853-913
Closing in on the date of departure, where I will see thousands of sad leaving/happy returning faces melt into each other. Perplexing complexion. Some look absurd, like they arrived in the wrong city or have just realized a horrible mistake. They chased the sunrise or the sunset or keep parallel with it until their destinations spill out on the landscape in the front of them. That moment of awe, forever. (oh god I'm a terrible mess today). Rum advertisements on the walls. Repainting the ceiling on speed for fun. Where can I get a ladder to walk under? Tons of stray black cats. Not the fireworks. Here? Fires would consume the entire state if dust could serve as kindling. Tiny reproductions of famous pieces of artwork. Skeletons with disco balls for eyes... The long day ahead. But I do not fear. I will make it out of this alive and you will see what happens for me. For me. Not to me.
Good vibes on a stubborn wednesday. Yours truly, clean-shaved, shirtless, typing along with the blinds closed, streaks of morning sunlight shine through although there still might be a bite in the air that carried over from the night. No use taking another layer. Will have to carry it around the rest of the day if I did that. Anyway. Colorful swirls of compliments, a room full of the socially awkward 'we'. Who is that jazz musician? I love jazz. I love art. I love insanity. I love what buddhism has to offer. I can never be devout. But what a waste of a life anyway. There is so much sinning and insanity to do. All those relevant gestures that no one mistakes for frugal half-enlightenment.
We are very much aware that our ship is sinking into the mud. Worse than drowning is drowning in mud. It is thicker. Like quicksand, to swallow you whole, the more you struggle the faster you sink into oblivion. So don't struggle. Call for help. Let snakes slither over your exposed head, they don't weigh enough to be trapped unless they are digesting some poor large animal, whom possibly is still alive, dissolving in stomach acids. No innovation could take us there. No new photography with his crazy ideas is going on that journey. To the bottom of the pile and the sand.
Words fall out like leaves. Falsetto and yelling. From yosemite. Beautiful area. I wonder where exactly. They probably write songs in caves or on cliffsides. The misty california mornings.
12:50
Do what you do my man. Hip hop. Random fusion. Progressive.
Higher than a cliffside. Watching the shore lap the shoreline in slow intervals. The valley trees pointed in all different directions due to preliminary wind currents. The freedom to create without filter sheer hours from an evening spent in company of the king of limbs. Close myself off to the world completely to enter a fenced off region for the purposes of creative propensities. Not such much a born characteristic rather a strong old habit. Old habits dies hard. And this one would be sad to die. In a grey haze. Like volcanic ash. So I cull and cultivate. I feed and anger potentially rising. The swirling animal nature of things that proceed through tribulation. Those time trials where speed helps the isolated. The means of exit three plane tickets. Gain perspective. Feel my fingers burn. Holes in them. A nice usage of time. Getting in to the execution of correct notes. Guitar neck waiting for the feeling sometime later. Listen with headphones to a metal song for fun. Here if any panning occurred.
