July 30

The day her heart stopped was the day she learned she became too old to model. To model what? Her body, her shapes and curves all of those gym-perfected, personal trainer-fashioned leading lines that lead designers into greedy temptation. After all of the time spent counting calories, tweezing hairs, clean shave, fixing up the hair just right, whitening teeth, making herself the best product she can offer, her birthday came and went as did her dreams. Spent years dressing up in the nicest clothes in stores, feigning interest and pretending affluence, taking the hungrily to dressing rooms and dreaming of what it could be to wear those shape defining clothes every day for the glory. Men in crowds would gather and salivate to the temptress in red dresses and nothing ever sounded so provocative to her. Suddenly when there was a lull, a question of fashionable styles, the teeth that fell out and the hair follicles faded. That momentum, bodily perfection, ran dry and shrot. Everything began to deteriorate horribly. Implants popped and drooped down to where they should not be. Everything in her eyes tha made her up to be the most beautiful princess in the world fell apart and she cries until make up stains the ground beneath her feet like a trail of breadcrumbs to the bakery.

July 29

A dangerous excitement like encountering a rattlesnake, poised, in the path. Your move, he hisses. The torch is lit in the center of the stadium but the stadium is built of flimsy and flammable material, the whole damn construction ablaze, as a matter of fact statement regarding the ignorant placement of such a supposedly impressive mantelpiece. There are no chestnuts roasting. Nothing roasting at all besides our skin cells in the baking sun. There are oceanside controversies. The extreme prices for roadside parking and the violent, unimpressed, traffic. never allowing any warmth for an outsider. we can be outsiders together, finding new friends, remaining as outsiders, but without a secure job I am loaf, socially outcast, vulnerable to plagues and obsessive creative outpour. Vulnerable to become great at the things I've tried to become great at. In time maybe. Never forget where you are though, soldier. This is war and all around are life and death moments worth capturing. Experience the scent of those wonderful cinnamon flowers, work out acting skills and accents, convince the lady with huge fingernails of place of origin. Picked up this accent from english television. Save those emotional goodbyes for later and we can talk about what it is to fall so heavily in love and in hope for the unknown the financial freedom, however temporary, to make the best things in life happen. No longer pushing dreams back beyond pay checks and the price of a soul is way too low these days. "I hope I never see you again." meant in a good way like they hope I never end up getting that shit job again.

Soothsayer, fall around me with your words and visions. Will there be colors in lights our names inside? Sunsets will make more sense. On beaches past tense. Rigid. Rigged. Tell me the secret thread of time is something tangible that I can throttle or kiss. That softening fabric, disintegrates at the very brief thought of it. Nothing ties it all together. but maybe there is an enchanted perspective to this sacred life. god, stay out of this talk. this is meant to be about men from men with no ghosts haunting outer recesses. we are here and we are now. i wish to know how to contemplate my reality in the best way. never adapting a mass opinion. i wish to formulate my own. been doing fine. pick your teeth with toothpick chewing tobacco and marijuana seeds the face of the american dream screaming in horror most nights from foreign nightmare the war torn hero and the mattress that served as a resting place for his father before him. middle-aged, well aware, too aware, that if some accident does not befall him, he will die in that very bed.

July 28

Regardless, there is no sound in space. On earth we fall into cadences and feel trapped, me personally, living in a creative fantasy where nothing is tangible in the least. It is abstract and when I try to describe a painting as a garden I am asked if it is a top-view and then I shut my mouth, regretful instantly of what I'd said so loud and stupid. I see abstractions and I bother to study these things and go into depths of them, letting the pen, the brush, the fingers speak for themselves. It starts with one color, one idea and then the rest of the story spills itself out like a confessional. Today I chose blues purples and subtle turquoise. The story desires to reach climax and resolution but I'll let the ideas fester and my brain fills up with the liquid run-off from the last of the paint tube. Someday those blue and purple characters will continue frolicking through their respective mysterious lives until a nurtured death. Someday those colors will write away into a piece of fiction that narrates a universal feeling of isolation in crowds. Take a paint brush in one hand and a type writer in the other, combining the old school elements to bring about a positive change on this fine day of resilient rest. My face flushed red when the niacin rushed to it. My hands started shaking and the new canvas suddenly has a great multitude of colors and shades and shapes on it. From a place of meditation, the galaxy in between consciousness and subconsciousness, automatic. Move from one to the other like adjacent rooms in a house with no doors. The breezeway and the river bodies float down. Does it make sense, anything I say anymore?

I painted today. It felt good. It still feels good. I also thought up fresh ideas for song or story. A lonely Saturday night can help a depressed man realize his worth. All he is up against are the demons inside his own head. Thy scream and chatter ceaseless of awful things and negative consequences. Have I become agoraphobic? Suddenly that question rings out like artillery fire. I am afraid of people. Or awkward connection and of feeling cold blood beneath warm skin. Scented like apple cinnamon and with a maroon t-shirt on. You are a supermodel citizen. Dorothy. Wendy. Scarlet. The evil car. The diamond store secret shopper, always in there, as an expert in noticing the beauty in small things, the rigorous work ethic required to grind your soul down into fine powder and snort it. Inhaling those demons like the old friends who say they need cocaine in order not to black out after drinking, no matter how heavy or light. We have a tank not a light weight and his drunk ass will break everything in your apartment.

