"A book is a cold yet sure friend."
Felt like gigantomachy was in progress on the inside of my skull. The chiseling and the carving or the actual battle. Fires of vesuvius scorched the inner wall and my brain fried like eggs on the highway, during hot days.
Re-read old writing. Horrible emotions presented. Such anger. Still angry at different things. Rubbed my eye now fills with blood or worse. Crushed large spider crawling up the wall. Compared the Heart of Darkness to the movie apocalypse now! and say many similarities which intrigued me. I exercised under the shadow of the news and soap operas. They called the vagina a 'self-cleaning oven' and the studio audience laughed. Meanwhile, sports broadcasters all saying what they say about the dodgers here that they say about whatever the fuck team is closest to you wherever you are. America, the beautiful? We are a charade. A caricature of ourselves and our potential. I am disappointed and hurt all over. Feeling more and more like I was the only item that fell over on a table top after a struggling magician pulled the fabric out from under. The rest of the objects remained perfect, crystalline. But I fucking shattered. They talk in buzz words, simplified to keep us intrigued and stupid. When something of minor concern is called a 'crisis' we have a different issue to confront altogether. Why are lies so well accepted? Swallowed like melted candies. Like baked goods. Pot brownies at the white house brunch. Everyone goes around blaming one another for personal decisions. We need to hold hands and achieve some harmony together or else we all contribute to this fucking terrible culture. Everyone rushing about trying to cutting everyone else off. Buy on a tour. Kill the competition. I am a contribution to this. But I wish to eliminate my involvement with all of the vast evils in the world. Oh god I am sorry. Everybody fucking lies. There is no god. Everything is false. shrank my shirts, everything turned spoiled and i am made mockery of. fuck it. this is infinite.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Aug 28
Subterfuge in complicated rhythms and all of the dreams considered with percussion and all rhythm section duties. he feels that jazz consistency as I exhale a hit of something far beyond that normal altered consciousness. Something ultimate and eternal but with a more talented section behind the kit consider myself more than just a back up dancer. Something more rigid and true. Drunk early and stumbling, running through the streets, so hot with the day cooling down still, tear shirt off and crawl back to that trunk space of an apartment, that show and venue of every mixed metal, turn up all of the knobs you are going to have a bad, bad time. Consider the source of this activity to be beyond everything else. The best jam with people beginning at the instrument where they are most confident and comfortable. The transition to a less known instrument. Playing bloc party on guitar. Something awesome and involved. That new cover song in between those old elements. "it's too loud and too sloppy." "That's how it feels when you eat my book." Strangely hiding that ultimate doom. The ideas of born in the unlistenable. All songs derived from this kind of melancholic feeling....
------
------
Monday, August 27, 2012
Aug 27
I just rediscovered a bankers box full of scattered homework and assignment notebooks from my sophomore year in collegiate academics at Arizona State University, never to return. Strange relics to come across and with no practical purpose other than to take them out on a day like today in order to feel odd. Feels like remembering the best part of a broken-off relationship. This is the content of the soul and all the repetition should have instilled a good amount of this work into my memory. I recited these passages and felt estranged from the beginning.
The top item is a yellow-covered notebook that says ASU in maroon. In between the cardboard and the first page is a stack of fellow creative writers and their first fiction workshop. Definitely potential talent in this pile. Some of these stories were wonderful, though, many stylistically unrealized. First college-ruled page is notes taken for sociology of deviance dated to january so these papers are madly out of order. I will now dive into them without commentary and write down interesting observations during breaks or lulls in curiosity. It is 10:38 am
"we have internalized society and society has internalized us"
(lost senses of community) when it comes to cigarettes, peers override parental influence. Whose values do we adhere to?
I copied down the questions and answers to online homework like a nerd. All of these notes were optional so I believe I was a powerhouse of a student. (we are all born without self control, says Travis Hirschi)
"going native"
moral enterprise: the 'crusade' can be exemplified by the racist, bigoted, good-christian man yelling at passersby about how homosexuality is a sin on hayden lawn.
no smoking in bars - spend 8 hours in smoke-filled bar and that is equivalent to having smoked 1 cigarette
folk devil
----- now an empty page with a small doodle on it... the back of which has a random note about Zola for a different class and serves as a transition in the notebook to anthropological notes, in all their painful glory. Biological anthropology. Scattered notes. Not much, really. Just a few pages. Most were torn out of here I think. To serve paper airplane purposes. And the computer literacy class notes. I nearly blocked that one out of my head completely. What a joke it all was.
next item is an 8 page essay entitled 'Long Day's Journey Into Drunk' about the connection between alcohol use between the characters in Eugene O'Neill's play 'Long Day's Journey Into Night' and the characters in his own life, growing up.
now an English titled sustainable notebook. "So you are into being sustainable?" "Oh I don't know. I just got this and it happened to be sustainable." just remembered a conversation that ruined any sort of relationship from forming. Concrete vs abstract.
Magical realism.
my god, remembering the 20+ page study guide anthropology exams. the seriousness of the topic to the professor and his funny outbursts to a class of 100 that should contain 500
what does it mean to master a math equation months prior but then to look at that same equation and see hieroglyphs? it is gibberish. How can I retain anything? Exercised that part of my brain but not for good. Practice must be consistent. No one ever remembers the equations from their college math or science classes.
Just teaches me that anything is possible. This stuff was easy at one point and could be again very quickly. It takes patience and attentive hours spent crafting the ideas.
----------------
11:06 pm realizing my old roommate never called back. his friend visiting I denied conversation with because of my insolence and ignorance when discussing the difference between positive and negative song lyrics. (Buy your own god damn boots I don't care, however you want to assimilate into your new role. I will not oblige.)
I hated feeling clumsy and moving around, in my mind, considerably less. No room on stage as well. But harmonies were nailed. Light box more uncomfortably high. Staggering like a drunk attempting to unlock his car. An idiot without a brain in charge of his functioning. We are all alone again again.
The top item is a yellow-covered notebook that says ASU in maroon. In between the cardboard and the first page is a stack of fellow creative writers and their first fiction workshop. Definitely potential talent in this pile. Some of these stories were wonderful, though, many stylistically unrealized. First college-ruled page is notes taken for sociology of deviance dated to january so these papers are madly out of order. I will now dive into them without commentary and write down interesting observations during breaks or lulls in curiosity. It is 10:38 am
"we have internalized society and society has internalized us"
(lost senses of community) when it comes to cigarettes, peers override parental influence. Whose values do we adhere to?
I copied down the questions and answers to online homework like a nerd. All of these notes were optional so I believe I was a powerhouse of a student. (we are all born without self control, says Travis Hirschi)
"going native"
moral enterprise: the 'crusade' can be exemplified by the racist, bigoted, good-christian man yelling at passersby about how homosexuality is a sin on hayden lawn.
no smoking in bars - spend 8 hours in smoke-filled bar and that is equivalent to having smoked 1 cigarette
folk devil
----- now an empty page with a small doodle on it... the back of which has a random note about Zola for a different class and serves as a transition in the notebook to anthropological notes, in all their painful glory. Biological anthropology. Scattered notes. Not much, really. Just a few pages. Most were torn out of here I think. To serve paper airplane purposes. And the computer literacy class notes. I nearly blocked that one out of my head completely. What a joke it all was.
next item is an 8 page essay entitled 'Long Day's Journey Into Drunk' about the connection between alcohol use between the characters in Eugene O'Neill's play 'Long Day's Journey Into Night' and the characters in his own life, growing up.
now an English titled sustainable notebook. "So you are into being sustainable?" "Oh I don't know. I just got this and it happened to be sustainable." just remembered a conversation that ruined any sort of relationship from forming. Concrete vs abstract.
Magical realism.
my god, remembering the 20+ page study guide anthropology exams. the seriousness of the topic to the professor and his funny outbursts to a class of 100 that should contain 500
what does it mean to master a math equation months prior but then to look at that same equation and see hieroglyphs? it is gibberish. How can I retain anything? Exercised that part of my brain but not for good. Practice must be consistent. No one ever remembers the equations from their college math or science classes.
Just teaches me that anything is possible. This stuff was easy at one point and could be again very quickly. It takes patience and attentive hours spent crafting the ideas.
----------------
11:06 pm realizing my old roommate never called back. his friend visiting I denied conversation with because of my insolence and ignorance when discussing the difference between positive and negative song lyrics. (Buy your own god damn boots I don't care, however you want to assimilate into your new role. I will not oblige.)
I hated feeling clumsy and moving around, in my mind, considerably less. No room on stage as well. But harmonies were nailed. Light box more uncomfortably high. Staggering like a drunk attempting to unlock his car. An idiot without a brain in charge of his functioning. We are all alone again again.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Aug 26
Writing from inside a tunnel, with soft lighting, less harsh free-for-all and limited attention to consumer inhibitions. I may never have hung up paper lanterns had you not reminded me of their possibility. Hands sore currently from overdoing bass exercises. No matter. Everything worth doing requires effort. Mental or physical. If it comes to you without; you do not deserve it. Drink a coke and go for a run. Cut back sugar and tobacco. Find yourself surrounded, walled-in by relatives holding body-length mirrors, they are hiding on the other side laughing quietly, faint, barely audible in a dark corridor. Something the length of a football field, a meadow of grey flowers and burnt-umber sky, some place prior to the arrival of color... Full room for entire ancestry tracing back to the first molecule of your grey matter. That first divided amoeba. Apart from the rest, suddenly manifests motive and calls life into action. Jab my back with small needles until I can come the hell down.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Aug 25
We can reminisce romance and listen to new albums by the bands we used to listen to together in wavering candlelight, partially stoned, holding tight onto the moment and embedding it forever in a part of memory. We slashed out way into each others pre-frontal lobes. It's nice and spacious in mine, where I've punched out holes... Or is it you burrowing out? Either way, with white powder on fingertips like a light snowfall, a burning sensation in the back of the eyes and the neck becomes sore for fear of disability, lack of movement, lack of flow, destroy the spine and kill all idols, all rockstars destroy themselves, that is the only way to become legendary, must execute guitar spin and the craziest moves possible. Give myself more time before the drum fill in speakers and go for the guitar flip thing. Do it. O.D. on it. My mind wanders through past love and current love. Women and music.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Aug 24
The machine of sight, depicting the human body, shadows lights and colors, aerial perspective, the universal mind of the painter. The grammar of the forms: proportion and analogy.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Aug 23
"You are smiling, you are emptying the world so that we could be alone."
