incomprehensible to the young and malleable mind. I can imagine all the sparks and fireworks above this ridiculous haze. This is pretense. This is the sex and the sleep. But the comets... the meteors... would we drive somewhere to see some amazing flashing lights if we were healthy or would it be hopeless in all directions. Thought of an Eastern Oregon green plains, coming down from the hill we swerved to avoid struggling upwards campers and semi-leaning trucks with the loads groaning under the weight of a vertical gravity, the plateau stretching out into a unique horizon, one of which never before seen with the weight of memory-anchors and the car went a-topplin' over the edge multiple times in our imaginations, how glorious our reactions to surprising and beautiful stimulus, in this sense, in Europe, we will survive with the allure of camel-spiders stories or a sense of exclamatory duty, the job to be done and the respiratory therapist to be won and the splendid sunsets beyond these orange-grey clouds of an indifference both volatile and sedative... An indifference formed in the gaps between false teeth. When the whistling becomes it's own far-reaching language and our pool cues are anchored into the muck and the mire like staffs. lit torches that guide the path into a greater bonfire in which the party truly happens.
Flashbulb memory to when I once half-assed planned an idea to have a party in the woods behind the cup-de-sac of the harbor inlet, where the new tree trunk statue is formed in the shapes of historic and sentimental animal shapes, the salmon the bear... the heron the otter... the spiritual rescue from the over-enlightened inner white man when the destiny manifested ran out and the true history wound up buried beneath jargon of city talk and jargon of committees and jargon of the olympics and world knowledge and a constant world-view when the entirety is all too fathomable. (Do you know that a successful world-view will always be inconsistent with all the troubles of the world as an entirely? Sure the vigilante journalists go out and seek a pacific gyre out in the center where our plastic goes to break down smaller and smaller into dissolvable, digestible bits and the fish we catch consume and consume we must and plastic consumption we must address with a new glorified state of the union when the tarot cards are sworn upon like the face of a new testament, when that "new" is so damn old that our world is subdivided into the realistic and the faintly distracted by the scent of their own religious garb. Oh holy grail, if I drink of you to quench my thirst, will you plague my body with a ravaging ecoli?)
To the party in the woods. I wished to organize some grand and impossible party with tea candles hanging on deliberate branches and motivational signs underneath. About a half mile hike into the forest. I can't imagine too many people who would be willing but then again... secret beach... does anyone remember that fiasco? Matt threw Joel's favorite knife toward a tree and it disappeared. We looked with flashlights for awhile. There was a guitar, a few ramshackle tents in a delirious sleep horse shoe shape, the fire lit well beyond waking hours, the crowd inhospitable and the stoned walk back up after time like time mattered and the parking lot scoured by a land cruiser, looking for drunk drivers and those who stayed would have felt much safer in their skins but I avoided drinking that night... responsible for Matt or Zach or Colby or other. Do you remember, guys? "That was crazy"
Well in the same vein I wished to perform some crazy intense coordinated deep woods party with 20+ people in a bonfire night with the tents and wax candles dangling and the paper signs on the trees, the espionage because if too many cars parked outside the police would have been guided right to our spot and the keg, lifted heroically, would have to be dragged through the underbrush up hills and down into streams and valleys, the mud and the wear and tear of a broken arm, holy shit Dad I don't think I'm afraid anymore. Those old roads scared the wits out of me but hell, I still went gliding down them before the pavement and the landscape architecture burned everything out of clarity. Clarity. Clarity. Memories.
