unsuspecting calm before the vengeful storm

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

November 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oct 9th

These forests are silent sentinels guarding over vast mysterious life. Why have no real predators been discovered in this cold climate? I wonder about cold adapted species that hide in our warm bundles of fresh laundry when it's raining. It's hopeless probably.

Swim upstream at the speed of the fastest deep water current. I feel the momentum carry me toward foreign shores. Of course, it is that is foreign. The shores are there now. Self confident that they know what they are. Tourists have exclaimed their ancient names long enough now that is engrained into its memory, the landscapes rattle with each mispronounced word they can hear, amidst the cacophony of waves pummeling volcanic sand and traveling salesmen trying to smuggle sand dollars across the ocean to the forbidden island of the chain.

oct 27

Here is the night halloween parties land this year. I am tired and laying low in this universe of night. There are melodies echoing through my head and vocal harmonies, so elusive, dancing around the next turn, the next harmony, the next decision is one to make with a level head in the morning. 

Here is fatigue and a lack of concern with writing in the alone hours of night. There are no people or animals. Nothing too savage here. Just quiet servitude and music through veils of plate glass. 

leaves changing color

The shortest hand possible. I drove through the rain and laughed as I hydroplane, the back spins out, and I realign with the runway. Accents and tired facade. Idiot with a slacking, lagging jaw. Feeling myself disintegrate and become sallow. Where did the inspiration to create greatness go exactly. I've distracted from vocalizing and writing to pursue natural highs and family bonding time. One of these stunts growth and guides people to safely land on a plateau in a snow storm, comfortably covering you like soft blankets, massage fingers of addiction burying into your spine and doctors can't remove those dense surgical wires after a certain infection spreads, becomes ionized in the blood, creating pockets of air in the vessels that pop into confetti. You are craft supplies. Your skin cells coalesce with childhood glue. We fold and cut paper snowflakes. Trying to 'accidentally' cut suggestive shapes into the folds. Never worked out well and our artistry was questioned. Future hopelessness and betrayal. 

Allow myself briefly to become consumed with the weight of all averted past pressing on my eyelids day and night. Sleeping so deep in comatose bed frames, the truck of treasures at my feet with no key and that box will drive me crazy like nails into the center of my skull, curious cats slipping off thin branches and falling to their death feet first, masts raising on the horizon of reflecting water. We made our parents sad and thoughtful. 

We drank illicit sake from an oak barrel. Brown in color and texture. Induce hallucinations. Organize the work space and then return to a work environment once the jungle has been charted and explored. 

To Seattle we go with our false identification cards as relics to our younger recklessness. Our jeans are torn and we act as hero to the fate of the stories. 

Skipping the productive motions due to some climate acclimation and my vocal chords dealing with the shock of genuinely cold air as fall strikes through my coat no matter how thick. 

I won't lose heart to find my heart again.