Sleeping beauty awaiting the kiss from a non existent prince when all else fails and someone is a great guitarist and also finds himself privileged in all areas of life aside from romance. What a damn shame, I say. We are all so used to our molds that we never truly break free from them. We are in ruts, stuck like pigeons shot by careless hunters. Those who consider hunting a sport are also those who go out with full intentions to pick up attractive and vulnerable women. Everything in between those lines is false advertising. Suddenly we are too deep into awful shit to realize there are no remaining good guys. No one believes them to exist. They are like the Tasmanian Tiger. The last of a dying breed. And though we are dispelled like demons in exorcisms. And I myself would never be called a nice guy considering the context. I'm weird. (Weird is good). But I'm not good. A little trouble never hurt anyone.
----
A saucer lands on the street we normally walk to dinner, careless of how we act. Cars, fuck you, go around us. We are impenetrable. Talking about sexual things over casual dinner conversation. But who is to judge what is good dinner conversation? Where does that expectation come from? Most likely television which is supposedly a reflection, in return, of society which mocks and multiplies it. All stupidity. We are in charge of how things should be. Not a box.
----
Finding myself a place among the gods. That frieze, that pendulum swinging, beheading all of those close enough to be in contact with each other. You are ridiculous in love.
---
You are crazy, out of line, frown lines solid on face. Countenance entirely negative. Sleep in horror of that prior activity all guilt-riddled and hellish introspective. I trust no one immediately. It's true. I have such a hard time believing someone will do something for me after they say they will do something for me. I could hang my head and call it a defeat or learn from it all, this night especially. Is it possible for me not to drink until my birthday? Is it possible for me to never smoke again? No need for these depressing lows. Incited mostly by the past examples of musicians and artists and writers who use alcohol incessantly or smoke cigarettes to burn up the synapses in between bouts of creative passion. I'm young. They say. I can do anything to my body. but I fear irreparable damage. of the consciousness. suddenly somber. misunderstanding what love is. a shameful thing mostly. confusion and intimacy.
Sleeping beauty awaiting the kiss from a non existent prince when all else fails and someone is a great guitarist and also finds himself privileged in all areas of life aside from romance. What a damn shame, I say. We are all so used to our molds that we never truly break free from them. We are in ruts, stuck like pigeons shot by careless hunters. Those who consider hunting a sport are also those who go out with full intentions to pick up attractive and vulnerable women. Everything in between those lines is false advertising. Suddenly we are too deep into awful shit to realize there are no remaining good guys. No one believes them to exist. They are like the Tasmanian Tiger. The last of a dying breed. And though we are dispelled like demons in exorcisms. And I myself would never be called a nice guy considering the context. I'm weird. (Weird is good). But I'm not good. A little trouble never hurt anyone.
----
A saucer lands on the street we normally walk to dinner, careless of how we act. Cars, fuck you, go around us. We are impenetrable. Talking about sexual things over casual dinner conversation. But who is to judge what is good dinner conversation? Where does that expectation come from? Most likely television which is supposedly a reflection, in return, of society which mocks and multiplies it. All stupidity. We are in charge of how things should be. Not a box.
----
Finding myself a place among the gods. That frieze, that pendulum swinging, beheading all of those close enough to be in contact with each other. You are ridiculous in love.
---
You are crazy, out of line, frown lines solid on face. Countenance entirely negative. Sleep in horror of that prior activity all guilt-riddled and hellish introspective. I trust no one immediately. It's true. I have such a hard time believing someone will do something for me after they say they will do something for me. I could hang my head and call it a defeat or learn from it all, this night especially. Is it possible for me not to drink until my birthday? Is it possible for me to never smoke again? No need for these depressing lows. Incited mostly by the past examples of musicians and artists and writers who use alcohol incessantly or smoke cigarettes to burn up the synapses in between bouts of creative passion. I'm young. They say. I can do anything to my body. but I fear irreparable damage. of the consciousness. suddenly somber. misunderstanding what love is. a shameful thing mostly. confusion and intimacy.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Aug 22
"Are you hungry?" I put all of my rotten eggs in one basket. Barricade you out of my heart and fall into lectures about gothic architecture as part of art history in Paris. The epic west facade of Notre Dame. The fact it is symmetrical, beside the Seine.. I watched part of a vietnam movie, fucked in all its glory, painted some ideas on a canvas for a scenic red leave, bright colored, happy-bright, happy little clouds in the style of Bob Ross but they are not white. I wanted originally to paint detailed red leaves on there and then write obscured poems on top of it all (probably because it matches a color scheme from a painting a year and a half old. And I am the same human being in all years since my birth year.) Write the words out and then paint over many parts of them. Then rewrite some words. Maybe basic gibberish from television news in subtitles. All of that nonsense that ruin peoples brains. All about 'important' political figures evacuating Florida in a panic because of a potential hurricane approaching from the Atlantic. The news called this an 'exodus'. Another channel shows the beating of a homeless mentally ill individual who believes his never-alive son is communicating to him through inanimate objects, 7 police officers surround him and begin to kick him, he persistently hears the disembodied voice of god in the trash can and soon he is transported to the hospital, after a few hours life-support, dies. The cops claim they had no part in it. On the same channel, immediately afterwards is some celebrity dispute. No one killed. Just an argument. They judge us listeners to the extent we have nothing more than pea-sized brains and zero individualism. They are probably right.
That will be the content of words in the painting. Transcribed news media.
---
tear apart that execution of notes and the pattern of split differences and the solos that differ greatly from the regular intervals and everything in between
I revoke my outcry.
One hundred million literary quotes spilling forth from my mind and my brain.
Discovering the tone possible with a light baby blue strat on a pop rock song with intentions to make it all sound like Muse and the Foo Fighters. Call the shots and swoon over ridiculous music videos. Everything tangled and combined with the excuses of greatest excellence.
--
Is it pure stupidity to act out so expressively while containing no recollection of the event? Yes. But the fact those actions were created and halted, 'Is he like this all the time?' on fire perhaps with a certain personality. Making dinner table participants laughs at my will their receptive countenance respecting my desire to be noticed and acknowledge verbally or physically. All demons dispelled evidently.
That will be the content of words in the painting. Transcribed news media.
---
tear apart that execution of notes and the pattern of split differences and the solos that differ greatly from the regular intervals and everything in between
I revoke my outcry.
One hundred million literary quotes spilling forth from my mind and my brain.
Discovering the tone possible with a light baby blue strat on a pop rock song with intentions to make it all sound like Muse and the Foo Fighters. Call the shots and swoon over ridiculous music videos. Everything tangled and combined with the excuses of greatest excellence.
--
Is it pure stupidity to act out so expressively while containing no recollection of the event? Yes. But the fact those actions were created and halted, 'Is he like this all the time?' on fire perhaps with a certain personality. Making dinner table participants laughs at my will their receptive countenance respecting my desire to be noticed and acknowledge verbally or physically. All demons dispelled evidently.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Aug 21
Spoiled little brat. Find yourself alone with all that wealth and freedom. Oh yeah well I did this and it's better than what you did, for the environment and for myself. And I'm more attractive than you and sing better. It's all about traveling really. Get a blunt cut and travel your versailles and kill your eyes. Fill your cup and convince them all you are not worthless. Due to your mother you will always feel worthless, who herself feels worthless and projects. I bet she is sailing through paris as you are in spirit fully, weighing down your eyelids. Afraid mostly of becoming fat or frowning honestly.
----
"You negative motherfucker" so god damn hot, wearing dangerous boots and finding my voice caught in my throat, trapped, there is no voice, there is no sound. I am strangled by the weight of these clothes.
---
naked in a field, daisies or something special, awaiting that phone call from a long lost friend, someone who wishes to be found and to met up somewhere in the vicinity. for all practical purposes and road maps could never unfold themselves properly, we must have mistaken everything we've done for trivialities. I have fallen apart before. I wonder the status... I am apart from the rest. I will never believe the same way they do. Could we retrieve any beautiful magic from this or is it all a lazy waiting game? Where are the hand outs the letters of recommendation and all of the puppetry... I am becoming anxious and stupid, probably, simultaneously. I desire something artistically striking. But I need to turn down my passion for an awesome image. Why? Because no one listens to the naysayer. No one listens to the one with venomous opinions. Keep that mouth shut and lose all self-respect. I want to feel proud of the image. I want to represent myself.
----
"You negative motherfucker" so god damn hot, wearing dangerous boots and finding my voice caught in my throat, trapped, there is no voice, there is no sound. I am strangled by the weight of these clothes.