Where the hell am I? I am riding a mountain bike through back woods wondering why I am so cowardly. I am 13. I am 22 wishing to be there again and ride like a maniac. I am in high school wishing the wilderness party flew and that the mix (if 20 had to be equa-gender) worked out. Why not a handful of friends and a tent? Why so large and illogical? Now it can happen, sure. The place has changed horribly. I am the boy watching the lights turn red and the school bus zoom by as I get a ride in the black jeep grand cherokee. I remember the sound it makes when revving. I remember seeing it crumpled. I remember seeing my heart crumpled too. There are scars that do not heal without super glue and a custodial enterprise for the tumultuous mess of driving around the KP without a license, the bowling alleys as if they meant a life more than the risk taken, and a sore wrist and swollen eyes for the time spent, oh beams of gentle light when the harsh light is finally absent... I'm wishing to change myself currently in terms of these old litanies. I realize I will have no current reprise in terms of any of this. I am lost and forgotten amidst those old friendly groups. Aiming too low, they did. The working stiffs and the host of problems that entice my mind so minor they may as well be ghost voices from a present past I cannot access because of a waterfall made out of sockets and gatorade bottles in my garage. The burn holes in the carpet, covered with X's of duct tape and the industrious door with the fowl images painted over. Oh, woe is me, it says when contrasting with current woe. I was stepped on like a bug yet crawled up into the spine of myself and blossomed into something else. Maybe I burst out of my chrysalis. Maybe I found my wings and flew high, high away into the ether. Maybe they knew it all along and ignored my privilege to keep my mind underwater whenever possible. I know I know. Where the back lash lays in within. They don't think about these things.
Flashbulb memory to when I once half-assed planned an idea to have a party in the woods behind the cup-de-sac of the harbor inlet, where the new tree trunk statue is formed in the shapes of historic and sentimental animal shapes, the salmon the bear... the heron the otter... the spiritual rescue from the over-enlightened inner white man when the destiny manifested ran out and the true history wound up buried beneath jargon of city talk and jargon of committees and jargon of the olympics and world knowledge and a constant world-view when the entirety is all too fathomable. (Do you know that a successful world-view will always be inconsistent with all the troubles of the world as an entirely? Sure the vigilante journalists go out and seek a pacific gyre out in the center where our plastic goes to break down smaller and smaller into dissolvable, digestible bits and the fish we catch consume and consume we must and plastic consumption we must address with a new glorified state of the union when the tarot cards are sworn upon like the face of a new testament, when that "new" is so damn old that our world is subdivided into the realistic and the faintly distracted by the scent of their own religious garb. Oh holy grail, if I drink of you to quench my thirst, will you plague my body with a ravaging ecoli?)
To the party in the woods. I wished to organize some grand and impossible party with tea candles hanging on deliberate branches and motivational signs underneath. About a half mile hike into the forest. I can't imagine too many people who would be willing but then again... secret beach... does anyone remember that fiasco? Matt threw Joel's favorite knife toward a tree and it disappeared. We looked with flashlights for awhile. There was a guitar, a few ramshackle tents in a delirious sleep horse shoe shape, the fire lit well beyond waking hours, the crowd inhospitable and the stoned walk back up after time like time mattered and the parking lot scoured by a land cruiser, looking for drunk drivers and those who stayed would have felt much safer in their skins but I avoided drinking that night... responsible for Matt or Zach or Colby or other. Do you remember, guys? "That was crazy"
Well in the same vein I wished to perform some crazy intense coordinated deep woods party with 20+ people in a bonfire night with the tents and wax candles dangling and the paper signs on the trees, the espionage because if too many cars parked outside the police would have been guided right to our spot and the keg, lifted heroically, would have to be dragged through the underbrush up hills and down into streams and valleys, the mud and the wear and tear of a broken arm, holy shit Dad I don't think I'm afraid anymore. Those old roads scared the wits out of me but hell, I still went gliding down them before the pavement and the landscape architecture burned everything out of clarity. Clarity. Clarity. Memories.
