November 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oct 9th

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

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

oct 27

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

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

leaves changing color

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Hail The Sun god

Wipe the electric    blank slate clean. There is a rising fire    behind me and to the right.    It grows in light and volume    each second, rising to meet the cadence  assigned by the refrigerator   and Roscoe traffic.               Rising to meet                          the energy demands.

Realize the necessity to edit.

"... there may or may not be an audience. If not, at least, the audience will be your future self. The applauding or booing crowd will be your future, tmore experienced, more knowledgable self. Some self that will look back on past similarities in order to compare them to the present with intention to analyze the events to predict any semblance of the future. It may or may not work, but it gives your eventual self an eventual chance to redeem your self. You might witness the observable effort given to the losing-the-battle art; the geriatric battlements and persuasive canopies of controlled and directed thought conveyed through words carved out with mother tongues." - Indian Guru Accent, with traditional sankrit fusion music and garb.

My inner dialogue was translated through my synapses into English but their external language was inhaled through my lungs and my ears into something less recognizable. I know it not to be gibberish because I know there to be construction all the same. The sounds are made by different voice boxes, different DNA and sentence structure, inviting the ears to perk up at the rhythm, at least, of rising and falling cadence. I enjoyed listening and can advocate the structure of such a language in which the locals will always be able to point out your accent if you learn the grammar. The locals will stare at you. They will sharpen spears and sentence ends.

Desire to view the world as a whole.

Doors open policy into how bad I feel.

Here is the belief in stubborn pursuit laid out sideways. It is 2:21 AM on Tuesday, September 17th and the smirnoff ghost from days of high school intoxication returns in a blue and turquoise shroud of tapestry curtain The bindings snap and come loose.

We are left in a dazzled daze of enlightenment. With my multiple personalities and my girlfriend. There are words spread out between us like a double entendre, bread and butter, red wine and a lover, and we've only got our selves to blame.

Elements in our eyes and veins cemented this. Despite all odds and sordid convictions, we will not allow our selves to implode. There is an understanding so pure. There is an amount of time spent fully focused on the eyes of another. There is... (fearful interruption of thought. loud roommates, we where, in past and present tense, the flushing of a porcelain toilet.)

Sleeping with another cold human being on a chilly night is rather nice.

Hot chocolate and coffee with kahlua.

There will be streamers and glitter in our hair.

I sit down and hear the noises of one hundred thousand crickets, the stomach groveling for more, the music selected by a sleeping beauty and the sleepy television shows enjoyed by the vacant, highlight reel minds that seek power in numbers and crowds themselves in with slamming doors. Their torsos eroded like sea pilings.

Distant cars traveling sounds vaguely like ocean waves crashing. At least in the sense of a perpetual recognizable sound. The battery of a shoreline during a hurricane, if it were a smaller battle at the scale model size of ants and an ant battalion.

Evil boys take out their microscopes in the jealous worship of the sun.

The sun god.

No gloomy evergreen rain for us if we desire eternal salvation.

Conspiracies and cross examinations. Meeting meteorites in head on collisions and hear music through the floor. The decisions of a lost  consciousness.

Next to the girl, the sleeping beauty, all will be lost, gracefully lost. All thoughts will evaporate a brain into mist, just to appease the 7th year of regenerated skin cells, combined into a new alternative to the present.

All other layers will slough off unless you write them down.