---
naked in a field, daisies or something special, awaiting that phone call from a long lost friend, someone who wishes to be found and to met up somewhere in the vicinity. for all practical purposes and road maps could never unfold themselves properly, we must have mistaken everything we've done for trivialities. I have fallen apart before. I wonder the status... I am apart from the rest. I will never believe the same way they do. Could we retrieve any beautiful magic from this or is it all a lazy waiting game? Where are the hand outs the letters of recommendation and all of the puppetry... I am becoming anxious and stupid, probably, simultaneously. I desire something artistically striking. But I need to turn down my passion for an awesome image. Why? Because no one listens to the naysayer. No one listens to the one with venomous opinions. Keep that mouth shut and lose all self-respect. I want to feel proud of the image. I want to represent myself.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Aug 20
Conspiracies of haunted paint factories
free write for the hell of it, practice timing
the syllables to reconnect properly
at the right intervals like 3rds or fifths
or seven elevenths
lukewarm refreshments
never excellent
wishing for ice
in a frozen situation
we are paralyzed
wishing for vices
the jaws of life
to break through ice
exhaling icicles
in the winter snow
could never settle for less
than absolute perfection
nearly exaggerate for a night of movieless popcorn
almost downgraded capability of life
last night would have been fine
a mindless film to escape
for the time being while remaining so well.
Had a flash bulb. To stay up for a bit then go to the gym tomorrow after practice.
Or wake up around 9. If I create I can stay up.
Or if I can soak in the creativity of others.
An author or director.
free write for the hell of it, practice timing
the syllables to reconnect properly
at the right intervals like 3rds or fifths
or seven elevenths
lukewarm refreshments
never excellent
wishing for ice
in a frozen situation
we are paralyzed
wishing for vices
the jaws of life
to break through ice
exhaling icicles
in the winter snow
could never settle for less
than absolute perfection
nearly exaggerate for a night of movieless popcorn
almost downgraded capability of life
last night would have been fine
a mindless film to escape
for the time being while remaining so well.
Had a flash bulb. To stay up for a bit then go to the gym tomorrow after practice.
Or wake up around 9. If I create I can stay up.
Or if I can soak in the creativity of others.
An author or director.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
August 19th
Timing is everything. All of the right words at the correct moments can disrepair a healthy athlete, turn a king into a humble citizen, groveling in the gutters like everyone else. To speak clearly and consistently. Always getting the opinion across. Always being heard. Always. Could I ever dare speak so clearly? Could I acquire a skill to minimize stuttering nervousness? Could there be roots that grow up into the sky while the trunk burrows deep into the earth, progressively? There is also the mindset and susceptibility for the listeners ears. Will they perk up or turned defensively inward at the sound of your voice? Is the person vulnerable, in the least, for your diction, your word choices and your intonation? Will they crumble like a building, fall under a hypnotic spell, or burst like a fireball? Combative words or gentle words. Instant or slow manipulation of mindset. Could be brutally honest and end up burning bridges, never getting anything positive in life from that mindset until someone comes along and shares your outlook, therefore soul mates and you will hold hands through eternity, buried side by side in a cave, one picked out especially to never be tampered with until you are fossilized, side by side, holding skeleton hands forever... future archeological museums. loving each other, loving the other side of life, of death. The right words can seal everything more than any epitaph. Whispered soft into ears or yelled from afar. The power is in the reaction. And I sat there straight faced. Never fully understanding you.
----
eradicate those demons who try to bind you in
blood vessel inside the bottle, and all that shipwrecked sand
great white caps of liquor crashing on the rocks
tidal force strong enough to disengage marina docks
you're drowning in the hours you've lost
you nearly revealed to me your deepest darkest secret
then you forgot
I dropped an anchor into marianas trench
crossed my fingers that a bottom exists
searching for concrete evidence at a distance
so I don't have to go look for it
all this solitary drinking
cannot be good for your psyche
all this torturous brooding
tears apart your sanity
kill all those evil spirits with wine and spirits
I had something to say but I'll soon forget
write it down so I won't have to say it out loud
bite my tongue, tasting blood
it's too late now though I wish I'd spoken up
porcelain friends try to hide from facts
but this shit all exists and we are all stuck with it
we are defined by our reactions to it
raving drunk and mad on the dance floor
we stole a few bottles from the liquor store
I just want to take you home
and drink with you alone
no more sinking, we are swimming upstream
at a leisurely pace, sun in our faces
until that morning light kills all joy once more
waking up naked on the floor
----
eradicate those demons who try to bind you in
blood vessel inside the bottle, and all that shipwrecked sand
great white caps of liquor crashing on the rocks
tidal force strong enough to disengage marina docks
you're drowning in the hours you've lost
you nearly revealed to me your deepest darkest secret
then you forgot
I dropped an anchor into marianas trench
crossed my fingers that a bottom exists
searching for concrete evidence at a distance
so I don't have to go look for it
all this solitary drinking
cannot be good for your psyche
all this torturous brooding
tears apart your sanity
kill all those evil spirits with wine and spirits
I had something to say but I'll soon forget
write it down so I won't have to say it out loud
bite my tongue, tasting blood
it's too late now though I wish I'd spoken up
porcelain friends try to hide from facts
but this shit all exists and we are all stuck with it
we are defined by our reactions to it
raving drunk and mad on the dance floor
we stole a few bottles from the liquor store
I just want to take you home
and drink with you alone
no more sinking, we are swimming upstream
at a leisurely pace, sun in our faces
until that morning light kills all joy once more
waking up naked on the floor
Saturday, August 18, 2012
aug 18th
This tosry is about all of the fools who took their ideas
with them. Rather than adapting to the standard of where ever they moved to.
This is about the understanding of limitations and the surpassing of them. The
smoking of cigars of outdoor balconies listening to the exotic wave of cars
from ventura maintaining with a cigar between teeth
New citizen cope. Writing behind the ship of fools. dragged behind sentence structures and influenced by full pronouncement out on that stage. all exposed and determined. wordy maybe but in the style of sound cannon. considerable sources of information
New citizen cope. Writing behind the ship of fools. dragged behind sentence structures and influenced by full pronouncement out on that stage. all exposed and determined. wordy maybe but in the style of sound cannon. considerable sources of information
August 18
Spent time to build blisters on my hands in rhythmic disarray. Reaching back for intelligence found three worlds away and the other new conscious book drifts away. Who plays like him? I would be enthralling individual. Sit down be disappear.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
August 16
Have visions of tying and untying knots like boy scout troupes learned through vicious repetition in dark barracks, emptied of their soldiers and teeming with bouncing children. All of the commercial success behind smooth skin campaigns, as if rough skin is even an option, to have the hands of a woman, an incandescent lady of night-fires, burning at the stake a witch cackling beside a cauldron filling heavy with the aroma, dense, of the souls of men. They oblige willingly, though under hypnosis, ward off those crazy demons and the dark shadows of past relationships. Bring up and I must have worn a temporary pained expression. Remind me of her like a whip reminds me of my nervous system. I could never tire of the constant surprises. I had lucid visions of untangling, of pulling apart chain-link fences into straight lines, metal strips. I could feel myself unwinding clocks, setting them all back two years, dragging a comb or a brush through a reluctant knot deep bird's nest bad hair day. 'Just put a fucking hat on and go about your business," says George Carlin, the greatest. I felt a pulling apart at the seems, a bursting of balloon consciousness, those realities that dreams could never be. The unimaginable gap between near nudity and nudity. Full exposure as opposed to partial exposure. The scientific theories behind sexuality and ways to manipulate others to reach into our hearts. (She knew she had me jealous. Willed it on herself to make that happen. So it happened. She is sly, resourceful and easily manipulative). Reach below the belt and remove flowers. All of those breeds that grow, living and dying, entirely underground. The wink across a dinner table that comes across as a nervous tic. It is a nervous tic. The tattoos the love songs. The speaking voice and the outside voice. Yelling at the sky. Searching for blue hats in a vague obscene sea of heads. They all look the same and they all think the same. I came apart at the seems feeling torn apart, drugged and quartered by horses. Then the horses were drawn and quartered. 4 pieces of me and 16 pieces of them in a tortured pile though we share the same suffering. Feeling drugged and slipping unconsciousness into my malted beverage. 'See if you can remain healthy when you turn 21' nice dare. I already have the beginning development of a gut but I must kill that progress immediately. My sinews crushing together and I dream of unraveling plots. Unraveling sexual characters and introducing myself to myriad women. I thought briefly about the lacing up of shoes and the wearing of jewelry on stage. Rings. Chain around the neck. All I wanted to do was untie her shoes and let everything slip away
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
August 15
Hydrate and refresh that soul, finding purpose in dark goals. Meeting expectations by causing resentments. Speaking to me through lyrics and I to you back in return. I had forgotten entirely what I wanted to write about. Now to take a journalistic approach on the show we are to play tonight.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
August 14
Recall unnecessarily negative comments and hide face in shame. Why do these things happen? Why do I still go for it? I don't know. Jealousy maybe. The fact that I know what a person looks like when they've reached a plateau. No more progress possible. (Go to the moon on a one way kamikazee flight) I just want progress, body and mind. Spiritual progress aside. That can come later. First must become smart and active. Present, aware, incredible. Everything perfect and the ridiculous outfit with leather jackets and scarves come back to haunt. Hold head low to hide shame once more. Find aesthetic grace period. We share a stage. We don't need to look like each other. Hide away those nostalgic angry thoughts. "If you can't think like this, let somebody else think for you." It is criminal to the self to ever let someone else think for you, decide for you. Unless you are truly indifferent. Speaking up only if necessary. This word, necessary. Negative attitude to bring all the rest down into that same water grave. Everything will be better than alright. No reason to have any concern.
------
Just include your most desired position on that little star map. All will end up okay.