Where the hell am I? I am riding a mountain bike through back woods wondering why I am so cowardly. I am 13. I am 22 wishing to be there again and ride like a maniac. I am in high school wishing the wilderness party flew and that the mix (if 20 had to be equa-gender) worked out. Why not a handful of friends and a tent? Why so large and illogical? Now it can happen, sure. The place has changed horribly. I am the boy watching the lights turn red and the school bus zoom by as I get a ride in the black jeep grand cherokee. I remember the sound it makes when revving. I remember seeing it crumpled. I remember seeing my heart crumpled too. There are scars that do not heal without super glue and a custodial enterprise for the tumultuous mess of driving around the KP without a license, the bowling alleys as if they meant a life more than the risk taken, and a sore wrist and swollen eyes for the time spent, oh beams of gentle light when the harsh light is finally absent... I'm wishing to change myself currently in terms of these old litanies. I realize I will have no current reprise in terms of any of this. I am lost and forgotten amidst those old friendly groups. Aiming too low, they did. The working stiffs and the host of problems that entice my mind so minor they may as well be ghost voices from a present past I cannot access because of a waterfall made out of sockets and gatorade bottles in my garage. The burn holes in the carpet, covered with X's of duct tape and the industrious door with the fowl images painted over. Oh, woe is me, it says when contrasting with current woe. I was stepped on like a bug yet crawled up into the spine of myself and blossomed into something else. Maybe I burst out of my chrysalis. Maybe I found my wings and flew high, high away into the ether. Maybe they knew it all along and ignored my privilege to keep my mind underwater whenever possible. I know I know. Where the back lash lays in within. They don't think about these things.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
may 22
I was denied access to the cafe-turned-art-gallery that displayed (unless otherwise burned and destroyed) three of my original pen drawings. A desultory tiger with back shadow where the image once started and if finished would have been disproportionate. A clown fish swarmed by colorful splashes of biologically incorrect coral effluvium. Then the rainbow zebra with stark white background. I was disallowed entry. The 'food' they advertised is nothing more than donuts. $5 suggested entry though I wasn't allowed to just walk in. I sit with the music building immediately behind me listening to a band of some kind rehearse. I hear some sort of tonal mallet percussion, an oboe, maybe a drummer with brushes, but no voices in between the sonic wash of band instruments. Sounded like it may have been a few melodic percussion instruments. Unless the band leader has three hands. Glockenspiel. Parnassus art cafe had the donuts and the animal art but would not allow one of the artists in. Sounded like soft jazz indie music. Sounded pleasant and seemed a nice crowd. I smell of beer most likely, the jasmine IPA and was billed early to leave the off campus alcoholic cafe perhaps by my mistake of packing up before going to the restroom, which lead the man to believe I was exiting... another part of me wonders if I was acting unruly somehow, certainly spaced-out I know, I read the beer list as if it were the original transcription of the apostle Old Georgie by god. Students are playing frisbee and fencing, looking ridiculous with hands upturned and flimsy little swords scratching and scrapping against each other. (band leader is on blocks I've found out.. now it is the only instrument beside a gentle vocal choir... the music is very soothing and harmonic... ebbing and flowing with minstrel flourish and waves of nationalist flags from the country origin for whatever language they are singing.)
There is a poetry reading at Kane hall. I may go. My girlfriend is on her way north in my car. It is a silent grey sky. I am being investigated by ants and mosquitoes. A few bite but warn others that my blood will make them drunk.
Disallowed entry to my own first exhibit! $5! I don't have the money. I have nothing. What will they do with my art? Do they think I donated it to their animal rescue cause? Sure I would. But not the originals. The fucking originals! Well.
------
Thematic glances, a downturned look and a perpetual sad little smile, the short and stalky feminine figure and the face recognizable even if right brain hemorrhage or some fury of aphasia, the embarrassment and the disconnect with the self (maybe I did not dress appropriately). chance to network is crushed because I can't afford to get in. chance to compliment a young lady about how pretty she is is crushed by a pervading guilt for doing so. what a jealous entanglement. am I too stifle all of my cursory emotions until the end of time? this dark haired girl has a slightly agitating voice, one of sorority life perhaps, but she says careful and well thought out things when she speaks up, which is rare. the only relation we share is one with the professor. she likes us and would match make in heaven if our obligatory bodies would allow, who knows what wisdom a first grey hair would bring. I looked out the window and at her. she looked down and back at me almost too swift, reproachful with a down turned glare. I immediately apologize within myself for attempting analysis. She is mysterious and therefore beautiful. If I got to know her I bet I'd be turned off like a light switch. My infatuation lasts for the class period but only on boring days.
There is a poetry reading at Kane hall. I may go. My girlfriend is on her way north in my car. It is a silent grey sky. I am being investigated by ants and mosquitoes. A few bite but warn others that my blood will make them drunk.
