Novel Ink.

At the gandering skin of a gang member's funeral...

2005-11-09T17:45:00.000-08:00

"The point I haven’t made, which of course I haven’t made, is ..." and the sound of automatic rifle fire filled out earshot, with a glaring, post traumatic high frequency buzz. God damn, bullets’ departures from guns are ... when you habit their backside, which is generally the safer area than the recipients’ to hide in. The interactivity of gunslingers degrades to winces and yells after a few too many .45 or MAC-20 recoils. Only sleep degradation softens the snick of silencer bullets perceived from a perpendicular angle. The tension of staying awake amplifies and deadens events, with no foreground knowledge of which one winds suggest. How long will the paranoia battle the blackout; or where will the snow no longer awaken the soldier, peering over sights locked from other dimensions’ conscripts, map long since trampled in woeful battles behind him/her? When the sacred crystals no longer kick the magician back from the fold mis-made, the door to the metaphorical has opened, the high path has fallen steppe for steppe with the middle, and the dark world yawn below collides with the heat of internal explosion. It’s nasty work, flagged with death defying surprises. On the other hand, you could be stuck painting pure landscapes in Holland, before the form was deemed sellable. If I recall correctly, master Ruysdael starved to death, as Hobbema tossed in the towel. The powder burns and paint smears (and occasional blood spatters) run havoc to Sunday best, so I guess we habit that common.

there's a lot more, but ...

2005-08-29T16:01:00.000-07:00

You have to find it.

http://www.daresay.com

unreAD unconscious slips and corners' paragraphs to parse.

2005-08-29T14:39:00.000-07:00

SIX

"If we’d wanted your opinion, you would have known it."

Unfortunately, not one, but two police cars surrounded my sad little dirt bike, jammed in the corner next to the stinky dumpster, where I assumed nobody would notice it. From bad to worse, the narrow escape down the staircase, crossing four lanes of oncoming traffic before mounting the sidewalk, for the block plus of pedestrian weaving, engine off, to not scare anyone. Adding insult to unjust ticket injury, the licence had expired last month, and what’s worse, it shouldn’t legally have one at all, forged insurance, etc. I thought, if I sit here long enough, they’re going to leave. Fat chance. The tow truck arrived, and I kissed the bike goodbye. But what the hell. Hey buddy, what if I slipped you a C-note, you know .,. as a friendly gesture from a stranded motorist. Sure enough, the cop was right behind me, reeking of Chinese takeout. Um, hello sir; is the motorcycle yours by chance? Instinctively, I mentioned my friend’s name, who’d cornered by cops, left it and called me, warning he was leaving my bike, and blowing town. Thank god I’d thrown my psychedelic helmet in the bush, and turned my coat inside out.

They wanted to know a lot about this imaginary friend of mine. How long had I known him? Why did I loan him my bike? What was that licence doing on it, when it was clearly only for dirt? The last one was a bit of a tight spot ... what? I found it and what do you know, it fit? A strange coincidence, not. Um, I park in the street, in front of my house. No garage, you understand. I don’t want anyone thinking its ... stolen? Ditched? Doesn’t belong there. I am very apologetic, decidedly embarrassed, does it help? Uh, huh. Not sure yet.

It’s a bizarre sports bar filled with overtly-monied short hairs, bleeding expensive perfumes. Bear with me, I told her. It’s got the best German beer on tap in town. I have little to no idea why these people are here, or who imported the rarities on handles the tenders yank with polish and verve, whole heartedly wasted in style, as my junior high flame belabors her poor relations with her blood sister, while I listen, marveling at the parallels of her then-best friend, later by two years, my first girlfriend, who by conditional coincidence, just left after a three year hiatus. Within hours, I had downloaded their respective miseries, a love triangle misinterpreted, a married man, four kids, a mono-focus, an inability to let go of childhood patterns, a hard road to chisel. The karma of telling ones aging parents what to do, and reacting when they don’t follow the time line, you devised. I almost laughed, when the flowchart came out. Anyway, the full circle is precious ... I relayed by and by, the openness hedging us to it; they concurred and retreated. It’s as if nothing has changed, except ... you’re more dangerous than you ever were. Which I embraced, and declined. More emotionally risky, than being alone and isolated, or sacrificing a wife, or your heart against a married man? It seemed a mite insane. I know them, so I’m dangerous. I’m less likely to nurture when its superfluous, or injure with blatant ignorance. Without compassion, or knowledge, your heart exposed, and unprotected. I marveled at how women will throw themselves on a knife, they will gladly proclaim as love, and willingly lay their lives down, projecting their dreams on strangers’ ignorance of their quirky kinks and turns. I’m dangerous! I thought. That’s a good one. The ‘danger’ is the attachment to what’s real. Innocent bystanders are rarities in this game

I’m trying to project my fears and attachments, my fairy-tale hardwiring upon you, but it isn’t working. I’m trying to make you part of the puzzle of my life, and I know you’re a part of it, but you’re not fitting. It’s frustrating me, and rather than change, I’m going to take it out on you. I’m suffering for my beliefs, and you have to pay for it. It was a curious day which started cool and quickly towered into the nineties. Groggy and under-slept, the fortress of the in-between suspended hopelessness as the blazing temperature crept to my brain’s primal centers, to instigate unrest. I had the bike back, just barely, but rode even faster to manufacture wind. Cars were meaningless blobs I sped around, piloted by robots in falsely cooled capsules heating the plant world of aeons ago to gasses again. Not that I wasn’t, mind you. Yes somehow ... the yahoo!s and brilliant, crinkle-eyed braille of grins I produced, mitigated the negative with positive vibe.

