march 7

800 - 808

Rely on the caffeine to arouse the passenger line between aching mind and the output of the hands. Draw a pretty picture then. Drum with your hands on the table. Anything but writing like this because it becomes a monstrosity of verbs and nouns, all abstraction, without a defined shaped to contain the meaning, the personality of a confided set of letters all arranged into words based on the English alphabet, our gregarious bodies harvest the disiduos forests near the skyline, our knees buckle with gravitational pull and the vortex this time pulls out Satan's hot breath from the center of the earth, the place wence the green knight came with his troubled request, the comely court all confusded at his strange and magnificent virility, the same reaction to the eloquence of Satan, of the creature, the psychoanalytic split between yin and yang though no one talks about it.

I sat on campus watching clouds forming over the blue sky. Anxiety is heightened in the grey clouds with vague distances. All seems so closed in and impossible to penetrate back to the brighter colors, it is a hovering castle, the mote dried out just a huge void where water and alligators should be, those cement slave-slabs piled up high from east to west with the passion of an unwilling participant, thus lazily arranged and poorly archictured. Here I felt that communication desire well up and forget the cold wind, walked a mile or two to calm down, I sat forever under the whitening cherry blossom tree, all pedals little miracles, the headaches with noises as garbage men do loud work in sleep neighborhoods, feeling like constant assholes...

Can I describe all of my sensations? Dare I continue?

No. Not now. It aches and I feel forced.

------ later that day ------

12:03 - 12:43

All sounds resonate in here like pipe organs, the cathedral windows illuminate my failed memory, oh how I studied those ancient architectural terms for arches and causeways, all the terminology faded out with time though sped up with consumption of viral drugs. He is studying for final exams and his breath smells like bad whiskey. The red smeared lips and teeth of a gulp of wine taken directly from the bottle, chosen for cheap price paired with the pretty image on the label. Here I see stained glass windows, here books stacked up near wooden chairs, dangling chandeliers and curtains drawn open with quick strokes, the delayed emotional response of a thunderclap, here there are others like us, in community. Our down trodden eyes glued to the bottom shelf of the wine section. Manager's special for 7.99 if you have a club card. Wondering why the sad fixed gaze is necessary to pick out a decent wine for a night. Shuffling feet in the speechless line. Self check out with headphones is the most isolating moment of the moment without fail. Silently hand the cashier the legal credentials for the booze, the dreary eyed image of brighter days, golden smile and teeth without decay of passed days.

"... the simple minded primitives, whose inherited fear of change was merely a conditioned reflex..."

Intricate woodwork built to keep out the commonplace minds who can't stand the silence of holy pursuits of ambition, in the intrinsic violence of spark noted debauchery, the condensed versions of histories where lives are but passing phrases. Sentence structures, in the editing process, can extend or diminish these life spans by infinity in either direction. Sounds logical.

Tear off the costume of quiet Friday nights in self-study, where the world dissipates into a blue-green mist like the distant landscape of Canadian exploration dreams. Here there can be a kind Seattle party with musicians or intelligent researchers, blessed comparisons to the gifted minds who shut themselves away from the world in the selfish conquests of innate insane ambition fueled by no direct outside sources at least in positive light. There are many instances of absorption of personality traits or actions, tones of voices, gestures... that I commit to memory to avoid seeing myself become that. Horrible traits and nervous tics, catalogue them filed under 'what to never become' along with the thousands of other violences out there. The artificial and elaborate hoax. I give a snide sidelong smile and avert my mind from those dark tracts. Walk them talk at each other with the grace of a tourist in a native holy land, disrespecting the peace. "Never allow yourself to sound like that," I say to myself, comforted though annoyed.

It is probably better for the mind to seek out the beautiful traits and nervous tics in people. Despite the pained internal expression of grief at their insidious proclamations.. it is good to find the good in others... those who have redeemable qualities, at least one of them anyway, should be forgiven and listened to with scrutiny of a sponge. There are some who seem to have such slight redeemable qualities that searching becomes futile. They are so deeply buried under the bedrock of their ignorance. Embedded into the stone of fortified beliefs although all beliefs are questionable to the educated man. This is the fear of the blissful ignorant. Their warm systems exploded like nuclear testing offshore, and those dull witted scientists who failed to recognize the disastrous ecosystem effects.