----
negative attitude feeling worthless like the world is draining knowledge from me and I am letting this happen. I do not wish to sit back and watch everything fade off into oblivion. I drove off in a haze to write about the loss of innocence and the irrevocable truths of that lost, scattered youth. I was going to write about past pets, my treatment of them, accidental neglect but they had other masters. I was faulty from the beginning. What kind of child was I? I loved the color green. Trains. I try to enter the mindset but mostly these are memories of watching baby tapes or hearing those holiday stories at the dinner table when I clanked around the new hardwood floor with a full bright green cast on. That was a smaller version of this body. Every day a bigger body. Always changing and I am in complete control of all of those slight variations in structure. Worried about acne but it only ever came when I had my longest greasiest hair. Tie dye shirts. Fuck the system attitude without any theory to back it. Some semblance of rebellion when I might have been happier to involved myself with as much as possible rather than trying to sort activities into a hierarchy of truths. I tried to understand a world through music and words in writings and easy persuaded myself what was right and wrong without room for error. Serious. Moody. Sometimes very funny sometimes very inappropriate. Rarely got in trouble aside from calling a friend stupid in class once. 4th grade probably. For some reason I might have believed it was going to be funny. He labeled something wrong on a map or something trivial like that. I remember a classmate brought in a huge golden paper-mache sarcophagus to class for a project relating to the Egyptian unit. Something academic. I ended up being a 'cool kid' in self denial because I still turned in all of my work with decent preparation and never had bad grades. I was easily shaped as a child now that I think of it. Mild embarrassment now but why? I wish I had the courage to do some of those ridiculous things we once would do. Bike jumps in the woods. Trampoline with water. Snowangels and hot tub time machines. Slingshots straight up in the air. Row boats and canoes. Intertubes and battle tubing. Try to shove one another off at high speed. Someone responsible for the orange flag to allow other boaters and sharks not to run you down. I never fell off.
What kind of child were you?
Do you remember any specific arguments you were involved in?
Ever been in a fight at school?
---
The night prior to a race we would be taught to visualize. To take it seriously rather than share no commitment. I did not understand how to be grateful. Kind. I grew into it hopefully. Similarly visions of the show tomorrow night dance in my head. It will be great no matter who shows up. In ear monitors and never make a mistake again.
------
Just include your most desired position on that little star map. All will end up okay.
----
negative attitude feeling worthless like the world is draining knowledge from me and I am letting this happen. I do not wish to sit back and watch everything fade off into oblivion. I drove off in a haze to write about the loss of innocence and the irrevocable truths of that lost, scattered youth. I was going to write about past pets, my treatment of them, accidental neglect but they had other masters. I was faulty from the beginning. What kind of child was I? I loved the color green. Trains. I try to enter the mindset but mostly these are memories of watching baby tapes or hearing those holiday stories at the dinner table when I clanked around the new hardwood floor with a full bright green cast on. That was a smaller version of this body. Every day a bigger body. Always changing and I am in complete control of all of those slight variations in structure. Worried about acne but it only ever came when I had my longest greasiest hair. Tie dye shirts. Fuck the system attitude without any theory to back it. Some semblance of rebellion when I might have been happier to involved myself with as much as possible rather than trying to sort activities into a hierarchy of truths. I tried to understand a world through music and words in writings and easy persuaded myself what was right and wrong without room for error. Serious. Moody. Sometimes very funny sometimes very inappropriate. Rarely got in trouble aside from calling a friend stupid in class once. 4th grade probably. For some reason I might have believed it was going to be funny. He labeled something wrong on a map or something trivial like that. I remember a classmate brought in a huge golden paper-mache sarcophagus to class for a project relating to the Egyptian unit. Something academic. I ended up being a 'cool kid' in self denial because I still turned in all of my work with decent preparation and never had bad grades. I was easily shaped as a child now that I think of it. Mild embarrassment now but why? I wish I had the courage to do some of those ridiculous things we once would do. Bike jumps in the woods. Trampoline with water. Snowangels and hot tub time machines. Slingshots straight up in the air. Row boats and canoes. Intertubes and battle tubing. Try to shove one another off at high speed. Someone responsible for the orange flag to allow other boaters and sharks not to run you down. I never fell off.
What kind of child were you?
Do you remember any specific arguments you were involved in?
Ever been in a fight at school?
---
The night prior to a race we would be taught to visualize. To take it seriously rather than share no commitment. I did not understand how to be grateful. Kind. I grew into it hopefully. Similarly visions of the show tomorrow night dance in my head. It will be great no matter who shows up. In ear monitors and never make a mistake again.
Monday, August 13, 2012
August 13
One of the regarded, infinite wisdom fed through a tiny stray in a slit, considerable resource into the partner outlook. Need to be alone to finish intrinsic writing. What happens here is inspiried by the cross road antagonism. And the weight lifting attitude expressed by the speed racing movies. All of it illiterate to the blind and my back is turned there is no other clarity beyond this compulsion. We all try to impress that same widow though she still tries to go home.
---
seek clarity back in the dissolution of opinions, finding at e voice, to raise. all quiet trying to summon the perfect memory to convey. Am I too distracted to move my car inside> doubtful. close to contact with the last van finally. in exultation we raise our hands in warning of near party. near explosion of necessary circumstance, you are a leper not to feel in th eair and keep your bad opinions back holstered up with your specific writing columns, post this bolstering obscurity in the boldest fashion. The purest embroidery. All of the colors and fabrics in sync again with the correct musical and cognitive accents exploring ouer regions of mind, the sapping of ideas learned from others with open answers and open out to create wonderful sleeping music, beautiful and active as it is with no vocals I trained myself to counter intuitively react to music in way for sublimation and full assimilation into the cureent situation. Click away from disappearance. We are subject to chance and the motif for me was a call to sleep but the mix is strong with the song from Into It. Over It. because it is interesting that they share a collaboration with old bandmates out of Damiera. I know they made pretty grand music in hidden hospitals for the new track. i meant to oppositely expose the albums.
--
some drunken babble wound up at the store with the fired trying to be there for him explicitly. Buying things and actually finding the time to smoke a tobacco after a weed. surprised the fifteen foot drive did not kill me and my close friends and rivals. they must remain for competitive, self-improvement purposes. "from the speakers your fake symphony comes serenly dribbling" or some much poetic expression. Now listening to the mix I made and trying to feel empathic emphatic remarks and chides all positive though without demeaning results I realize the beauty now of the songs I expressed. Somehow I did not listen to the whole thing and experience it in a certain matter and I suppose that is the beauty of it. Something simple and lyrical, the song titles sent over. email attempt at close approximation, something of a kindling of a past, be entirely excited to go to dinner and a show together. serenely dribbling.
---- a full day later but somehow not feeling the transition from this block. What I have to say now must be included with the rest of this session of waking. Nightmarish morning, dream of teeth falling out and creatures crawling into ears, burrowing deep and pliers removal alone. Teeth turn yellow, hair falls out, items are shoved beneath fingernails and the sleep is induced even with feet bent up. Something strange and unique in its comfort though never okay to kick the foot out from a friend as they walk by, apprehensively. Fine relationship with the family despite how I must seen detached. Active young man. Attempts to call grandparents and inform them how life is and how proud I am of them. All of the years and still climbing up those martian landscapes, up over those natural fences, the tall hedges, down sunny streets, crossing yellow lights and chainsaw massacre overdubs. The great american western sham but then the image once more of that technical, designer mindset, only irritation is at the fact of the repeated concern without any new offered solution aside from finding a new band.
---
seek clarity back in the dissolution of opinions, finding at e voice, to raise. all quiet trying to summon the perfect memory to convey. Am I too distracted to move my car inside> doubtful. close to contact with the last van finally. in exultation we raise our hands in warning of near party. near explosion of necessary circumstance, you are a leper not to feel in th eair and keep your bad opinions back holstered up with your specific writing columns, post this bolstering obscurity in the boldest fashion. The purest embroidery. All of the colors and fabrics in sync again with the correct musical and cognitive accents exploring ouer regions of mind, the sapping of ideas learned from others with open answers and open out to create wonderful sleeping music, beautiful and active as it is with no vocals I trained myself to counter intuitively react to music in way for sublimation and full assimilation into the cureent situation. Click away from disappearance. We are subject to chance and the motif for me was a call to sleep but the mix is strong with the song from Into It. Over It. because it is interesting that they share a collaboration with old bandmates out of Damiera. I know they made pretty grand music in hidden hospitals for the new track. i meant to oppositely expose the albums.
--
some drunken babble wound up at the store with the fired trying to be there for him explicitly. Buying things and actually finding the time to smoke a tobacco after a weed. surprised the fifteen foot drive did not kill me and my close friends and rivals. they must remain for competitive, self-improvement purposes. "from the speakers your fake symphony comes serenly dribbling" or some much poetic expression. Now listening to the mix I made and trying to feel empathic emphatic remarks and chides all positive though without demeaning results I realize the beauty now of the songs I expressed. Somehow I did not listen to the whole thing and experience it in a certain matter and I suppose that is the beauty of it. Something simple and lyrical, the song titles sent over. email attempt at close approximation, something of a kindling of a past, be entirely excited to go to dinner and a show together. serenely dribbling.