A rabbit breeding girl sports amazing thunder thighs, and monologues incredible facts about Bugs, bunny that is ... I’m trying to concentrate my depression upon itself, but she’s distracting me anthropomorphically, with rabbit facts. I had no idea the mania had such depth. A well paid professional expert with a seemingly bottomless well of obscurities to punctuate her obsession! The entire picture bred avarice the thrumming heat exasperated. Carefully observing her, I see her work and her passion are one, and although mono-focused, the example is one of enduring success which deserves to be applauded.

Jealous behavior behind, the question of cup half empty i.e. half full assumes a stasis of Neither. It’s just where it is! and I struggle to sea-legs my inner-to-outer world caught in the nasty typhoon or purgatory of depression. So many things have gone wrong lately, I feel compelled to mount a bridge, and swan dive to my watery salvation. I gaze at the pile of paper I’ve scribbled, and wonder how many manuscripts have burned., without one soul feeling their hidden power. Smoke begins to churl from my engine. The rudder feels heavy, and the left pressure needle begins to dip. Belief is wavering; the only thing which keeps this airship aloft in a hostile judgmental environment is belief. The Catch-22 churns me. I think of the trickster Chung Ling Soo1, who died via bullet at the accursed trick renown for killing magicians. "Condemned to Death by the Boxers, referring to the rebellion, no doubt. Snatch the ballistics in flight with your plate, tied to the firing line. Nice trick, if you manage to live through it. And the heavy arsenal is moving to point-blank rage; did I say that? Genetics suggests you can tweak a chromosome, and make animals more passive, or monogamous. How a single letter alters the yarn, is shocking, or nearly intangible, depending on the tale told.

"We knew the stars resided at the University of Wisconsin, so we took a road trip from Michigan, to go drink with the masters; you know, see how they do it. Get some pointers. I tell you, it was totally out of control." Which truthfully, did not surprise us. "At first, I wondered why the place was so empty, and what happened to the windows. The one main hall was cordoned off with blankets, and the surrounding rooms appeared to have no heat whatsoever. The basement was a slurry of mud, which seemed to be beer and particulate matter upon closer inspection, perhaps ashes or dust mite residue. Shortly after we arrived it became apparent the zen-like sparsity of the establishment had more to do with flammability than aesthetics, and there were in fact no windows. At night we huddled four or five to a bed to stay warn, in the cluttered attic, which seemed a few degrees above the hall, where all night riots occurred, and they were not beyond burning man-made products to keep a check on the chill. Honestly, it was quite an education in beer reverie."

We popped the cork on a thirty dollar bottle of wine, because good tales are managed by loose tongues, and quite frankly, we could easily die tomorrow. Imagine, leaving that thing in the cellar for when the rouge tritium bomb hits, rendering us too sick to drink! Anyway, it was quite a departure, and a welcome one that falls in you lap, every now and again, making the dirty world magic again. What year was that, I ask him. 1988, at the Fuji house, I think—and the think mark is me. Now that I’m recording its specifics, there’s no for-sure anywhere. And the wind is burbling against the cinder block walls of past memories, wearing them grain by grain away.

Dude, if you ask me for change one more time, I’m going to have to ... the words kill you came to mind. Not very Christian of me, but then again, the Christians are funneling hate into everyone these days through the lens of the rapture’s political aims. How violent, I thought, two seconds from screaming at this dysfunctional maniac, Why the fuck don’t you take your meds?! You’re so freakin’ crazy you scare people. Suck it up or improve your attitude; you’re a toxic waste zone of angst and stress. He was a big burly dude, with an ugly temper, who drilled into you with those demonic red eyes of his, relentlessly asking for coffee money, again and again. I took a deep breath, and tried to relax. I looked straight at him, and ... got it. It’s the brand label. It’s the intimidation factor, he’s cultured. He’s the genuine article Darwin writes about, a high level niche occupant, who’s honed himself into the jagged crack of exploitation others are uncomfitted by. His murderous penetrating stare bored through the translucency I became. "I know what you’re doing; [it supports you] but are you thriving here?" He stood there are screwed his face into an ugly knot. Faces of others flashed by me; the beings I’ve attempted to show shields they carry, to scrape a living from the ground. They decide to protect them, while claiming to let go of them, catching you in their net.

The cops busted the guy being at the interchange corner, flipping off the polite motorists who tried to look the other way, when he wanted their attention. You need to look at me. I want your money, your time, your energy your eyes. I want to suck your soul, forcing you to absorb by self-imoised plight. Little did they know that bastard ran a heroin ring, with junkies collecting motorist’s bulging guilt, after they .... you know. He knows the locals know, but fear to finger him, because money and violence win in the end. I stand there for a while, and wonder whether to tell them he’s running a small time drug cartel ... and the dude begins to sweat.

