June 13

Manipulate the schema in my head and redirect those routes so I only dream of nice things. Nothing perverted or Freudian. I want to dream about flying over the grand canyon with widespread wingspan. A whole city on my back, in rocking chairs and canes, or bibs and cradles. The teenagers let go long ago. Fallen completely into the void, jeans with chains or now the day glow, drug addict spiral. Infinite quest to be twig-like.

I want to dream about watching trees grow in a matter of minutes. Calling animals to my sides and placing tokens of appreciation into their hands. We are connected aren't we? We've done enough harm, haven't we? I want to dream about botany and the names of plants or trees. Whatever is natural growing and indigenous around here. I couldn't begin to express the names of all of lush green scenery. It is beyond me entirely. But all around me. Forces at work beyond my manipulation. Unless I crash directly into them. Spiral myself into that web. That superhuman spiderweb tied up beneath the golden gate bridge to prevent jumps. Worse is the forest that compels you to end. A silent spiritual hell. Your soul becomes locked away from all of the wasted lives clogging your arteries in the air you breathe. Terror pure and simple. I cannot allow any section of my dreams to delve into that mess.

I can think about conversations. About music. Dream in symphony. Cue the lights and the stage curtain drops leaving us all blissfully exposed because we are performers we are used to this anxious feeling. A show, my god. Approaching faster than light speed radon. harlot in her sleeping palace thinks about me as she tosses and turns. juxtapose her position beneath my own and let those wishes become fulfilled. beyond consciousness where we can transcend space and time, tearing wholes through the fabric continuum. the static solution to problems time traveling.

ran into old town calabasas. and it was nice. looked like a great place to bring a date for dinner or to wander. clean appearance. the world's last bookstore. wonder when I will enter. where will there be a prize for my efforts. suddenly everything changed and I am not who I used to be. I am in transition. A prototype of a new version of myself. All other versions failed but together building up to the awesome climactic center found in all. good gracious. manager does not believe we will need jobs with the way he believes our band will explode. I am not money motivated. I am survival motivated. I am guilt motivated. I cannot be so far in debt... I am told that I must find a job. Then I am told I must just pay them once I start making big bills. Why not start on my own now? I will pay them back later anyhow. Let them not worry. I will make it just fine. 40 bucks left until new bank transaction. interview tomorrow morning. but no no. this is too real. make for boring dreams. no dreams of monetary values. i want to make music and become great and love everything and experience the world. i only want to make enough money to survive well on the road. buy car parts if necessary without asking the parents for help. suddenly, realizing I may be able to pay my own way through the remainder of my college. (no UW acceptance quite yet). but hey. fuck money. it corrupts and ruins everything. we made it all up in the first place. prestige is limited.

I just want to fill my eyes with wonder. I want to do big things. I want to be creative and keep my feet solid on the ground. Playing great music everywhere without anyone telling me what to do about that commercial hit. But hell! Why not go all the way! However necessary! I am so resistant because I do not want to write with intentions to conform. Entirely. I hate to think that any member of the band writes simply because they believe the song to be radio friendly.

Dream of water in the air. Falling into the sea again. I am alive and something is happening in the molecules all around me. A kind of leniency? 

June 12

Push the shine, glass towers reflecting characters imagined but never fully realized. I am a stifled writer thrown into a world of musicianship and hours of sitting quietly, listening to subtleties in music and letting the wind blow passed me on the beaches. I don't have the ears. I have the eyes. The nose. A gritty and full sounding tone of all of the years spent in studios. 12 hour days of practicing guitar scales. Until fingers bleed and nothing else is real. Disappearing world. Point of view. Other. Deep other. We are gone and we are forgotten. (no phone calls to friends or family. this has consumed me.) No car. Longboard to job interview like a failure. Actual delay. No words to give to awkward old friends. I am tired. I am sad-jawed. My bone structure felt infected. Like it all warps under my depressed temples. There are conversations and motives all around me I will never udnerstand. I hang around. I hang around. There is money dangling. Where else should I be? I should be writing peacefully or reading the Great Gatsby on my queen-sized bed. Listening to Annuals or something soft and heart strong. Like that. (always shred better in the dark) Fuel that unknown source. A hole in the ground. Spew it all out and let the ground soak up extra expenses. Bass fingers sore. Evidence of progress. Having guilty flashes based on lack of movement. (no exercise. hit the weights after job fair). Underneath the bridge under the highway waiting to score a job with my southern brethren. Watching language in presence of elders. (that reverb and delay. never picky until now) watching language unfold in poetry tomes. tombs of poets. flowers grow more brightly and more delicately under the sunrise. sunshine on the pedals. the water running red or black with ink blood. grab a newspaper and unfold it to block your eyes from your target. they won't recognize you with your hat brim down. you will kidnap them.

kissing your apartment goodbye. it lasted a while but did not feel like a long time. suddenly you are as suspended as I am. moving back to different places around the world. chapter closes. lose relationships. beautiful and meaningful relationships. but why. all this separation anxiety? does it mean a damn thing. I think about purple hair and wonder why anything had to happen. a homeless man compliments me on the affection I show for a girl otherwise outside of me. broken glass in the blue.

june 11

sounds of children playing across the street. parked facing downhill. the sun has yet to burn off the smog and clouds but it will and I will sweat in my jeans and long sleeve tee. contemplate what it meant to be a child in the reckless mornings, the gridiron playground with evergreens serving as bars between us and the cruel harsh adulthood looming beyond the iron curtain. We will grow up with adderal in our hearts and never become tired for selfish reasoning. There are bones that cannot break, our fragile skulls, forgetting every crush on the playground, bone marrow, there are infinite children, good and bad, they will repress these memories and pass them off as silly childish games. I never grew out. I am still throwing rocks at trees by the creek. I am still searching for a reason for the laughter and why the world seems to stop spinning at the sight of an angel. Controversy and long flowing blonde hair. We realize we are immune to all of that potential. Go play. Learn what to touch and what not to touch. Hurt yourselves in ways that will teach rather than maim. Hard headed, knuckles against the floorboards. We feel good with this.