---- a full day later but somehow not feeling the transition from this block. What I have to say now must be included with the rest of this session of waking. Nightmarish morning, dream of teeth falling out and creatures crawling into ears, burrowing deep and pliers removal alone. Teeth turn yellow, hair falls out, items are shoved beneath fingernails and the sleep is induced even with feet bent up. Something strange and unique in its comfort though never okay to kick the foot out from a friend as they walk by, apprehensively. Fine relationship with the family despite how I must seen detached. Active young man. Attempts to call grandparents and inform them how life is and how proud I am of them. All of the years and still climbing up those martian landscapes, up over those natural fences, the tall hedges, down sunny streets, crossing yellow lights and chainsaw massacre overdubs. The great american western sham but then the image once more of that technical, designer mindset, only irritation is at the fact of the repeated concern without any new offered solution aside from finding a new band.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
August 12
Face irrational fear of night crawlers getting into my clothes, under my skin, into my hair... by laying down on the back cement and watching two torches sear across the sky in life-affirming grace. Oh, to smile when no one is watching. The real smile. Earlier tears of self-deprecation, of self-pity, of selfishness. Near tears. Nothing liquid. Nothing tangible. All of this is a huge mirage anyway, a canopy of trees blocking of true understanding. There is no such thing as true understanding either. So fuck it. Drink a beer, smash a windshield, shelter someone shivering with your coat, help an old lady across the street hoping she will smoke you out... I felt a part of a universal feeling, that vibrating momentum underfoot, the tramping of hooves on hardwood, the bull is released in the city and the city is released, in turn, from immediate responsibility if by chance in the path of the bull. One day, anywhere, not even Spain... could be in the elevator at work, a stoplight, laying in the lawn dreaming of butterflies beneath the trampoline, the bull will catch up to you and you will not be prepared but no one is and most deal with it okay.. I felt in tune with everyone else, their thoughts floated openly across the sky and I could access them. Their concerns of dark bugs crawling into them sank down to me and I felt a mutual understanding for all America. If anywhere, a desert overpass would be great on this evening. A blunt or a hookah with thc crystals sprinkled on top with one sharable hose with no collective herpes, above an overpass with speeding trucks hauling shit across the continent. Hand in hand with current love of life... The same mysteries reveal themselves to others tonight. I felt a click and a harmonious chorus rise into the air. Somehow we were all connected. Not all, I should mention only those with the courage to break routine and go lay outside with their lovers or their children and talk about space. Everyone in the world has something to say to their partner if they both happen to see the same shooting star at once. They wish the same thing for each other but can never tell. Also, I saw a low-flying plane and realized (even now 30 minutes later, well out of my field of vision even if 30 feet taller) There is no place that plane can pass in the sky that someone's eyes will not be following. I had the strangest sensation that the moment I blinked or the moment it disappeared behind trees for me that someone else instantaneously took over watchful duty. And so on. Never will that pilot feel completely alone.
----
How to determine when a painting is done. When no other lines scream themselves into creation. When no other colors beg to be born.
I woke up naturally 3 hours prior to alarm and took advantage to jog myself awake. Soaked in sweat notice the family who lives in the house my apartment is attached to... leaving and waving, driving by. So I jump in the pool and sloppily swim laps, having no recollection of how to turn around under water like the olympians, mostly I tread water and feel good. A nice cool down. No dog follow me, barking. No one watching. Nothing. I feel great and then I sit for too long and begin to feel that simple exhaustion.
----
I assure you after our rendezvous
I have not tampered with your parachute
you commit yourself to falling
so freely
pulling the cord but nothings happening
serenely
you will not slow down
until you reach the ground
at your most glorious moment
the one you dream about
I will ruin everything
holding your trembling body
self-contained earthquake
the pain is instant as it is everlasting
you have you stay awake
sleep ruins everything
colors run together and form new ones
no one could ever dream of
a new spectrum of light
pick up some road maps
head out west
and trick yourself into believing
underlying motives
under lion motions
we are on the prowl tonight
ravenous for the attack and bite
pray you will not become prey
stay back a safe distance away
as we carve our teeth into fangs
good girls are hard to find
bad guys don't seem to mind
find me a diagnosis
in that manual so thick
what are your symptoms
there is pain in my blood
show me where it hurts
I'll alleviate that curse
all past versions of me
ten different people trapped in one body
some of them conspire against me
but there is no me
there is only them
they control my head
that little boy and that drumset
the longhair and the tempest
a violent and windy storm
I'm looking for a moment of clarity out of chaos
these constellations guide my direction or I'll stay lost
late night moonlit walks
down apprehensive park blocks
Find me some peace of mind and bring me back to sanity
------
write a song about traveling cross country with friends circa beat era.
song about a girl.
song about painting.
----
How to determine when a painting is done. When no other lines scream themselves into creation. When no other colors beg to be born.
I woke up naturally 3 hours prior to alarm and took advantage to jog myself awake. Soaked in sweat notice the family who lives in the house my apartment is attached to... leaving and waving, driving by. So I jump in the pool and sloppily swim laps, having no recollection of how to turn around under water like the olympians, mostly I tread water and feel good. A nice cool down. No dog follow me, barking. No one watching. Nothing. I feel great and then I sit for too long and begin to feel that simple exhaustion.
----
I assure you after our rendezvous
I have not tampered with your parachute
you commit yourself to falling
so freely
pulling the cord but nothings happening
serenely
you will not slow down
until you reach the ground
at your most glorious moment
the one you dream about
I will ruin everything
holding your trembling body
self-contained earthquake
the pain is instant as it is everlasting
you have you stay awake
sleep ruins everything
colors run together and form new ones
no one could ever dream of
a new spectrum of light
pick up some road maps
head out west
and trick yourself into believing
underlying motives
under lion motions
we are on the prowl tonight
ravenous for the attack and bite
pray you will not become prey
stay back a safe distance away
as we carve our teeth into fangs
good girls are hard to find
bad guys don't seem to mind
find me a diagnosis
in that manual so thick
what are your symptoms
there is pain in my blood
show me where it hurts
I'll alleviate that curse
all past versions of me
ten different people trapped in one body
some of them conspire against me
but there is no me
there is only them
they control my head
that little boy and that drumset
the longhair and the tempest
a violent and windy storm
I'm looking for a moment of clarity out of chaos
these constellations guide my direction or I'll stay lost
late night moonlit walks
down apprehensive park blocks
Find me some peace of mind and bring me back to sanity
------
write a song about traveling cross country with friends circa beat era.
song about a girl.
song about painting.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
August 11
In the music store, it hit me. A sudden despair brought on by unfounded social anxiety. That feeling where I will never make a new friend again. Something so awful and undiagnosed. I fell into a pile of ashes at the burnt sage carousel. There was a boredom and a waiting. But I do not desire to sit on my ass and drink 19 dollar tequilas until the end of time. Drinking for the sake of it is awful and something I know I will do way too much in two months. I will stay up tonight to watch the perseid meteor shower. Sweating buckets and full of negative self talk. Feeling anxious from all directions like a crowd of evil minded people prodding at me with fire pokers. Boiling hot ones. Every new distraction from personal goals. Killing me. Too hot. Functionless. Paint melts and fades in this. I can't work. Strings break. Body is lethargic and isolated. There are no helping hands present.
The woman in the black corvette has no idea that I daydreamed about crashing head on into her at 45 miles per hour. She waited patient in the middle lane for an opportunity to cross over into a neighborhood or pull a u-turn. Her intentions were unclear. Then I decided against because I didn't trust my seatbelt to keep me uninjured. I wanted to shake the foundations of life around myself and around others. I sit in this room and boil and they have poolside prestige pretty rich friends in high places shopping out ideas for new debauchery to the world. Hurt my ears with information regarding recycling plants. Everyone is ignorant. Therefore convictions make no sense. Ever. There is nothing between myself and all the rest. This is a horrible feeling. The black corvette is not a symbol of any suicidal ideology. I just wanted instantaneous drastic change. Random excitement for a few moments. Balloons to fall from the ceiling. Clowns with flare guns firing them drunkenly, all with bottles of jager in the other white gloved hand. I wanted sparks and fireworks, bonfires, electrical wiring failures. Water to rain up from the earth in physical disbelief. Women to talk about interesting things to me and with me though never AT me. Strange how easily I could live without purpose or motivation. I could so easily fall behind the necessary pace to get where I want as quickly as I need. A few mph slower and I might have ran into her!
------
I went out for a run but fell short. It turned into a walk because I did not want to get sick on the sidewalk. Undigested and half digested food rolled around in my stomach. Nauseous and dizzy with the threat of night in the air. I punched a stop sign, denting it. Hands shaking back through the dead neighborhood. The only sounds are my ankles popping and crickets. Thousands of crickets, all lucky and all unlucky to be tread on. What a fear. Every crunching leaf beneath me might have been an innocent, stupid, life. Something only content on hopping around as a good omen. Whistling through the blackened sky. I held my face in my hands outside of the church. Already closed in observance of a normal sunday. There was writing in chalk on the sidewalk outside. Presumably by children, probably by bad children as punishment, or by the good nature of naive young hearts brought up without violence or cursing, 'be excellent to everyone' and 'be happy' and smiles and sunshine. A heart faded away by the winds. I nearly crumbled into a ball and cried until meteors showered into these sleeping homes and everything hidden suddenly came into light. I would have cried, sobbing infant-like, until the presumed earthquake broke everything in Los Angeles in half. Newsworthy attention to all of the littlest acts of heroism and humility or egotism. The neighborhood so damn quiet. I made eye contact with a little girl as she stood looking sad through the window, standing on a scale. Shapes and shadows behind windows. Her parents apparently fans of classic renaissance painters. Portraits all over every possible space. Liven up that damned claustrophobic feeling. Board up all hope and disassemble fear into the curvacious, eccentric woodwork. Exquisite, they'll say. Everyone must be on summer vacation. Lights off in most houses. Saturday night shenanigans perhaps. Or the annual trip to where-ever-the-fuck. The one dad saves up for but hates going to on account of the lack of relaxation for him in lines and waiting. He must slave after his children to give them an opportunity he never received. Prolong innocence! Keep doors closed and never violent video games. Keep them clean and whatever they come to be can never be your faulty parenting. But Dad cries on vacation. He drinks a lot and yells a lot. Turning beet red in the sun and then in the moon again at Mom. They hide as much as they can. Water slips through. Always. Always cracks. Always. I feel incredible pity for that boxed in cocoon feeling that little girl must feel. Hand on the window like she is an animal trapped in captivity. The one that grew up wild briefly before being thrown into entertainment, into prison. Into the real world where Californians speak their minds and try to get their dicks wet at clubs. They have awful language and the shit they can conjure accidentally with simple terms of expression can cripple a child. We are all still the children we were once. Just as a tree grows. Every stage of development remembered in layers of beauty bark and the scent of evergreens in a morning mist is always invigorating and incredibly humbling. I need to be humbled and sit down and listened to. I need to have a real conversation about real concerns about the lack of reality around me. I need real love in fake life. I must find an escape through something that involves outside opinion. I cannot control and diagnose my issues all alone as a therapist analyzes themselves between cases, as the tree falls silently, everyone hears something, briefly, just behind their back.