Disallowed entry to my own first exhibit! $5! I don't have the money. I have nothing. What will they do with my art? Do they think I donated it to their animal rescue cause? Sure I would. But not the originals. The fucking originals! Well.
------
Thematic glances, a downturned look and a perpetual sad little smile, the short and stalky feminine figure and the face recognizable even if right brain hemorrhage or some fury of aphasia, the embarrassment and the disconnect with the self (maybe I did not dress appropriately). chance to network is crushed because I can't afford to get in. chance to compliment a young lady about how pretty she is is crushed by a pervading guilt for doing so. what a jealous entanglement. am I too stifle all of my cursory emotions until the end of time? this dark haired girl has a slightly agitating voice, one of sorority life perhaps, but she says careful and well thought out things when she speaks up, which is rare. the only relation we share is one with the professor. she likes us and would match make in heaven if our obligatory bodies would allow, who knows what wisdom a first grey hair would bring. I looked out the window and at her. she looked down and back at me almost too swift, reproachful with a down turned glare. I immediately apologize within myself for attempting analysis. She is mysterious and therefore beautiful. If I got to know her I bet I'd be turned off like a light switch. My infatuation lasts for the class period but only on boring days.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
may 21st
The coffee isn't strong but it is loud. I thought my days would be tangled up with the wingspan of a passenger plane -- that somehow my body through space would be dragged along after it (my plane, my seat, my face, my name) as if a rope, 3,000 miles long, was tied around my waist and the slack keeps lessening and lessening, like gasps of breath in a hospital gown, watching your own heart monitor palpitate irregularly and beyond your cognitive control and then half of your face is stuck in a grimace when some dull tumor messes with the wiring in yer infinitely forgiving brain. Oh New Mexico! Oh travel agency, the family clinic and the hand built home, oh the collie dogs running through the back yard, the rough play and the wax glazed eyes and the biting black mop fiend of a service dog...
It is more like a small piece of thread somehow caught up in the landing gear at take off, unraveling, unraveling, revealing my skin in small motions. I wonder where my sky carriage is at this moment? What fields of flowers is it casting a temporary shadow over. There is a pilot dreaming of a good hot spring hike through the Andes (if this dream exists, he cares not). To be a commercial pilot, flying 10 hours a day, your schedule must be flexible and you must enjoy to sleep single nights in single beds or in bunks with the flight staff each night in foreign countries, perhaps never explored in greater depth by you or yours. I imagine this airplane. This series of airplanes considering connections. How much fuel will they use in between this moment and when I climb through the aisles, clambering to my seat impatient to glue my face to the cell window and watch the world spin by from a discrete spot above. All clouds like a paradise arranged in singular puffs and then disappearing. I imagine the thoughts I will have in this plane. Alone. Over the country to Houston. (What geographic sights!) And then, alone, over the Atlantic in the aisle to sleep, sleep, dream and sleep. I sure do hope. Or write in a frantic scrawl the first few chapters of the story.... of the adventure as a whole entity.
It is more like a small piece of thread somehow caught up in the landing gear at take off, unraveling, unraveling, revealing my skin in small motions. I wonder where my sky carriage is at this moment? What fields of flowers is it casting a temporary shadow over. There is a pilot dreaming of a good hot spring hike through the Andes (if this dream exists, he cares not). To be a commercial pilot, flying 10 hours a day, your schedule must be flexible and you must enjoy to sleep single nights in single beds or in bunks with the flight staff each night in foreign countries, perhaps never explored in greater depth by you or yours. I imagine this airplane. This series of airplanes considering connections. How much fuel will they use in between this moment and when I climb through the aisles, clambering to my seat impatient to glue my face to the cell window and watch the world spin by from a discrete spot above. All clouds like a paradise arranged in singular puffs and then disappearing. I imagine the thoughts I will have in this plane. Alone. Over the country to Houston. (What geographic sights!) And then, alone, over the Atlantic in the aisle to sleep, sleep, dream and sleep. I sure do hope. Or write in a frantic scrawl the first few chapters of the story.... of the adventure as a whole entity.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
may 20
8:15 -
Can't seem to motivate myself to exercise my body, through space and up hills with a motion similar to walking. If a grizzly bear was attacking me I would run without inhibition but the breathlessness and the appeals to embarrassment. My body is a singular event like a star death that atomizes entire colonies of dust and people if destroyed. A universe of blood and branches and I am poorly using it. My magnet to exercise is dulled or repulsed, not the kind of training necessary for a three week journey in the european mystery with a shrouded women... self defeating talk. I must work out my body for my mind to be in any kind of shape. If there is a disconnect between these fundamental machinations of existence then my relationship to the world that surrounds me will be hindered, disconnected, torn asunder, stretched apart, broken like bones, blasted like mountain peaks, struck down light great oaks splintered by lightning, the dreams fail when the body is an uncared for vessel. The power of mind is formidable alone but the body must be involved. Like exercise with words and schematic connections in free verse formless writing or jazz improvisation on this instrument or that, or the repetitive stress hand injuries to learn ASL in a crash course two month summer of sweaty hands....