Can we help you? The cop asks, impatiently.

The other way around,

thinks me.

Truly though, it would complicate things. The last thing these officers want to do, is have their shift spoiled dealing with a rat like this. They’d rather not know. Another obsequious immoral scoundrel with too much savvy for their own good, stinking up the squad car, or what’s worse, having to usher another pusher into their collective consciousness, watching their nefarious moves for months? It’s like realizing the president is a psychopath, or we actually possess the power to heal ourselves. The information does not make your life any easier to live.

The silent actual cowboy, scars from lariats all over his hands, in a blowsy blue button-down covered in gutter leaves as if Rip Van Winkle from another American time, rose from the relative death of the prairies, was unable to decide what a pack of horses was. A herd? We pulled a smoke blackened 1970s encyclopedia from a neglected shelf on the wall as he cradled his quadruple shot of something, and became lost there. I was fascinated by his face, which held ore few businessman would recognize to mine. A short sexy oddly-tattooed hippie circumnavigated the running pool table, to capitalized every man’s eyes’ roving their favorite female body part. Her striking poses of don’t care lingered in the rat brain contact high, of weigh the costs later. The hand rolled cigarette smoke choked unadulterated lungs at first breath; sloppy drunks slurred malapropisms through 4x shots, and outside, a drug deal went bad, resulting in a stabbing. God gam, dis place iz hard care, the cowboy drawls and slurs. Yea, I said. Drugs’ legality ... always a hot spot. When the shit does you, you’re dead. Which surprised, my intellect, cuz it’s not what meant to say. A drug deal gone south is no minor hit, when you’re leveraged ass high in a piranha river, and you’re there for people you thought were your friends. From either side they’re screaming at you, don’t go there, I tell you. Check the blood out front, for the encyclopedia entry. Anti-herd man bites it, from double-dealing fake friend. When your leg’s broken, they shoot you, because it’s humane to get even. That’s the disillusionment factor planet earth maintains for us to breath, to get lung carcinogens over, or reconcile with artistic enterprises. He puts it so perfectly on page 74 and 75 of The Looser, the crafty Bernhard character! given to me by a late state addict’s slow morph into the perpendicularity of the abyss. No matter what you attempt, it has the capability of poisoning you with its insufficiency, and innumerable latent flaws. To think of the sketches which never reached eyes, because of the errors their first line contained, in whose anticipation, no words were written, no pencil touched drawing paper, and little love was transferred to those
starving for it.

AH, Men.

Fascinated with facets of alleyways'

2005-08-24T12:01:00.000-07:00

Crows circled the coming winds of Fall, hypnotizing me. A turn of the century cart bundled with dirty rags clattered down the street, cued by a depressed novelist’s words. Childhood friends skittered in and out of mouse holes, snatching curbside crumbs from passerbys, dodging skittering feet and objects like fencing instructors, making a polished point against chaos. The virtuosity of all the things I couldn’t do correctly welled, and presented themselves in dirty puddles reflecting the skies changing states seconds’ tick unwound. The phone rang for the fifteenth time that day, adding to too many messages to comprehend; wouldn’t it be nice to pass out in a heap of garbage, like this man? Drunkenness masks the small defeats and rankness of life’s weights. I stand before him, as he snores soundly.

Landing in Seattle

2005-08-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

FIVE

I wonder what percent of the population feels they have a life filled with difficulties? I’d be interested in knowing. Somebody I work for, who seems to be going slowly insane, constantly suffers under the yoke he daily affixes, hanging more to hamper his load as he trudges. It’s a potent reminder of what we do, to complicate our existence. You could for instance, simply stop trying to help people, and your life would be easier. It’s true. I basically choose to suffer. And yet, I know those whose last concern is others, they have no compelling aspirations to speak of, except to be lazy and rich, or cared for, and they’re miserable with what they’re creating too. It’s a state of concern, when the role models are so few and far between.

Life if full of deities conjugating tricks to confound you.

I had an extremely disturbing nightmare about home, how it was broken into and inhabited by murdering thieves who eventually cleaved my head with an ax. I felt the blade in my skull for some time, after ground back into the world, uniform torn and soiled from the friction of my ungraceful skid. The dream was so unpleasant I lay thinking, where did this come from? How can I turn its machinations to sovereignty from the problem I must be in?

A steaming-hot hour+ shower is like burning a few gallons of gas. Throwing away hard earned money on organic health food, while smoking a pack a day. Face it, we’re all fakes, choosing what to found as the principles we’ll justify our curvaceous decisions by. An old Peruvian man sits on a bench blowing bubbles with a plastic shark toy he appears to be selling, enjoying the winds’ play with the delicate hail of soap spheres he’s issuing to the world. His creased smile of a face is contagious.