-----
I have no outside location to watch a meteor shower without anxiety. This will never feel like my home. They have 18 years over me. I'm surprised I hear and see no one despite the decently clear skies and all of their wonderful back yards (I peek over or through fences). Late night walk, green lights from beside the house, to light the way back inside, the appearance of a chill area, somewhere to smoke pot and talk with friends about meteors. Drink hot buttered rum and sleep back to back on the straw mat or the hammock beyond the pool. The pool is a good location to watch a meteor shower but I know I do not have the courage to make that happen for me. My god I've never even been inside the house. Paying rent for who knows how long and feeling sweating and dying and cold. The air was hot my ankle popped constantly. I could hear a rock band in the distance. A bar perhaps. I can hear my approaching birthday in the distance. I fear that lack of control. I don't live in excess. I want to do all things but I do not want to leave a bad impression on the environment. On humanity. I don't want to perpetuate a bullshit standard and be demoralized into figments of little girls imaginations. Oh well. I missed the shower even before it happened because I know soon I will be sleeping alone fitfully in a filthy bed with filthy dreams to carry me under. Tonight would be a good night for a chance to have wishes granted. Maybe then my life could make a social upturn.
The woman in the black corvette has no idea that I daydreamed about crashing head on into her at 45 miles per hour. She waited patient in the middle lane for an opportunity to cross over into a neighborhood or pull a u-turn. Her intentions were unclear. Then I decided against because I didn't trust my seatbelt to keep me uninjured. I wanted to shake the foundations of life around myself and around others. I sit in this room and boil and they have poolside prestige pretty rich friends in high places shopping out ideas for new debauchery to the world. Hurt my ears with information regarding recycling plants. Everyone is ignorant. Therefore convictions make no sense. Ever. There is nothing between myself and all the rest. This is a horrible feeling. The black corvette is not a symbol of any suicidal ideology. I just wanted instantaneous drastic change. Random excitement for a few moments. Balloons to fall from the ceiling. Clowns with flare guns firing them drunkenly, all with bottles of jager in the other white gloved hand. I wanted sparks and fireworks, bonfires, electrical wiring failures. Water to rain up from the earth in physical disbelief. Women to talk about interesting things to me and with me though never AT me. Strange how easily I could live without purpose or motivation. I could so easily fall behind the necessary pace to get where I want as quickly as I need. A few mph slower and I might have ran into her!
------
I went out for a run but fell short. It turned into a walk because I did not want to get sick on the sidewalk. Undigested and half digested food rolled around in my stomach. Nauseous and dizzy with the threat of night in the air. I punched a stop sign, denting it. Hands shaking back through the dead neighborhood. The only sounds are my ankles popping and crickets. Thousands of crickets, all lucky and all unlucky to be tread on. What a fear. Every crunching leaf beneath me might have been an innocent, stupid, life. Something only content on hopping around as a good omen. Whistling through the blackened sky. I held my face in my hands outside of the church. Already closed in observance of a normal sunday. There was writing in chalk on the sidewalk outside. Presumably by children, probably by bad children as punishment, or by the good nature of naive young hearts brought up without violence or cursing, 'be excellent to everyone' and 'be happy' and smiles and sunshine. A heart faded away by the winds. I nearly crumbled into a ball and cried until meteors showered into these sleeping homes and everything hidden suddenly came into light. I would have cried, sobbing infant-like, until the presumed earthquake broke everything in Los Angeles in half. Newsworthy attention to all of the littlest acts of heroism and humility or egotism. The neighborhood so damn quiet. I made eye contact with a little girl as she stood looking sad through the window, standing on a scale. Shapes and shadows behind windows. Her parents apparently fans of classic renaissance painters. Portraits all over every possible space. Liven up that damned claustrophobic feeling. Board up all hope and disassemble fear into the curvacious, eccentric woodwork. Exquisite, they'll say. Everyone must be on summer vacation. Lights off in most houses. Saturday night shenanigans perhaps. Or the annual trip to where-ever-the-fuck. The one dad saves up for but hates going to on account of the lack of relaxation for him in lines and waiting. He must slave after his children to give them an opportunity he never received. Prolong innocence! Keep doors closed and never violent video games. Keep them clean and whatever they come to be can never be your faulty parenting. But Dad cries on vacation. He drinks a lot and yells a lot. Turning beet red in the sun and then in the moon again at Mom. They hide as much as they can. Water slips through. Always. Always cracks. Always. I feel incredible pity for that boxed in cocoon feeling that little girl must feel. Hand on the window like she is an animal trapped in captivity. The one that grew up wild briefly before being thrown into entertainment, into prison. Into the real world where Californians speak their minds and try to get their dicks wet at clubs. They have awful language and the shit they can conjure accidentally with simple terms of expression can cripple a child. We are all still the children we were once. Just as a tree grows. Every stage of development remembered in layers of beauty bark and the scent of evergreens in a morning mist is always invigorating and incredibly humbling. I need to be humbled and sit down and listened to. I need to have a real conversation about real concerns about the lack of reality around me. I need real love in fake life. I must find an escape through something that involves outside opinion. I cannot control and diagnose my issues all alone as a therapist analyzes themselves between cases, as the tree falls silently, everyone hears something, briefly, just behind their back.
-----
I have no outside location to watch a meteor shower without anxiety. This will never feel like my home. They have 18 years over me. I'm surprised I hear and see no one despite the decently clear skies and all of their wonderful back yards (I peek over or through fences). Late night walk, green lights from beside the house, to light the way back inside, the appearance of a chill area, somewhere to smoke pot and talk with friends about meteors. Drink hot buttered rum and sleep back to back on the straw mat or the hammock beyond the pool. The pool is a good location to watch a meteor shower but I know I do not have the courage to make that happen for me. My god I've never even been inside the house. Paying rent for who knows how long and feeling sweating and dying and cold. The air was hot my ankle popped constantly. I could hear a rock band in the distance. A bar perhaps. I can hear my approaching birthday in the distance. I fear that lack of control. I don't live in excess. I want to do all things but I do not want to leave a bad impression on the environment. On humanity. I don't want to perpetuate a bullshit standard and be demoralized into figments of little girls imaginations. Oh well. I missed the shower even before it happened because I know soon I will be sleeping alone fitfully in a filthy bed with filthy dreams to carry me under. Tonight would be a good night for a chance to have wishes granted. Maybe then my life could make a social upturn.
Friday, August 10, 2012
August 10th
Collecting oysters without pearls,
become a shoreline refuge, escape peril
an ex-convict breaking parole
all ending up in the undertow
constantly spiralling
out of control
but there are motives motivations
moments killed by hesitations
we are all so deeply in this together
turning shoulder to the headwind
in the wake of other generations betrayal
the basic human spirit, kindred
as are all the others.
gregarious, whimsical.
you are a hybrid of so many elements
a painting with no color scheme
no planning
a self portrait on the cover of an autobiography
exposing self to natural environments
staining the moral air
vibe strongly to all notions
a man addicted by the feeling of allowing all doors open
the floodgates filling avenues with good feeling
a free spirit and a meditative state constantly
no reason to seem aggravated
hearing self on the phone that emotional prick
all advice gone from his eyes
in the grey twilight without scissors to cut the ribbons
the rivulets and capulets
all of the perfect words
combinations of syllables
in one language out of all the rest
am I using the most beautiful?
probably not. but the appeal is simply the unknown
learn harder, better, stronger words in native tongue
and fall in love with sentence construction
how the building blocks are arranged
with proper grammatical punctuation
like a vocal chord striking a chord on a grand piano
all laid and perm-pressed with awkward correlation
elation from the core.
- - - - - - -
Side table. Shiny dark brown surface like an iced over pond originally full of filthy weather run off. Shines with signs of a full live. Scratches, scrapes, dents and all sorts of accidents cause by the standard clumsy weed-smoker. Leaving messes where others can never fix. The finish is ruined and the cost to reproduce nearly little enough to exchange straight up. Multiple shades of gold and tan wooden embroidery, standard column designs, cannot tell which architectural school any more, my memory of physical equations is entirely gone, sadly. feeling that anxiety of forgetting something I was paying to learn. standard floral curves, natural designs, a open seashell shape in the front center, with curves and depth, space in between very ambient and spacious in between sections reminding me of certain jewelry found in egyptian tombs. nerfiti never involved in those catacombs.
--------
Feeling stupid and anxious earlier this over hot day. Progress, painted in. Bass riffs learned too quick. Book finished. Art contracted and set for execution. A week long process to double time a search and a discovery. We are a machine. We are eager.