Tequila in a iced mocha plastic container to consume on our hooves to the bus. The anger if the other person has the last sip no matter who had more to begin with. Our demons happily bury their faces in these schematic-connection inhibitions. We think profound thoughts but almost about nothing at all. That is (her) desire. To feel a clarity rarely allowed in the neurotic connections of a sober mind. There is a stronger clarity but with it erases the access to networks... reducing memories to ashes. We drank a bottle of wine and walked to look at the moon. We talked about death of animals at the tavern because they had game busts mounted on the walls, a happy little old golden with a torn ACL, a story about a grizzly bear crunching through the bones of a trainer... the story of the dog attacking the child, the child's cat attacking the dog, the dog attacking it's owners, legally apt to be put down... the pitcher was a yellow summer ale. I paid for it. The next day was the tequila day. We also went to golden gardens and went to ASL lecture together. She took my notes in French. Great meals. Fragmented images. Crying in the bar. Aggressive glances from behind quickly downed wine glasses. Silence when there should be communication. Tobacco, sex, sunglasses. Other bitternesses. Watched the sunset with margaritas (walked down from the fair. the boring fair. the mutual bad feelings. watching blow up dolls dancing on a crowd. the crowd did not seem to mind that all songs sounded the same). "Go get it." Cruelty from behind the eyes and pulsing out across space and lawns. Beer at the sunset viewpoint. Hostility and sadness. Money and booze kill us. To the grocery that only has bad connotations with us anyway. "Box wine?" Great idea! and then proceed to drink into a stupor and feel worse and worse and then sleep an ungratifying sleep without dreams because the neurons are toast.
Can't seem to motivate myself to exercise my body, through space and up hills with a motion similar to walking. If a grizzly bear was attacking me I would run without inhibition but the breathlessness and the appeals to embarrassment. My body is a singular event like a star death that atomizes entire colonies of dust and people if destroyed. A universe of blood and branches and I am poorly using it. My magnet to exercise is dulled or repulsed, not the kind of training necessary for a three week journey in the european mystery with a shrouded women... self defeating talk. I must work out my body for my mind to be in any kind of shape. If there is a disconnect between these fundamental machinations of existence then my relationship to the world that surrounds me will be hindered, disconnected, torn asunder, stretched apart, broken like bones, blasted like mountain peaks, struck down light great oaks splintered by lightning, the dreams fail when the body is an uncared for vessel. The power of mind is formidable alone but the body must be involved. Like exercise with words and schematic connections in free verse formless writing or jazz improvisation on this instrument or that, or the repetitive stress hand injuries to learn ASL in a crash course two month summer of sweaty hands....