At one fifteen, the evening sailed into high gear, as a dark figure down an empty street cupped his hands, and yelled my name. The shadow land character appeared to recede as I approached him, both larger and smaller than life until his maniacally gleaming smile rekindled my memory. Goddamn ma-man; where the hell you been? Oh, around. You know. As if I’d forgotten what life is, minus an address or phone. Well one thing leads to its other, before you know it four twenty blind sides us, now with a Pommie in tow, fresh off the plane. Kreeeiiist! How dat happen again? Boy, I never git any sleep ta say, ‘round you. I laugh. Yo the old pot callin’ whitie black, I’d say. Shit. Look at the mess we’re in. Organic grapes were crushed in the carpet, the place smelled of speed, and obscure music littered every flat surface. Did you have the whole of San Francisco here for after hours, or what happened? Was this just us, or did a troupe of circus monkeys trash the place? Hell if I know. The horizon frosted morning, and I had a flight to catch (minus a ticket) still drinking the evening’s mix of two dollar red wine and coca cola. Fuck man, where the hell did you find that saxophonist? Dude. Is he the bomb, or what?

The young lady who shacked with a companion of mine while she combed the streets for an apartment, jumped out of bed, and headed for the hour plus shower she was increasingly famous for. The puny one-bedroom met its downfall in people like that, as dirt-hardened poverty cases dovetailed in an unconscious synchronous dance of never needing the loo or the shower in unison. I noted her obsession with hot water, and how it eclipsed the outer world on many levels. It was a devious sign, of unseen complications to come. It reeks of someone hyper clothing conscious, who slinks off to scarf a burrito, then has to nap to digest, lamenting her lost time (and increasing bulge) afterwards. Purple makes me look fat, she declared. I can only weather certain colors. Careful, I told my friend, you’re in for a heap of trouble. Why? Dawn said protectively. She’s going to lure you into a trap of generosity. I’ve never heard such rubbish, she protested too loudly. Look, I said, I’m just reading the tea leaves. You do what you want; I’ll stand by our friendship, no matter what. Which seemed dramatic, but you know how these things go.

The moon rose of its own regard on one side, and the sun't straight razor sliced the horizon of the other. Obliterated on stimulants and gin, I rode the plane to the Northlands, flanked by cookie-cutter persons worried about their hair, or whether bags wielded coherence with wristwatch straps, ditto the designer belts and purses. The meteor trail of the actual matters we wonder why about, never referenced itself, as slack jaw snorers recovered from excessive mental activity, or highly caloric meals. The stewardess, bless her heart, seemed to acknowledge my plight, and saw to it my glass was freshened, on the airline itself. We need freaks like you, she seemed to say, although hidden, under her cloak and dagger of real-world work, busy subverting he dominant paradigm from the curtained off inside.

Fueling up the natural gas taxi hose pulling nearly 3000 psi, the soldier off to survival training haggard in sleep loss, tells me his life. The drama of leaving Japan, and its culturally-insulated base, was a palpable ring around him, busy to radiate release. He was raised in Gettysburg, home of a well-known, but less-bloody conflict that paled beside the place he left. I restrained my hidden impulse to ask him about the firestorms which preceded the nuclear blasts, instead, I queried him where his destination would bring him. Do you know where (-----) is? I sucked in my breath. Sure enough. He dropped my somewhat-shattered self in a downtown alley, and continued north. When I got out, two madmen spieling to unseen persons deep inside and surrounding them, conversed oblivious to each other not fifteen feet apart. Having seen them for eons, reclusive paranoid, and anti-social, at least in a flesh and blood sense, the interaction assumed the air of the diabolical, as arguments with other realities clashed when they also, peacefully coexisted, sharing the same piece of concrete street slab. It was a bizarre circus show, I dropped my bag and slouched against brick, to spectate. Slowly they realized another person was nearby, but it wasn’t me. They’s unwittingly knocked on the doors of each other’s manias, and surprised, opened them to say hello. I found myself filled with wonder, at how close, and distanced I was from their existence. The blazing orange ball of the sun ascended, striking century old clay baked in a hell-like furnace, and I snoozed against my backpack, which for long stretches in romantic continents, was all I'd had in the world. The next day, these two oddballs had progressed to the same wavelength. They carried on bizarre causal interrogations, to arrive in obscure places where round corners wrecked poetry. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it before. I reckon it to the sped-up invention of language.

Lone De-Ranger co mix books

2005-08-20T15:23:00.000-07:00

People say I write a lot about bars, but in fact I write in bars, and the clientele make the environment the writing is framed in. I have to get out of my tiny apartment at night, to think, minus the two cats clawing me for attention, and the two house mates crammed into the one bedroom shoe box urban poverty necessitates. The phone reins my dreams with people wanting things I can’t effectively provide, ringing incessantly with new demands I disappoint, invoking judgments which poison me. Get me the hell out of here, I think, bracing myself to the new onslaught of narrow-minded PMS, my narcissistic bad-cop house mate is pressure cooking, to expose my fragile soul with. Where’s my bag? I hope there’s a pencil inside it. I find places where people don’t know me, and I can relax. It’s challenging, when you live in a small neighborhood, and everyone’s seen you around. They want to know what you’re doing, scribbling in the corner, opening bills, and shuffling art supplies across distressed paper torn from telephone poles.

I’m the lone de-ranger, Neil exclaimed, his stud-colt stick pony all strangely imbued with life, quizzically watches the crowd from his right fist, clenched lovingly around it its wooden mane. The characters were thick as nails, and the music was clearly eccentric. Old films flickered on the black and white Televison, long ago affixed to the wall, and here encircled with art supplies, no longer stupefied with depression and regret, Max found the passion he’d laid within himself for safekeeping as a child.