I want to burn my sheets. Feel that shame-red glare of shoegaze glitz. There are articles of clothing laying about intermixed with articles of clothing torn free from magazines. The glamor in a psychedelic haze, but I will protest too eagerly for us to look good in our respective ways. Never looking forced or over sold or untrue. I am afraid of having an appearance of trying to hard. The boys went out for a 21+ night at the bars and worried about wrinkled shirts and if there collective color schemes matched. They said in a few months this can be you. They said. And I replied inwardly that I don't want to be like that. I don't want to waste all of my money on dumb girls in overpriced over hyped shit holes. I want a genuine experience and to get all dolled up as a man in the world is disquieting. I wish to spend my birthday with friends. Old and committed. Not frauds spiking hair. I am ashamed of these words as they happen. But the repetition. The lethargy is awful and consuming. I wish to burn my sheets. To remove myself from this isolation aside from the studio magic. I wish to enter deeply into a life outside. But who gives? I am simply wishing the ability to network. Suddenly, damn it to hell, grace me with a curiosity to seek after relationships. Head counts at shows. Real work. Stage names. Fake smiles and faces. Finding you fascinating in a sexual way. Isolation kills you in a turmoil of strife. Whiskey on the breath with gun in hand.
Is this all worth it? What do I have to show? I hate the barrier of the internet and the computer. Play it safe and get high without talking. Always playing it safe. Attempts to be professional at the expense of constantly coming off as too serious then stepping back and acting silly to lighten the sore mood caused. Or the horrendous ego that surrounds. They are infectious like the plague, passing viral through blogs and images of society reflected back onto itself until it crawls back up into its own huge asshole. We talked of album art and I was told to trust someones opinion. What? I say. Expose me to some new and great idea. 'Brand yourself.' Never respected for buying onto a tour. Into a career as a musician. Buying new shirts. Lying to temporary girlfriends. The scum of the earth. How can I separate myself?
-----
a night for sleeping pills and sunny day real estate, avoiding sadness by confronting a darker night head on. soon to be passed out entirely. a repeated soundtrack to my nights rest. close that minds eyes and dream of pretty things. lose consciousness with beauty in mind
become a shoreline refuge, escape peril
an ex-convict breaking parole
all ending up in the undertow
constantly spiralling
out of control
but there are motives motivations
moments killed by hesitations
we are all so deeply in this together
turning shoulder to the headwind
in the wake of other generations betrayal
the basic human spirit, kindred
as are all the others.
gregarious, whimsical.
you are a hybrid of so many elements
a painting with no color scheme
no planning
a self portrait on the cover of an autobiography
exposing self to natural environments
staining the moral air
vibe strongly to all notions
a man addicted by the feeling of allowing all doors open
the floodgates filling avenues with good feeling
a free spirit and a meditative state constantly
no reason to seem aggravated
hearing self on the phone that emotional prick
all advice gone from his eyes
in the grey twilight without scissors to cut the ribbons
the rivulets and capulets
all of the perfect words
combinations of syllables
in one language out of all the rest
am I using the most beautiful?
probably not. but the appeal is simply the unknown
learn harder, better, stronger words in native tongue
and fall in love with sentence construction
how the building blocks are arranged
with proper grammatical punctuation
like a vocal chord striking a chord on a grand piano
all laid and perm-pressed with awkward correlation
elation from the core.
- - - - - - -
Side table. Shiny dark brown surface like an iced over pond originally full of filthy weather run off. Shines with signs of a full live. Scratches, scrapes, dents and all sorts of accidents cause by the standard clumsy weed-smoker. Leaving messes where others can never fix. The finish is ruined and the cost to reproduce nearly little enough to exchange straight up. Multiple shades of gold and tan wooden embroidery, standard column designs, cannot tell which architectural school any more, my memory of physical equations is entirely gone, sadly. feeling that anxiety of forgetting something I was paying to learn. standard floral curves, natural designs, a open seashell shape in the front center, with curves and depth, space in between very ambient and spacious in between sections reminding me of certain jewelry found in egyptian tombs. nerfiti never involved in those catacombs.
--------
Feeling stupid and anxious earlier this over hot day. Progress, painted in. Bass riffs learned too quick. Book finished. Art contracted and set for execution. A week long process to double time a search and a discovery. We are a machine. We are eager.
I want to burn my sheets. Feel that shame-red glare of shoegaze glitz. There are articles of clothing laying about intermixed with articles of clothing torn free from magazines. The glamor in a psychedelic haze, but I will protest too eagerly for us to look good in our respective ways. Never looking forced or over sold or untrue. I am afraid of having an appearance of trying to hard. The boys went out for a 21+ night at the bars and worried about wrinkled shirts and if there collective color schemes matched. They said in a few months this can be you. They said. And I replied inwardly that I don't want to be like that. I don't want to waste all of my money on dumb girls in overpriced over hyped shit holes. I want a genuine experience and to get all dolled up as a man in the world is disquieting. I wish to spend my birthday with friends. Old and committed. Not frauds spiking hair. I am ashamed of these words as they happen. But the repetition. The lethargy is awful and consuming. I wish to burn my sheets. To remove myself from this isolation aside from the studio magic. I wish to enter deeply into a life outside. But who gives? I am simply wishing the ability to network. Suddenly, damn it to hell, grace me with a curiosity to seek after relationships. Head counts at shows. Real work. Stage names. Fake smiles and faces. Finding you fascinating in a sexual way. Isolation kills you in a turmoil of strife. Whiskey on the breath with gun in hand.
Is this all worth it? What do I have to show? I hate the barrier of the internet and the computer. Play it safe and get high without talking. Always playing it safe. Attempts to be professional at the expense of constantly coming off as too serious then stepping back and acting silly to lighten the sore mood caused. Or the horrendous ego that surrounds. They are infectious like the plague, passing viral through blogs and images of society reflected back onto itself until it crawls back up into its own huge asshole. We talked of album art and I was told to trust someones opinion. What? I say. Expose me to some new and great idea. 'Brand yourself.' Never respected for buying onto a tour. Into a career as a musician. Buying new shirts. Lying to temporary girlfriends. The scum of the earth. How can I separate myself?
-----
a night for sleeping pills and sunny day real estate, avoiding sadness by confronting a darker night head on. soon to be passed out entirely. a repeated soundtrack to my nights rest. close that minds eyes and dream of pretty things. lose consciousness with beauty in mind
Thursday, August 9, 2012
August 9th
Continually, we do this to ourselves. Carving ratchets out of balsa wood, so malleable, so soft and driven. We could not have done this without the lenience the lapse of the gods, the olympic laps of the gos, a different play on words to provoke thought or laughter, something of screaming success or deeper fortification of cancelled remarks. my past, why delve into it, I would hate that media to seek out horrific details, but there are exposures meant for limelights never understood, hey so glad to meet you and that you found your way here to the site. You are not glad. you are paid. We watched the moon switch between phases in the covers of a tan black white striped comforter. It was bright enough that I could see the outline of your body, the curves and the silhouette of your face so I could educative guess where to plant a kiss. watch what grows when you plant a kiss in the right soil. the lips expanding or falling to pieces with fresh piercings, the pain giving a pleasure that never remembers. a fearless and directionless leader through the hallways of torture. we are both now stranded in cold and delicate air, the stagnant clouds between mountaintops when in between there is no god damn movement for something like 12 hours aside from a journey over to dinner, but the same vegetables come out and the same vibes reintroduced us to the mold. no reason to stay up and listen to those old songs and think about sex. help get it in. whatever. I'm out to make something of myself. If I am good enough they will notice no matter what personality I hide behind. Reel in those outsider personalities, this all needs to be closer synthesized into realizing the real me. there are lines to cross and bridges to make or to burn, invention of teleportation without second thought, we could become the band that gets famous for a hundred reasons, oh that guy who helped build the frame of that house is now in a famous rock band. oh. huh. stadium rock show. make up and hairdressers and moody lack of individualism. i cringe to think of myself becoming a puppet on that silver screen. the image becoming less me and the music becoming less me. i could always quit so there is always an out. but here there is no reason for that to happen. become a great musician first and then doors open once genius is discovered. far work to become genius. in over our heads. in over our heads. in over my head. speak up less and with less inflamed inflection. what happens when i settle and the ground is a repetitious cycle of repeated fact and recorded visions. the conversations always nearly remain superficial now... sad development in this story. i need a friend and i dont want to play video games and smoke weed all day.
----
Allergic to the counterproductive afternoon. Drinking beers and eating the food that ruins the shape of the body, the rounded belly but it is a life cycle to be involved in and evolved in, smoking huge joint and watch comedy, roasting charlie sheen and two half episodes of south park one starting in the middle the other cut off near the middle while musical distraction ensued. persuade me to cut out the drums in order to consider them to rap up the party life after a long night of anit sobriety in order to free style compare originality in layers of words and grooves but the distraction ruined everything. Devil laughs and understands our strife. Vengeance on the slaughtered dreams.
----
Allergic to the counterproductive afternoon. Drinking beers and eating the food that ruins the shape of the body, the rounded belly but it is a life cycle to be involved in and evolved in, smoking huge joint and watch comedy, roasting charlie sheen and two half episodes of south park one starting in the middle the other cut off near the middle while musical distraction ensued. persuade me to cut out the drums in order to consider them to rap up the party life after a long night of anit sobriety in order to free style compare originality in layers of words and grooves but the distraction ruined everything. Devil laughs and understands our strife. Vengeance on the slaughtered dreams.