Tequila in a iced mocha plastic container to consume on our hooves to the bus. The anger if the other person has the last sip no matter who had more to begin with. Our demons happily bury their faces in these schematic-connection inhibitions. We think profound thoughts but almost about nothing at all. That is (her) desire. To feel a clarity rarely allowed in the neurotic connections of a sober mind. There is a stronger clarity but with it erases the access to networks... reducing memories to ashes. We drank a bottle of wine and walked to look at the moon. We talked about death of animals at the tavern because they had game busts mounted on the walls, a happy little old golden with a torn ACL, a story about a grizzly bear crunching through the bones of a trainer... the story of the dog attacking the child, the child's cat attacking the dog, the dog attacking it's owners, legally apt to be put down... the pitcher was a yellow summer ale. I paid for it. The next day was the tequila day. We also went to golden gardens and went to ASL lecture together. She took my notes in French. Great meals. Fragmented images. Crying in the bar. Aggressive glances from behind quickly downed wine glasses. Silence when there should be communication. Tobacco, sex, sunglasses. Other bitternesses. Watched the sunset with margaritas (walked down from the fair. the boring fair. the mutual bad feelings. watching blow up dolls dancing on a crowd. the crowd did not seem to mind that all songs sounded the same). "Go get it." Cruelty from behind the eyes and pulsing out across space and lawns. Beer at the sunset viewpoint. Hostility and sadness. Money and booze kill us. To the grocery that only has bad connotations with us anyway. "Box wine?" Great idea! and then proceed to drink into a stupor and feel worse and worse and then sleep an ungratifying sleep without dreams because the neurons are toast.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
may 14
11:09 pm
attempting to let my reservations glide off and feel the allure of pure creative forces take my body and slam it against the rocks that are words in sequence forming jagged sentences where my bones break and lungs rupture only when the ideas need to breathe and pause. (gasp). Wishing I had the know how to piece it together. It does not need to be a story. It needs to be an amalgam of images and scattered scenes like pennies in a wishing well. though the wishes, in this case, of course would not be kept to myself but shared like needles in alleyways or cigarettes on sun view balconies when the mountains are turning yellow pink like an exclamation point of color to close out the day.
Family heritage in a seaside town. There is a treasure to be found. Kept safe under the constant crushing waves of Spinebreak Point. Some black chest too heavy to be lifted and without a keyhole. First person voice is one of lyrical prose observations. "The town thought my grandfather crazy, as he told the story of the spinebreak treasure to children around campfires, or whenever tourists came to visit his tackle shop to rent fishing gear. He must've told it enough times that it became a rumor. It became a legend. Before he disappeared, I remember watching seabirds dive to pluck unsuspecting little fish out of the shallows at the pier and we overheard a tour guide telling of that selfsame treasure buried 'deep in the cold depths before the constant breakers and riptides made the place too hazardous for exploratory dives.' My grandfather met my eyes and winked and never told the story again."
He would often take his schooner out into calmwater cove because 'since nana died the rocking sea is all that can put me under.' The history of the town so indebted to him, in fact, he was a walking history. An artifact with lungs and legs and a swiss army knife available at all dire moments. Such as the slicing up of an apple, the cleaning of the fingernails, the carving of a name into a bench. He would always carve Trout, making the o's into squares.
He told a few versions of the Spinebreak treasure story, depending on the audience. Often it met his fancy to describe in gruesome detail how the chest ended up where it lay... with the boys stealing it out from under the noses of vengeful soothsayers of a pre-settled time. The fires always seemed to vibrate and dance with wilder permutation when he mentioned these wrathful spirits.
He was out on the water sleeping, presumably, the night that the tide took all the water away.
attempting to let my reservations glide off and feel the allure of pure creative forces take my body and slam it against the rocks that are words in sequence forming jagged sentences where my bones break and lungs rupture only when the ideas need to breathe and pause. (gasp). Wishing I had the know how to piece it together. It does not need to be a story. It needs to be an amalgam of images and scattered scenes like pennies in a wishing well. though the wishes, in this case, of course would not be kept to myself but shared like needles in alleyways or cigarettes on sun view balconies when the mountains are turning yellow pink like an exclamation point of color to close out the day.
Family heritage in a seaside town. There is a treasure to be found. Kept safe under the constant crushing waves of Spinebreak Point. Some black chest too heavy to be lifted and without a keyhole. First person voice is one of lyrical prose observations. "The town thought my grandfather crazy, as he told the story of the spinebreak treasure to children around campfires, or whenever tourists came to visit his tackle shop to rent fishing gear. He must've told it enough times that it became a rumor. It became a legend. Before he disappeared, I remember watching seabirds dive to pluck unsuspecting little fish out of the shallows at the pier and we overheard a tour guide telling of that selfsame treasure buried 'deep in the cold depths before the constant breakers and riptides made the place too hazardous for exploratory dives.' My grandfather met my eyes and winked and never told the story again."