The relative madness of anchovies

2005-08-19T13:34:00.000-07:00

Humor is the absolute essence of life. The chronology of drunkenness as time goes on is life. Is that I in the silhouette? The simultaneous equation of life is the living we do, as we expire into the saneness the paradigm hopes to file us into. The relative madness of typing coherently in a pitch black tomb of a bar, when you’re been bell rung eight times by successful fishermen in from the relative death of the seas, is too fantastic to mention , to the sober. The lists made under the influence spurred us into scientology, where the gods we worshiped were fine gain antennas they now disassemble, as the spirit found the path it always wandered, before it found itself.

I was out with a chef who utterly fascinated me, but I couldn’t remember a single thing he said. Oh, strike that ... I recall a lengthy conversation about anchovies, and all the ways they’re caught, packed and prepared. One tiny facet of food, and it was overwhelming. He too far outside my culinary experience base, but grabbing his apron, I struggled to say something coherent, and stay with him. Steam rose off the ice cubes, as the backlit bartender poured her wares, the scene was an ad man’s dream ... how many had woozily seen this moment, and sought to capture it for the company? Live fast, sell hard. What do you want?! NO! YES! The tension of opposites fulfil the requirements of life. I stop him mid-sentence, and weave to the bathroom around faces in various phases of inebriated, adumbrated with daily vices, where to my relief, I found the urinal brimming with crushed ice. Melting while pissing defeats the existential angst of nothing accomplished. On the return trip I stepped on Gandolf’s foot, and apologized profusely ... wizards are often the people you covet as friends of friends, or distant enemies. Incredibly, upon my return, the chef has more to say about anchovies. I can scarcely believe that so many ways have been devised to salt them. I feel the weight of my ignorance on the matter, scratching a line through the food, because I’d suffered the lower echelon of its historical refinement. I adjusted anchovies’ intensity, by removing them. The blatancy of the indicator never occurred to me before.

Correction: he was light years beyond my experience base. Grill that bitch up! Italian green olives not the Spanish ones, dry roast small chopped pork entendre-loin, scratch the grassy olive oil, mind you. We’re all The TV show of cooking from the subconscious/ as a dream sequence, of the motherfucker having to get up and go to work and toil like a Manic Ant rushing around a computer screen you’re mousing, as if it’s your cursor. You know what I mean? I guess. Fuck. I was shot out of a cannon at a stove, and he fried up the scrapple of what made it into the pan. The bartender has been drawn into the fray, and loses her professional edge, which makes her endearingly human again. Good bartenders are control freaks at heart, who find the monster within them, and occasionally let them rage. When the place shut we drank for eleven hours, she said. The lease said everyone had to be out Tuesday, when the demo squad came, we’d torn the place to bits. Every bottle was dry, and I suffered immensely, but I have to tell you, it was great. I elbowed the chef and said, That’s the work of a professional. He adroitly high-fives first me, then the bartender, jumps up and bellows, "Damn Right!"

The actual truths are Diversions Away

2005-08-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

"The dilemma of taking your beliefs in hand, and openly living their consequences, slides across boards we populate with game pieces. Transparency is terrifying in its exposure .... which opens us to all forms of attachment, and attack. The ‘open book’ reads one’s life with extremes which educated people convey in subtly, if at all. The primary living clause of one’s work here, is to expose the beauties within us; sensitizing us to the process nature founds us upon, and in turn, showing us what needs to be saved from the judgmental abyss which hollows our souls." Damn. Did you rehearse that, or is it real time? Latter dude. We high five and I miss, slapping the mustard from the shelves above me, leaving an explosive yellow mess on the wall. Nice art. Yea. I get the camera; he starts to finger paint. Do you think this shit will ever come off? I mean ... I know, your deposit and shit. Art’s an expensive subject, as you know. I shrug. Why not ad some blue, while we’re at it? I spattered tropical Cool-Aid mix, which melted and ran to a rather disturbing sign, much like a Rohrach ink blot test. This shit’s a dream, he said.

Excerpts from : Transparency Underlies Us

Danger derives from not letting ‘reality’ occur. The act of being more transparent in the world serves our souls, belying what we believe into form. Openly asking questions surprise the answers with themselves, for not trusting yourself breeds contempt. Hidden fear is contagious; inexplicable outbreaks occur in the orders of the world around us, whose stories precess us towards miracles we missed midstream, even in "falling apart" with a loss of strength’s perspective within yourself. Switching perspectives on what appears to be ‘wrong’, leads us to our depths, which transparent, make lessons for the population to perceive, and emulate.

Resolutions demand contemplative space to exist. The immediate situation degrades the ensuing situation if a position is too lightly, or righteously grasped. Supports point to bases, whose grounding is taken for granted. Who knows how stubbornly the beam is embedded into the earth? We tend to examine who did it, and how it looks. False borders congeal walls we box our insight within, forgetting its claustrophobia in time. Boxes create false floors and ceilings, making you think your feet are rooted to the earth, and the sky dreams your hair to the winds. Automatic writing expresses itself in symbols the questions themselves seek to hide.