Oh, for a cultural revolution
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
August 8th
Having the quiet melancholy end night that became necessary after long tumultuous day in absentia. There are holes in the parts between the color blindness and the void. New colors, uninvented and reborn to new eyes. Wearing the jewelry that determines initial status as a n individual. Get lost in pirate cave without a host, no captain of the ship, random odds and ends, shining sequin vests and old comic books, a memorabilia store of a different time, that strange hillside appeal of funky California, the ability to get lost in a bubble of hubris, that high in the mountains, called by down by the world to drink and to lay sinfully together in a beds of rose. Miss the art exhibits on the boardwalk but it is all okay in the end. We tried and failed and that is life but I wish to convey a different adaptive opinion. I want everything to seem picturesque and backwords, twisted around back woods and finding self alone again in blacklit sentiment purchase fresh candles and allow them to burn, the vegetable at the dinner table becomes a mute and is ridiculed for become so anti social after the consumption of a certain herb. But they control the outcome and the level of consciousness I am at is unimportant to the level of alcohol compassion near here in my blood supplies. In frozen mines. Buried beneath the surface of the desert. Bury parts of me in upside down cross shaped catacombs. Large enough in size to contain a city. Multiple mile radius. Underground like a tomb, casino structures, porn shops, seven elevens, liquor stores, barbed shops, the store locally that contains milk and black and milds, naked juice drinks, all of the combined elements. The diet of a king losing a crwon
---------
So many books to read, girls to kiss from past and future, the future ones hold the most prestige, the mystique of a thousand missed opportunities... we form our lips into shapes specific for the recipient. burn down the house and basically become my lover. basically become my heart. I will remember your tattoos fondly and in dark lighting because they have minimal color and probably hurt a little bit, the needle sticking out of a haystack that a doctor made me kick. I want to read everything weekly. Become the smartest most literate and accurate reader and writer that I can. I must also become a music theorist, writing great symphonic equations on chalk boards and liner notes, all of the musical scrawls scratched out by old scribes, the leading lines and treble clefs, we follow the bars across the city into other bars, sometimes repeating the same bar multiple times and getting heavy-drunk on the sound. I will calculate time signatures using physics and counting in between ambitious lines in the sand. There is no sand and if there was it could not be static, the wind, time, elements, change this sand and the times blast off and could be anything but we are so narrow minded to feel naturally clung to standard 4/4 and standard physics. The majority of people never understand the forces of nature in any great detail. We walk around numbly humming along to the sounds of cracking sidewalks and wind in our ears is nothing short of a miracle. Very few realize what it is to be a conductor of a symphony. One full of sibling rivalries and different hierarchical feuds, in mischief and in health, we will play whatever notes we damn well please. Fired from the orchestra. Hired a new bassoonist. Timpanis don't shine themselves, the awkward tapping and humming to tune something huge and demanding. Sweating in the back, trying to cooperate but also look cool by not cooperating. Mostly try stick spins and drum rolls of a kind or another.
----------
Finding cadence in dark places, always getting what you asked for in that attention-drained sea of obscurity. No one knows your name but you are torn between the worlds of acknowledgement and of disappearance. Finding a label and disguising egotistical distaste under battlefield worlds. We are legendary and we are considering the development of retarded beats and comparing dick sizes in truck stop bathrooms. I don't write to please you. There are no rules or boundaries so fuck off. I want you to read. I am a psychological anomaly. I don't understand where everything combines. Into magical dust between the keys. A key change that melts brains... We went to dinner, fireside, on Venice at night where all of the empty lots reflect my inadequacy to act sooner, loudly. Everything echoes off of the dark beach planes. We are alone and romantic but talking sad about past skeletons. All of that buried past and the virginity lost and the music played and the number of people we slept with in different mindsets. Talking out loud in that dark setting felt open and ridiculous and immortal. We ordered our food. She drank and I had a little with a rootbeer. A date night rootbeer and they flipped the chairs while we used the restroom before exiting. She enjoyed the emptiness of the street, the fact that everything had to be imagined to fill in the blanks. Everything is incredible and exciting in the daytime but it is all just shadows of freak shows and glorified peddlers, the artists on the boardwalk who show themselves entirely and without shame. But they are hygienic and sane. Therefore their art is important. We are controlling the outcome and subsidizing the compared wealth between the two of us. Who buys who what? We found out outside griffith park when we get lost at a shakespeare book signing high in the woods, alone and anxious with nothing left to prove.
---------
So many books to read, girls to kiss from past and future, the future ones hold the most prestige, the mystique of a thousand missed opportunities... we form our lips into shapes specific for the recipient. burn down the house and basically become my lover. basically become my heart. I will remember your tattoos fondly and in dark lighting because they have minimal color and probably hurt a little bit, the needle sticking out of a haystack that a doctor made me kick. I want to read everything weekly. Become the smartest most literate and accurate reader and writer that I can. I must also become a music theorist, writing great symphonic equations on chalk boards and liner notes, all of the musical scrawls scratched out by old scribes, the leading lines and treble clefs, we follow the bars across the city into other bars, sometimes repeating the same bar multiple times and getting heavy-drunk on the sound. I will calculate time signatures using physics and counting in between ambitious lines in the sand. There is no sand and if there was it could not be static, the wind, time, elements, change this sand and the times blast off and could be anything but we are so narrow minded to feel naturally clung to standard 4/4 and standard physics. The majority of people never understand the forces of nature in any great detail. We walk around numbly humming along to the sounds of cracking sidewalks and wind in our ears is nothing short of a miracle. Very few realize what it is to be a conductor of a symphony. One full of sibling rivalries and different hierarchical feuds, in mischief and in health, we will play whatever notes we damn well please. Fired from the orchestra. Hired a new bassoonist. Timpanis don't shine themselves, the awkward tapping and humming to tune something huge and demanding. Sweating in the back, trying to cooperate but also look cool by not cooperating. Mostly try stick spins and drum rolls of a kind or another.
----------
Finding cadence in dark places, always getting what you asked for in that attention-drained sea of obscurity. No one knows your name but you are torn between the worlds of acknowledgement and of disappearance. Finding a label and disguising egotistical distaste under battlefield worlds. We are legendary and we are considering the development of retarded beats and comparing dick sizes in truck stop bathrooms. I don't write to please you. There are no rules or boundaries so fuck off. I want you to read. I am a psychological anomaly. I don't understand where everything combines. Into magical dust between the keys. A key change that melts brains... We went to dinner, fireside, on Venice at night where all of the empty lots reflect my inadequacy to act sooner, loudly. Everything echoes off of the dark beach planes. We are alone and romantic but talking sad about past skeletons. All of that buried past and the virginity lost and the music played and the number of people we slept with in different mindsets. Talking out loud in that dark setting felt open and ridiculous and immortal. We ordered our food. She drank and I had a little with a rootbeer. A date night rootbeer and they flipped the chairs while we used the restroom before exiting. She enjoyed the emptiness of the street, the fact that everything had to be imagined to fill in the blanks. Everything is incredible and exciting in the daytime but it is all just shadows of freak shows and glorified peddlers, the artists on the boardwalk who show themselves entirely and without shame. But they are hygienic and sane. Therefore their art is important. We are controlling the outcome and subsidizing the compared wealth between the two of us. Who buys who what? We found out outside griffith park when we get lost at a shakespeare book signing high in the woods, alone and anxious with nothing left to prove.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
August 7
With some inner turmoil and a tentative smile I kiss the air above the passenger seat goodbye. I hadn't written in days and like a virus, present-tense-life overtook and now I am reeling in my sheets, headache matching the brightening sky. I chased the sunrise back from the airport. Saw Venus bright like a beacon of childlike hope, sparkling and shining in a blue mystery beyond this man's comprehension. Then the sun began to wake up this side of the earth and venus becomes again lost in obscurity. Intangible and hidden behind a huge blue curtain.
That feminine touch disappears in a grey mist, above the clouds in a metallic shell. Week's worth of living and feeling, opening doors and hearts, doors to hearts. Filling to capacity on the moments colliding. Now the too-big mattress, more firm than I remembered, stoned and afraid, towel used and abused left bhind a necklace and I nearly bought a bouquet of flowers to plant firmly in the dry ground. empty the contents of our cups in order to keep plants alive. go for strong details in reassurance that everything you do is necessary beyond any single doubt.
Climbed down into a gully toward understanding and a mortality, naked in the woods with rattlesnakes hiding dormant between crags and rocks, where there is a baby there is a mother, angry and protective, a life suddenly turned from the free-form wandering to maternal protection, something natural yet aggravating. There were overhanging trees from which shade helped us survive, the skin on my back becomes like charred popcorn on bad scary movie night, my intelligent quotient drops elegantly below old levels but there is something to arouse suspicion in the facts between the worlds. How nice to be stupid and happy.
That feminine touch disappears in a grey mist, above the clouds in a metallic shell. Week's worth of living and feeling, opening doors and hearts, doors to hearts. Filling to capacity on the moments colliding. Now the too-big mattress, more firm than I remembered, stoned and afraid, towel used and abused left bhind a necklace and I nearly bought a bouquet of flowers to plant firmly in the dry ground. empty the contents of our cups in order to keep plants alive. go for strong details in reassurance that everything you do is necessary beyond any single doubt.
Climbed down into a gully toward understanding and a mortality, naked in the woods with rattlesnakes hiding dormant between crags and rocks, where there is a baby there is a mother, angry and protective, a life suddenly turned from the free-form wandering to maternal protection, something natural yet aggravating. There were overhanging trees from which shade helped us survive, the skin on my back becomes like charred popcorn on bad scary movie night, my intelligent quotient drops elegantly below old levels but there is something to arouse suspicion in the facts between the worlds. How nice to be stupid and happy.
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