See me happy in this isolation. Like living off the land in the woods high in a cabin or the canopy connecting treehouses and rope swings and ziplines between for supplies transferring or for fun but that shit all overgrows and no one person can ever manage it all, especially considering that the upkeep will result in neglect again eventually. Let that jungle take over. Move the tent slightly daily and keep plowing ahead.

Have you been in the wilderness lately?

Where is your adventurous spirit?

Play it safe and get good at things. I am training for my life rather than living my life. This is okay. This is to optimize my life once it arrives. My eyes will be wide open. Body physically fit, oiled, shaven clean of blemish or anything unshapely. I will regard everything with curiosity and witty charm. There will be a cacophony of sound to enjoy and to love. We move like swinging chandeliers.

july 27

"Are you okay?" asks the curious co-worker, as I stagger in, late, with a belated look of incredulity, "You look like shit."
Standardized white t-shirt stained in all places, I am sweating buckets in the stale heat, headed to the refrigerator aisle or the freezer in the back for a quiet place to reassess the situation and to get my head on straight. Limping, with blood in my eyes, "Fuck off." I drag my body across the glossy floor, spreading dirt and blood about the neatly arranged aisles as regular customers gasp in horrified voices. Dropping glass bottles off of shelves and pointing at my torn up body, the terrible gashes on the most fleshy parts of my body, all in lines of three or four. Claws, sometimes the thumb too. A bear? A sabretooth from the ancient hills? Worse? Imaginations ran amok and I smiled at the thought of the idiotic concern about my well being. I was attacked. I was in a car accident. I was attacked by a car. They desired, for a reason I feel I'll never understand, to run me off of the road by violent means. I came to consciousness near the dumpster out back. They carved 'vengeance' into the calf of my right leg, thankfully, in this case, prosthetic. No other case would I be thankful for that other unfortunate attack to my health. I am often mistaken as someone else and nearly murdered for what awful things they've done. My god, this time, after they explained why I was brought to the edge of death after all of my pleas of the innocent, sounding like pleas of the guilty, I gave up trying... I nearly felt like I deserved this beating, this dragging off from the woods, the blood in my eyes and the sleeves of my shirt. It is so damn hot. Apparently, this guy, Mikey, ran off with a gang members sister and beat her ass up... I am his doppelganger. So they beat me up. "Touch her again," they said, "and you're fucking dead, Mik." So I really hope this fucking Mikey does nothing again to hurt her. She is too stupid to realize I am not him apparently, having spotted me pushing carts outside the store...

The unreasonable people in a man's life as he tries to exist simply, trying to figure it all out. He constantly is mistaken for someone else.

Call me a general white man. The stereotypical bone structure and all similar attributes. Hitler's golden-blonde army. I am not hateful. I am quiet. I wish to exist in semi-privacy with a beautiful women, intelligent, worth speaking to. My standards of intelligence in a women are extremely high. Beauty standards, much, much less as I do not have the physical self-esteem necessary to follow me where my appetite wants to go. Mikey probably goes to those dark places. Same with the Sven. The drug lord's son. Later I was held captive and beaten for answers I didn't have. I made up answers and names and some of the pieces clicked. Apparently caught in the middle of some gangland drug war where all classic cars are brought brand new off of show rooms. They all want to kill someone who looks me but isn't me. I begin to believe that I have an evil twin brother who set out to ruin my life because my parents cast him out into adoption and a life of crime. He is someone I've never known to exist.

july 26

and when it grips you
no choice must obey demands
that ransom note swallows hope
and we are nocturnal
night-breeders
intellectual
mind-feeders
your spine feels it

shudder!

shake or vibrate deeply, tremble convulsively, typically as a result of fear or repugnance... (of a person's breathing) be unsteady, esp. as a result of emotional disturbance

I shudder to think
move back to your street
seek invincibility
from the horrific scene
stay tuned, elude, you're glued to your seat

develop cataracts in that faded recliner
soaking up nonsense, that cable provider
what if everything you thought you knew was wrong
that your enemies were accurate all along?
national security and paranoia sweeping
our concern for safety is intoxicating
an opiate for the illiterate
attending lectures about human spirit
of some sort of philosophical shit
give me my bong, fast food and tv
give me wartime reports, give me causalties
I am the reason we are lagging behind our true ambitious nature
I am the conformist plague beneath the sweeping vultures


------

realize isolation, entirely self-appointed. I am alone here, they are all together out there banding against with steadfast ignorance and blank perseverance. throwing down people and trash cans in my pursuit of something grand. In isolation chamber, the black abyss for two weeks in shawshank, give me padded walls, and something funny to look at, a mirror. study the face and the describing characteristics of the human body. watch movies and avoid people because they terrify... given more free time won't I just continue to loaf around without socializing? shaking off the cobwebs the game is to avoid sex the first night perhaps. drink and enjoy and kill the sun. we are returning to some more familiar place. we used to understand. maybe we no longer do and it will be a horrible, sad, week. but i doubt that highly. we will be great. my fear is my freedom from a work force and the inability to converse normally with anyone interesting.. help me stranger...