In general, reactions are flags waved, and suggest deeper truths beneath their diversions, designed to protect what the outburst directly alludes to. The actual truths are diversions away from themselves, as their intensity makes us go deaf, to the vision they convey.

'Chicks are like this.'

2005-08-14T17:48:00.000-07:00

The young couple saddled with child forked their instant spaghetti from the steaming aluminum tin. They argued amiably, sealing the fate of the future they each swore not to entertain, while the rest of us listened in. It was one of those greasy food hangover cures, eyes at half mast, the list of things to do insurmountable; general destitution ten touchy-feely feet away. Warily, I stink-eye the culprit, placing my hot pepper extra garlic slice between us, lack of a useable rosary and all. "She’s obviously upset about the car thing, but you know, mistakes happen. I always try to be there for her, but ..." I consider the possibility he’s a sociopath, who has simply figured out how to appear caring. His concern seems unnaturally underlined. Why are we going to Vegas, she asked. I wanted to go to the beach. I did it for us, honey. This is the trip we’ve been waiting for; I’m going to show my old haunts to you, the secret underside of the legend, you know? I’m almost glad I’m so wrecked, because I’m forced to listen. This is a man who loves to gamble; I never lose, he claimed. It’s a cinch to win. I wonder how many times the headstrong use lines like that, becoming weaker as they go. You’re losing now, I think. You simply aren’t aware the cards and dice are
metaphors.

A truck backfired, and I was too exhausted to jump. My ears rang high C, and they spoke as mimes would, with exaggerated facial expressions. The eidetic fog fell as the trees rustled to blow, and a cat pranced with a midget rat in mouth still wiggling its tail. The utter, compelling, disaster of home life radiated forwards, as I paced nervously to and from its emotional disclosure. I have a flashback to watching a squished mouse in the road while peaking on acid. One moment bliss, the next agony, spiraling down to darkness. The glue of the universe I recognized seemed to be de-tangling from itself, unbinding essential receptor sites, the flaws of causality occupied. A screaming match, and a door-slam synchronize minds at a distance, the resultant telephone call tripped the breaker which smoked the vintage, turn of the century wiring. Chicks are like this, Janet says. It’s sociobiological. Men can bounce around with different people and things, releasing attachments more easily. You have to be careful with us; we create scenarios stretching into the future we add to, and project upon. It’s extremely hard for us to disengage, once we’ve felt the deepest places with people we love. Which strikes me as (un)equal burden, and blessing. We remember everything you’ve done to hurt us; and from what point, forget the good intentions otherwise? I don’t know. We’re mysteries, to the mysteries of ourselves.

The Maddening Wide variated scope of things.

2005-08-11T16:05:00.000-07:00

At eleven oh-seven o’clock, I draped my hollowed body off her delightful bed, and surveyed the general disaster of the room. The alarm shrieked I swear three minutes after I drifted off, yet spritely she jumped from her pillowy heaven and headed to her tiny shower. My god, I thought. A double-fucking shift! I tried to raise myself, or merely keep my eyes open, but that supernatural part of me was nowhere to be found. "Everyone’s heart is different," she continued, as the room steamed; as if the concert of the night before, had been resurrected and replayed, she shouted : "You look closely at them, at the structure of veins and arteries feeding the miracle, and you quickly realize, no two are the same." Back in the deafening present, the ashes were deep, and the smell of wine strong. My mouth, a broken shoe of cracked leather, groped for the water glass, brimming in 1890 pipe sublimely mixed with Sierra glaciers. Ah, the slick sensation of wet again.

Lung transplant victims of past repressions' repressions

2005-08-10T14:03:00.000-07:00

4.

"The crystalline teseract hyperdimensional transport matrix".

The arabic font’s strict translation to English which struck me as exceedingly odd.
I mean, come on. Is this an embedded find, or what?! Like a door closing, and opening again, as the wind has it’s way with it. I cast the I-ching open at supposed random, as if the concept exits and enters at will, despite myself, and freed a disbelief which wells at the core of my soul. Does this, or does this not reflect my inner state? I could not help but conclude it did. The next entry to its credit, did not, and neither did the entry before it. Just as allopathic medicine treats the treatment of suffering, chaos is the treatment of health. Seeing order under the chaos of order liberates us. I slap the book shut, ask a question and open it again. "What did you say?" she yelled from the other room. "Nothing." I yelled back, glancing down to a revealed page in front of me, addressing emptiness from the standpoint of things and non-things in tension. I’d asked about the opposites of belief and collective causality; under what circumstances do they honor each other, or join. What part illusion, what part reality, when I stumble across them in bed, romping around. "Your nothing was quite startling."
she noted.

It was easily five o’clock in the morning, and Shelby had to do a double shift at the hospital starting at seven am. Wine bottles and chocolate wrappers littered the small elephant leg table corralled tooth and nail in opalescent abalone shells bristling with expensive cigarette butts. I could scarcely believe she was patently capable of dealing with dying lung transplant patients, in our depraved, sleep-compromised state, but she insisted it brought he rmore into the state of love, where he mind, exhausted, stepped from the fray of routine, to show her the divine, in what needed to be done, and said. I suppose it made sense; some of the greatest insights I’d rendered were under the influence of dire circumstances, which often included a sparsity of food, security, or sleep. The room smelled of bacon and sage, and the luminous San Francisco fog boiled outside.

