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.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
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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