Find the redeeming qualities. The intellectual and discerning eye of them, the conversation and artistic intent, the no bullshit, let's do this, attitude... I have decided not to let anyone horrible enter my life through my passive inattention to their missing qualities. In this sense I am way more guarded than before, having already been guarded with sniper outposts and tripwire. I want the infectious warmth of pure ambition, of crazy ideas executed because growth is beautiful and practical in all fields at once, the renaissance men and women, the binary lives of the loved and the lost, lead me to the holy grail golden age youthful excess of pure selfless intention where our paintbrushes shared palettes and guitars harmonize accidentally after a few failed attempts in the dark room where images of our most recent hiking venture hang to dry after the red ink crosses out all flaws without remedial courses, the waterways of the culture here ebb and flow with the ghostly embrace of dead parents, figurines laid out on the table like photographic memories, heralded albums of music or art, our existence will not be lost or misguided, be extreme with me, my transient loves, let's explore our minds together with the consternation of cave explorers, dig out the gritty truth of our existences, our psychoanalytic art, the free form improvisation of our words, without the pretension of guilt or exodus, we can talk all night with the colors of our sensations pouring into black and white words like a child and a box of crayons, eventually the hands of god will tear the child away and he is left crying until sleep comes. Now my warriors there are no condemning hands to tear us away from our honest ambitions and we can explore the darkest recesses of our minds without telling our parents how these thoughts were able to take root there. They don't need to know because they would weep. We can weep and trip together. Our existences linked through shared experience. Conversations kept lively and sparked with frantic observations at the closest human speed to light. Let's burn ourselves up with the virtue of passion, close the doors with a six pack and yell at each other all night about the mysteries of the universe, no more delirious antipathy, the passive removal from life when there can be so much gorgeous potential in every interaction. Think of the network they consist of. Think about how valuable you are. Your advice giving mind. The experiences to convey and instead of waiting for a few peers to catch up to your rate of being, or instead of slowing down to stoop to them, continue moving at the quick solitary pace like a fox. Wait in motion at full stride toward the person you want to become for others to join your quest.

March 6 - 14

945-1005

Steep heartless streets of Seattle. I can feel them pitch and roll beneath my feet like geographic waves. Yellowed, decomposing newspapers become a squishy, brown mess and beer bottles shattered, cans flattened all near the grecian palisades, those greek life billboards of excess and shame, the rear-ended parked cars and unused basketball hoops, except by neighborhood childhood dreaming of growing 30 more inches. The streets are steep enough that some sidewalks are stairs or have little divots for the walking passengers to avoid a black ice slip and cracked skull indent, how nice of the city planners, those elusive purple robbed humming beings that constantly hover over restoration projects. Ghost, like us, help to replant and grow the Kincaid ravine where the burke-gilman trail passes under the 45th street viaduct. Someone has outlined all the place where tree roots have buckled up under the sidewalk with white paint. I don't know if this is signifier or signed, or if they are marked like those sad orange ribbons tied around great big old trees to mark their destruction. I doubt we will pulverize tree roots to make a smoother path. If we do they will lose hold on the hill and eventually come crashing down into 25th street traffic, rec center cardio center pool area, or the infinite bicyclists in skirts or headphones that keep their eyes averted to all bipedal pedestrians, though give a little flash of intellect, a secret code, to those with similar helmets or rolled up pant legs. 

Network of streets through neighborhoods. Seems like every direction from home base is uphill. I also feel like an invasive species in this home I've robbed from a potential happy, calm, and centered couple to live and to nourish their love. I am alone in this without knowing what I nourish. My indoor streets are tan carpet and faux-tile. Outside, right outside, are budding wildflowers like roses and hyacinths, and unknowns, cats come at an expectant clip to be pet, I'd get a little orange cat if I could, some facetious creature to call a happy home. Streets. Pastel houses with personalities and vegetable gardens, chickens all cooped up in the back. College kids intermingle with old growth families who resent the loud youth for their boisterous attitudes and incessant drinking (found in the form of endless recycle beer cans). I am north east of campus and must walk a mile or so to get to the heart of it. This habit is enhanced by nice music fed directly into my ears, though the endless options were limited to just a few new downloads because of headphone jack technical error and another unfixable, lopsided probably to add to the decaying list of technological strife, the empty headed forgetful mechanic, creates loopholes that lead no where. Sand point? What does that mean. There are paths to take that I haven't had the opportunity to take quite yet. When I still enjoyed pot, I would smoke and wander the streets, imagining the lives led in this sleepy neighborhoods, admiring their landscape architectural and vines growing over door frames, iced over ponds that are now beginning to thaw, a bridge over the void into another endless sprawl of neighborhood. Walk, walk, walk. For hours. Find a rhythm with the music and the scenery, cancel out negative thoughts. Observe everything that is one color or acts against (or for) a common thread or theme. Figure this life out. You are a scared writer. Write powerfully what you observe. Take these long, endless walks. On nice mornings, wake up early and drive to a state park for coffee and contemplation over some fresh blank pages. 