You have to train them to live, she said. Their minds habituated to curtain normal activity off, and worry every literal step of the way. If their heart rate goes up, they freak out ... it’s not like getting a new heart, which people adapt to ... the breath is a sacred act, which liberates us, or diminishes us, as the repressions we accumulate compile, and block our channels to the outside world. I see threads of similarity running through each of these patients, as I spend long hours attending to them, asking them about their pasts, their families, their fears and beliefs. What I feel is what the eastern and homeopathic schools have long recognized in conjunction to illness, and character types. Lung failures seem to arrive from nowhere; it is baffling to doctors and scientists alike when patients have no history or reason for the disease, or no reason, with new lungs, not to recover from it. The answers are more complex than we give them credit for, and yet, they are so simple we are blind to them. Christ girl, shouldn’t we go to bed? I suppose you’re tight too? Totally. Fat and sassy, well-fed, exhausted, saturated with wine, ecstatic with chocolate and tobacco. You know, ready for flannel sheets, hide before the birds twitter, and the sneaky sun pokes through the cotton wool outside. "You’re right," she said, "I suffer if I don’t get at least an hour and a half of sleep." "Really?" I muttered aghast. "Clearly, you are part supernatural." "Aren’t we all." She deftly noted.

The amen of greed and coersion

2005-08-10T13:53:00.000-07:00

This hits a state of chrysalis in me; I step from the platform of my life, left in smoking ruins, and abjectly survey the financial crisis her instability has procured me. Oh well. Could have been worse, as things ratchet to crux moves, wherever complacency rules. I suppose three thousand dollars is cheap; students pay gurus ten times that rate, for smaller scraps of change than this. I wonder if I’ll be forced to move out, and get the deposit, to cover her desire to cover us with ignorance. Don’t push her, she’s about to crack, somebody said. How convenient, I note. Become fragile to slip the truth, others modify, to save you. Meaningful, smashed bull’s gall litters the china shop, as the dejected owners sweep, and the embittered human leaves, relatively blood-free but poisoned with guilt underneath. Their saw blade of sharp to dull rasps us all, leaving free space to fill with what’s shaved off, and led to dust, again and again, amen.

A fast moving mind stretches itself sideways, into tangents offering insights, others miss. I dropped the load at the bank, and kissed my life goodbye ... gone today, here tomorrow. Of what dies and what lives ... the consensus is strength, and wombs ... the sword yields to the sword, swung by those too dire and freakish, to consider the alternatives. Greed, possession, and the need to control others wills are currencies to tyrants, who’s wealth is ego, which needs to be constantly fed, to cover ... what stretching your neck can show. The world is blessed and bereft with beings channeling darkness, severing higher cords to pursue, their own nefarious entendres they fall on, for swords are sharpened to kill at each point or either side, in arenas of peace or war. A moment of not getting angry, allows the other side to express its guilt, and truth spun into rough yarn, it’s forced to wear. That must be uncomfortable, the sage thinks. I’m sorry you’re so attached to it. I’d help you, but I see you’re wearing it to attract compassion, because you don’t choose to be responsible, and generate it through worrying about others. Suggesting you need to be free of it, you will fight to the death to keep it on, smashing the glass of the china shop, others insides suggest.

The event horizon of meltdown, and feigned remorse others have bled, reminds us of the Crusades, where philosophy and baser natures rage, to externalize inner wars the combatants are not trained to see, unless it serves their masters, who feign to have masters, to show them these truths." It is horrifying that we have to fight our own government to save the environment’, said Ansel Adams, famous photographer (1902-1984)
[(but the government is a collective of its people’s hidden motives/desires)]
I want to add, asking the very werewolf’s wail, who painted the moon
so brightly.

The seething reflections we choose to be blind to.

2005-08-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

A dissected brain of sinful nights pulses a glaring dehydration, altogether aligned with the backup beeps of the moving truck, I’d be forced to load. "Can we turn that thing off?" I plaintively whine to no one in earshot. Pained thoughts breed hunger for relief, a state of ever-shifting sands and rude winds churning the grains to dust. The fast forages us to spirit bodies ... that nice metaphor, or sentiment… or what? Of staying "hungry"… yet so many in that position simply become desperate, and prey on others. Ritual jacks into the "God" part of the brain, whose memes have already colonized all portions we ask it to fulfill. The play doesn’t work for those who think they have answers the ‘answer’ knows nothing of.