He would often take his schooner out into calmwater cove because 'since nana died the rocking sea is all that can put me under.' The history of the town so indebted to him, in fact, he was a walking history. An artifact with lungs and legs and a swiss army knife available at all dire moments. Such as the slicing up of an apple, the cleaning of the fingernails, the carving of a name into a bench. He would always carve Trout, making the o's into squares.
He told a few versions of the Spinebreak treasure story, depending on the audience. Often it met his fancy to describe in gruesome detail how the chest ended up where it lay... with the boys stealing it out from under the noses of vengeful soothsayers of a pre-settled time. The fires always seemed to vibrate and dance with wilder permutation when he mentioned these wrathful spirits.
He was out on the water sleeping, presumably, the night that the tide took all the water away.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
may 13
A fissure, a crack in the sea bed and the ocean itself is swallowed deep, cooling the center of the earth, steam hissing out of volcanic outlets the world over, causing the rotation to slow, the air to stagnate and drop in temperature then paired against the volcanic effluence, all time stands still and humans have no way of creating anything but death instead of solutions. Rows of small, jangly pastel houses and the porch waste that surrounds them, fishing villages, boating entrepeneurs, scuba diving business in the depth mysterious around the Calmwater Cove kelp forests and its legendary buried treasure. Now that the ocean drained itself, mainlanders, from landlocked cities and boarded up neighborhoods, flocked to see the damp and formed mountain range in its embyronic state. How nice to park on the beach and be looking down into fathoms and distant views normally reserved for the jet airliners or the oxygen tank junkies climbed up the himalayans! The natives bathe their children in the rich nutrient muck. (too highest tide. direct scene).
I climbed down there with my rope looking for my father's old boat hoping to find his recognizable skeleton aboard. As he took his terminal voyage out into the horizon (boat disappeared, never moored elsewhere) I heard my parents arguing about some kind of inheritance. A treasure that traces our Heraldt lineage back, back, back to it's ancestral roots.. some black, keyless chest... my mother was arguing he is being stubborn with his superstition to take it and anchor it out around Spinebreak Point.. we can use those gems and golden artifacts to raise the boy! she scream/whispered. Not knowing I'd gotten back from the Gregoire brother's rock fights before sundown. Pelted and bruised.
I remember a yarn my grandfather spun out of himself before the ocean and his soul ran away. As it unraveled, I felt entranced. "These artifacts... golden jewel encrusted amulets and thunderbolt shaped necklaces all spooled with silver twine and jade trim all shining beautiful like contained fires. fires contained in stones and inside the hearts of mans souls. these objects, my dear grandson, are said to be all that remains from a race of Outsiders. those hooded cretins told about in children's stories that hum or chant as they walk through lantern lit woods with people writhing in body bags strung up beneath stakes... (my mother would have swept me away to hear this kind of talk... I looked around nervously, feeling her protective presence looming.)
"They would, like the Aztecs, use their still pumping organs to appease Forces in their black forest pagan rituals, feared and feared by all surrounding tribesmen."
One naive boy... stole this revered chest from these howling hooded figures with his two friends. they hoisted it onto a sled and dragged it through the woods with their mastiff Mogley. No one gave physical chase. Invisible forces born out of the dark rituals around fire-pentagrams were sent shrilling after them like a time release poison. Moons later... legend has it... on their happiest day, these spirits would melt the livers of all the nice folk that surround the thieves and they would be held in place, paralyzed, eyes wide open, to watch the invisible murderous hands of Force destroy his family.
Afterward, confined to a wheelchair and constant shooting nerve pain from the extremities... tiny spirits invade the bloodstream and prevent any solution...
I climbed down there with my rope looking for my father's old boat hoping to find his recognizable skeleton aboard. As he took his terminal voyage out into the horizon (boat disappeared, never moored elsewhere) I heard my parents arguing about some kind of inheritance. A treasure that traces our Heraldt lineage back, back, back to it's ancestral roots.. some black, keyless chest... my mother was arguing he is being stubborn with his superstition to take it and anchor it out around Spinebreak Point.. we can use those gems and golden artifacts to raise the boy! she scream/whispered. Not knowing I'd gotten back from the Gregoire brother's rock fights before sundown. Pelted and bruised.