Bring a helpful book. 

march 5

Morning typing for superstitious speed, though the connection between hand and mind is lost in a sensual absence, there is no smell of ink or tear of the begotten paper, she had warned me of using a nice notebook for such ranting thoughts, but I didn't listen. I type with the speed of sound through sea water or hyper jazz experimentation but it leads me to forget purpose entirely. No going back, do not read through what you've written or edit, just fly onward and get to know your own true voice, how it arcs and flows over spaces and ravines, dipping low, for the pursuit of an idea or at least the most angelic combination of words, prolonged eye contact with the soul of things, her hair braided back and zapping through these close encounters with third kinds of beasts, the quick typing proficiency, though useless unless I wish to attempt publishing somewhere for money these spontaneous and schizophrenic rants, perhaps there is no way to edit something like this into a better, easily readable, counterpart, something worth displaying to the textbook youth of my classmates, hard copied and devoted to losing interest in everything else so quickly that they are transported into another realm of consciousness with the same guideline eyes of well bred warriors, those camouflage rituals to blend into the old archaic sense of wilderness we once shared, with our prognathic faces, the development of man and the interesting paintings, I'm more interested in world history or animal paintings than relationship gossip or beer purchase, the cigarette guarantee for lonely nights and rapid succession days, glad we refrained this time otherwise your pretty lungs might burn inside like a gliding eel through the landmass breeding grounds of land and time, we would curl up and pile up over each other to surpass any obstacle on wet nights, while writhing about on the ground in death throes, though exuberant and exhausted by the prospect of a life lived incorrectly to the soul, the heart of things, the creative mind falls to pieces when the regulated mind, the time keeping, limiter turns up its gain and consume the free flowing life to which the subconscious is so jealous, wholesomely jealous, a jealousy that masquerades as inspiration and then you can become on par with your solicitous rivals.

march 4/ 14

My best intentions are writhing about on the floor like a small child in tantrum and I can't seem to comfort him whatsoever. I am at a loss and full of real animal fear for the lackluster images of my day, the terrible social disconnect and pained felt magnet love, the proposed paper massacre like little folded airplanes meticulously created and through into a great big book fire of all of the literary masterpieces I'll never read and have no power to decipher if in foreign languanges, hands over the yes and gripping with shock then tearing with a self burrowing motion like drill bits or jack hammers, those ten lane highways backed up completely for miles and some driver, in a self road rage, has gone and hung himself by his tie in the passenger seat of his life... his death...

"jumpstart my sputtering heart"

herbal supplements in the form of india pale ale, how peachy and boozy in this inclimate scene, where the bed seems awful, the floor better if not for the half blown speaker and the rhythmless horror of the clicking heat device, like the rhythmless horror of society and the world outside, here we are safe, I and fucking I. Head games defeated in last place. Try to decipher precisely why I felt so terribly against myself earlier, so utterly devoid of beautiful poetry, combative and exceptionally misguided into a coarse shifted off by those golden hours of sensation where no sequestration can divert the ultimate death of ecosystems, this ecosystem is one of mental health for me, go insane god damnit. let that flag fly above the desecrated remains of all of your to do lists, let them all cry and yawn disappointed... fortunate that we couldn't kill those devilish beasts in the chest of them without gorgeous taciturn emotional discontent, god almighty, if I could just go home and feel out a niche for my terrors, that Whitman anthology to steal, those old notebooks to peruse, that globe spun and landed on with  wide stance. My mother cries and we run together like crazy specimens caught in a petri dish, but I'll bring my unfinished painting to my grandmother like a kid who goes to his scientist relative for help on a baking soda peroxide science fair experiment because the missing ingredient is at a terrible cost, for here we are left to our sour devices alone amidst all our shattered dreams.... maybe it is best for it to be a surprise for the closer family. maybe it would do well to learn without boundaries.. maybe, maybe, maybe.

saddened by the weight of responsibility lost to the ether. this is foolish to feel. give it up. forget it. grasp life with the ferocity of bears attacking anything deemed a threat to their cubs. here I am exist with a fully functioning heart and mind... the body is a piece of historical evidence for fierceness. the writerly life is one of cup filling and emptying... why only filling doesn't work is the reason that 'natural gas' is not a solution for fossil fuels. what the frack.

beaten battered bodies, cemented celestial crowds, dark devious deeds, erases everything else, forget fucking failures, grow great generosity, have heroic heart, invent...