June 10

10-40-11

Crushed a poor spider soul but out of dominance. I was the master of its fate. A lethal bite from his cousin might be deserved. Mess up words because of a blockage in the brain. Blood flow could not get past. Earn someone commission. Finding the missing lunatic. All I care about is if she can still paint. Every unfinished thought can be expressed through the medium of fine art. Give her some postcards to imitate and amaze. Emulate real life while staying inside. Awful stormy out there anyhow. We speak in perfect grammar around these parts. Keep the collection golden and sputtering. Criminal minds take the seat out of old car. Thieves in black in the black night looting and stealing from an old married couple. Build up fences to keep the misses feeling safe. But something happened and it must have been an act of desperation. Of drug fiend lunacy. A loss of reality. They are in the streets stealing from those who dream of the terror outside. We put up barbed wires to keep them out. Mount cameras and other systems. A salesman takes ridiculous advantage, laughing, digs himself a grave made of fire. There are few clean souls here. The first conversation with a stranger, he/she will lie to you 3 times. The moral side of the brain left undamaged perhaps. Can you leave with your dignity in tact after that attack? Push yourself away from the pain. There is no use for it other than an early warning sign that you have bad habits or that your body is breaking. (gym membership for body maintenance. feel confident only after a couple hundred reps.)

Sitting on a queen sized bed under a reversible fan. Elliot smith on the stereo (the aux input damaged from bumps in the road or some small impact with another object) Van gogh painting to my right. Replaced a native image of children in a kitchen. The spectacular thing being the beam of light through the window. Fantastic understanding of light and shadow. Though the image is of shabby clothed people taking on the appearance of beggars. I'd rather think abstractly (curvacious flowers) than have to sleep under a moral message. I have morals somewhere.

"When should we listen to you. When should we tune you out?"

Joke too often and there is no foundation for relations. Get serious and the jokes become bigger and more damaging. Find a happy medium between cognition and fantasy. Sarcasm is great. Creative input is greater. I came across as a jackass. A jokester who wants to impress everyone. I did want to impress everyone. But then, annoyingly, I underplay strengths... Drummers can't be drum techs. Why the hell not? We all become specialized in certain aspects. I dream of becoming good at everything. Where did my artistry go? I dreamed of drawing beautiful pictures of people I used to love. Beach sunsets and tents near campfires. Roasted marshmellows. Drank some beers, told scary stories, heard rustling in the bushes and had sex by candlelight. Is this reality? Is this dream? Where did I meet you? Somewhere in between? Question every fact and every feeling. Seeing is believing. then believe we have lost our eyes. kill the lights and the massage parlor becomes provocative. back sore like lifting boulders up to the sky, sharpening them just right. Is there anything I could make with my hands and coordination that people believe to be created by aliens? (rock formations, pyramids... all the inscriptions in dark cave walls covered in soot and ashes.) Convince me that something is out there. It is all entirely possible. It is all entirely possible. Don't be convinced you are right. It is all entirely possible. even the most ridiculous idea or premonition could find its way into historical fact. ask yourself how you got to where you are and wonder what you would have thought about that a few years ago...

I am proud.

june 9

Psychotic break that began with tech problems. Stubborn enemies with computers. Everything falls apart when there is no enough disk space to keep to HD videos updated. How on earth can I ever have enough space? Nothing deletes. I'm just waiting in line. Camera plugged in. I want to trouble shoot myself. Just work for me. Don't make me sit and pull out my hair in a fit of rage. My back hurts from staying in the same place nearly all day. I'm trying to open up some space so I can breathe. My computer needs to be backed up. Or everything is gone. Why is it so hard to understand? Where is the easy money? I can do this. I'm sure of it. I can't fill up my entire hard drive with shitty videos. Fucking shit. Work for me. Delete. Clear it out. Let me manipulate these videos with no issues. New hard-drive? Where do I back up my files. I need this fucking right now.


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Previous frustration seems tasteless and useless at this point. It is too late to be angry. My ears are ringing from a jam session. From A7X to reggae/jazz. Pink Floyd jam in there somewhere. With new amp head. So loud. Ears hurt in the silence and make everything else pop pop pop. rather than write tonight my plan is to read...

I will nonetheless chronicle what I've done. Nearly broke the gate. Nearly broke the snare. (Maybe take it to Sam Ash). Ran up mulholland listening to origins of symmetry and dreaming of cover songs. play bass and fix the sink. upload videos return camera. ate subway then a burger at the haras. offered to do laundry around here. pick up detergent. nearly crashed into the daughter that lives next door (next wall). must visit store and talk to manager. draw up some designs for fun. sound cannon. what it means to me. write the biographies including my own. autobiography. what should it say? I wrote a rough draft. must write a better draft in better conditions and all will be well. will jam more tomorrow. though on bass. desire to play it more than the others. because it is what I am. discuss internet identities.

become a powerhouse. impressive everyone with 8 arms. all juggling things. making plans and some small cash.

become a musical legend.

live it. be it. do it. run jump and leap and smile. edit videos for updates for fun.

compilation with the droid videos.

thank every supportive family member.

the dream. the dream. dream.