I remember a yarn my grandfather spun out of himself before the ocean and his soul ran away. As it unraveled, I felt entranced. "These artifacts... golden jewel encrusted amulets and thunderbolt shaped necklaces all spooled with silver twine and jade trim all shining beautiful like contained fires. fires contained in stones and inside the hearts of mans souls. these objects, my dear grandson, are said to be all that remains from a race of Outsiders. those hooded cretins told about in children's stories that hum or chant as they walk through lantern lit woods with people writhing in body bags strung up beneath stakes... (my mother would have swept me away to hear this kind of talk... I looked around nervously, feeling her protective presence looming.)
"They would, like the Aztecs, use their still pumping organs to appease Forces in their black forest pagan rituals, feared and feared by all surrounding tribesmen."
One naive boy... stole this revered chest from these howling hooded figures with his two friends. they hoisted it onto a sled and dragged it through the woods with their mastiff Mogley. No one gave physical chase. Invisible forces born out of the dark rituals around fire-pentagrams were sent shrilling after them like a time release poison. Moons later... legend has it... on their happiest day, these spirits would melt the livers of all the nice folk that surround the thieves and they would be held in place, paralyzed, eyes wide open, to watch the invisible murderous hands of Force destroy his family.
Afterward, confined to a wheelchair and constant shooting nerve pain from the extremities... tiny spirits invade the bloodstream and prevent any solution...
Thursday, May 1, 2014
May 1
I don't understand this general malaise. This shaky exhaustion that wakes up with me like it is a warm hearted person draining me of my energies. My eyes feel the sleep heavy in them. Habits are changing and forming though this heaviness, paired with the staggering heart, feel like huge low hanging clouds over my consciousness, the energy wasted away like people in the war or disease time, the plague ravages my awareness and I'm left rubbing my eyes and re-reading sentences until they connect on some base, nocturnal level. Kerouac used to do headstands, even if awake after a bender and a volatile hangover, to wake up his mind for the zen day and begin writing his sensations immediately. There were times when he would vomit during his headstand but he was persistent and placeboed himself into believing it truly worked and like magic, the man became increasingly more aware. Perhaps I can argue that writing in this manner wakes my mind up and that I can make the fog disappear with a luminous eraser like the hand of god scratching out mistakes in the blue blue white blue skies. Pardon me for the idealism. Here's to hoping.
Deep into a paralysis of thought, the philosopher attempts to locate the root of the lethargy. Surely it must do with a chemical deficiency, a lack of exercise routine, or any routine... an overemphasis on booze and a reckless sleeplessness. He is shackled to his cave and feels himself sunken like an old schooner on which divers never find any treasure. Dive to me you will find nothing. You will find a hollow mirror to see yourself within and scream into your oxygen mask until it ruptures, the lungs collapse, the ship sinks deeper, anchor tied around your ankle, the gloves come off, the octopus awakens in a burst of ink, a bad case of landsickness comes over you, homesick like a missing person must feel for the warmth of familiarity unless made of a certain type, the type that relishes crude curiosity and a world of the unknown expanding large in every direction. I drown and I flourish. I realign.
Deep into a paralysis of thought, the philosopher attempts to locate the root of the lethargy. Surely it must do with a chemical deficiency, a lack of exercise routine, or any routine... an overemphasis on booze and a reckless sleeplessness. He is shackled to his cave and feels himself sunken like an old schooner on which divers never find any treasure. Dive to me you will find nothing. You will find a hollow mirror to see yourself within and scream into your oxygen mask until it ruptures, the lungs collapse, the ship sinks deeper, anchor tied around your ankle, the gloves come off, the octopus awakens in a burst of ink, a bad case of landsickness comes over you, homesick like a missing person must feel for the warmth of familiarity unless made of a certain type, the type that relishes crude curiosity and a world of the unknown expanding large in every direction. I drown and I flourish. I realign.
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