"I'm wondering around and feel out of place."

How to be a monster torn free from society until the end of time. How to make use of this distinction and what might be implied about a personal manifesto.

Today with hesitancy I rose from bed, with coffee and the finishing of Jekyll & Hyde... notes in red pen like a journal editor, though I have no idea what that entails because I haven't the training, everything needs training. (why do my fingers feels so cold and dead when I play guitar sometimes? is it nerve damage?) here the blood runs thin and can't handle such terrible posture without an influential friend. take an introductory yoga class with the awkward hesitance of a first kiss though my body and mind would grow so happily with such a prospect, and the words come out faster than they have in quite a while, the wrists ruined by typing posture, the eyes dimmed by the 2006 computer screen, the inability to keep up with the technological times because I have no formidable bank account... speaking of... after coffee and the novella... scrambled eggs and Grieves... I put on a rain coat and jet down to the bank for a cashier's check for late rent, there goes those dreams of small living and cutting down from the enormity of my material possessions already. I couldn't even see everything I own at once if I laid them in this living space. I would be surrounded and the items would encroach to topple upon me with intrepid guilt and passionate revenge. Here Satan reaches for the gun like always but God has not left it there loaded, for everyone knows how it works out in the end and good and evil fight incessantly with no true victor until the consciousness that contemplated the battle is once and for all deceased.

The damp walk to the silent, crowded, hot radio station. No one speaks and I left after researching for awhile, that warmth and friendly comraderie did not exist in the slightest apprehensive version. We glared around the room, shoved headphones in and pretended to work on this or that. New hair cuts and trampled underfoot ideals, god help us for our awkward terror of personal hate and awful intent to sabotage oneself at the expense of protective another's comfort. none of us comfortable, all of us in the throes of an awkward balloon, like the vomiting stranger at your feet in the bathroom stall or a loud mouthed children's bus driver, or a president that ever told the truth, the fruit is at the bottom of the well here, and we can't reach without futuristic technologies. develop. develop. develop.

cross legged work on thematic intent for future musical blog posts for the University of Washington radio station though lazily run. no real conversation here made any sense. waved at a few old acquaintances. those classmates I met once or twice. talked or exchanged information though the friendship expires or is based on my terms of brief and insipid thoughts without the intended girls and lips to kiss, those red objects of desire and the alcohol that pours between them, here the hats are tilted back, the sleep is instilled in their eyes like a fire cloud... god damn, we fucked up the world and our ideas for the salvation of it are pretty ridiculous so far. oceans are screwed and our ideas to fix it all by ruining them is a temporary fix with dire consequence.

then I walked around aimless, like a ghost of campus. talked to my sister about the state of the world. she said intelligent things that gave me hope. 'extremists at anything suck' she says. fuck yes. coffee shop with free refills. a few hours spent on looming Frankenstein essay. some planning though I'm confused about what the hell I want to write about still. either the social differences between the doctor and his creation or the danger of knowledge in the world of the novel. I already started on the social differences topic so I shouldn't change now. that would make me review and revise unnecessarily.

the transference of anxious, anti social, behavior from 'parent' to 'child' even though this is a virgin birth and without the 9 month host body. the child is disfigured and huge, though born benevolent. the mad scientist is so consumed by his studies that he neglects his loving family while away in his studies in college. he becomes kind of a monster himself because of his cruel removal from the society that loved him, especially since the death of his mother because she took care of his faux-cousin while she had scarlet fever, contracted it and died of it. This faux-cousin was basically an arranged marriage wife for the mad scientist, though his passions made him kill everything around him vicariously through the monster.

all I really need is a few claims that can be addressed and assessed from the novel and the framework of the paper details.

tend to try a little hard to pick a topic that excites me on a level deeper than the assignment alone.

Silent working space, a filing cabinet is my coffee table, there are pools of mist gathering up to reflect our faces and moral dilemmas for stolen goods or given-out-freely bads... The heart was a pained place like fiery lakes when driving up past the birthday girl after such bliss of a weekend, intrinsic motivation led me to stall and to stall forever while seeking out words to describe our unrealistic love.