The forest treads softly on itself, meditating on each tree fall, and the noise it would make, spanning its uncertain future. The winds of self-protection raged around her, engaging her mind to free her spirit to talk; the fire fanned itself to a fury, spitting sparks of hot venom designed to consume all life in its vindictive path, singing the shoots which intended to bloom. In the face of its wall, I became the wind it needed to respire, and flowed into its brightly-lit center. The intensity surged as it secretly felt me, wanting to purge and protect the place it arrived from, and went to, in a demonic flash. Jesus! As I typed flash, the restaurant worker slipped and fell, smashing a plate on the brittle floor. Things had been progressing like that for weeks, events as psalms ... accidents outside as doors slapped their jams, thrust shut in anger, or rage. She was unleashing her power, which destroyed things around her, another way of saying, it cleared the forest, so flowers could bloom. I was in the Que to be vaporized, my number clicked onto the next served reader-board, my ego left, the attachment fell, I was a spirit form, listing from flesh ... assimilating its messages, or trying to, anyway. "I was so mad at her," a witness said. "She was pouring out her shit all over you." Not taking responsibility for her reflection described, in a close other, she’d locked her formidable horns with. "But it wasn’t about me." I said "I was completely elevated, rapt with the drama of someone, so succinctly decrying themselves with no awareness of what they were doing. It was utterly beautiful, if you must know. I’m speechless in the universal perfection, which I stumbled across." "I’m glad you’re at peace with it. That chick is pissing me off big time lately."

The emptied chick bank account.

2005-08-04T15:38:00.000-07:00

The garbage truck roared past the hedgerow of conglomerate protecting us from the outside world, and the echos startled the smokers, talking smack. I realized, they don’t want a baby per-se, they just want love. Babies give love wholeheartedly, with innocent abandon. They make us feel needed, and valuable, keeping the nothing at bay. What you’re doing take on great importance; there is little room to measure the vast intelligence of the stars, and come up wonting. The pointlessness is overwhelming, when you consider the immensity of things. Commiserate with the sultry smokers, we complained bitterly about the racket of the garbage truck. Jesus. At this time of night! What about the workers fighting for sleep? Which I’d live to trailer that night, or morning, I might add. Millions of acts conspired to derail my tranquility, as demands escaped counting, and hours of rest diminished, but when she went to her therapy, at ninety dollars an hour, the sincerity level peaked, and disintegrated again. Funny how crack has the effect; water under the dire brink of yourself, when the swishy edge wears thin ... the dessication o-so, of self, always wins. We had ten thousand dollars which will seem like nothing in fifty years, heaped in a monumental pile of worn twenties, the likeness of which, our citizens quickly forgot. "I’m suntanning, with this in front of me. We should charge admission to bask here." "What a great scam. If we get twice as much, can we raise the admission charge?" Better and bigger business ploys filled the air, as we shot the tips from beer bottles with antique air rifles. "Dude, gimme that! You’re cut off. Shit; my mom gave me that doll. What’s she gonna say when she visits, and notes the hole in its head?! If you weren’t such a flaming poofta, I’d think you did it on purpose!" We laughed, cuz he probably did. Mike was half fag hardy-har sorcerer, and one third bright nickel-coated nail-hard sadist who delighted in grueling feats of endurance, and marathon party nights, ending in all day drinking binges. The other fraction was momma’s boy, which he unleashed for the ladies. Hidden in his glowing heart, was a searing ember the naughty saw, and tired trying to keep up with.

His retinue of fag-hags was legendary among straight guys, and lesbians alike. Apparently he had an enormous shlong, and knew how to use it, occasionally whipping it out in a state, and blushing the faces of those who felt safe with it, as men are dicks with bodies attached. "On the sly, he’s had a delicious few, methinks." I slander. "Jesus! And why hot when scorching’s in reach? The chicks he hangs with would regenerate balls on a eunuch. I’m sure if you close your eyes, a hot snatch is better than a bunghole, or a mouth, doncha think?" We were counting, and folding the bills, staring at the strobe light hitting explosions of glass at the end of the room. "Is that a trick question? Shoot; he’s proactively pretensing himself gay, to attract the TV-beauty queens,who underit all, want to convert him to snatch." "Damn. You might be right! A.)What a conspiracy; B.)can we get in on it, and how often will we be laughed at, fucked with, or poisoned in edgy ridicule?" "Cee ... don’t forget beat up." "Yea. That part sucks." "Still, it’s a noble Darwinian niche." "Indeed it is. I’d almost wear lipstick for it." Fuck! I lost count. The process lasted most of the night, glass littered the carpet and tore the vacuum cleaner to bits. "My mom gave me that too," she laughed, "but I wish she hadn’t. Too many bad memories of hours spent as a kid, too short to push it effectively. Odd she’d get me that same model."

Beating browshares into swords.

2005-08-02T22:50:00.000-07:00

(Continued from the blog Change)

When all the writing embodiments were exhausted, I left the room. It was well after three o’clock, and the sun was entirely blinding. People in low cute dresses pranced from shopping excursions, and straight men slouched with papers on corners, chomping cigars. The infrequency of everything armed me, with a certain vision I’d seldom seen before; could this be the reality I’d sought, under the incorporation of reckless travel and edgy circumstances?

"Everything is in negotiation, when you’re not married." and the he was not referring to self-marriage, where life is the sound of sand falling to paper, but the satiety of water under the brink of the bridge. There was a large article on nuclear blasts of the past, and where the politics came from which demanded them, whereby the Peruvian’s thoughts truncated at late childhood which many cultures deem early adulthood, where he judged existence by the strength and quantity of cocaine, closely aligned with strong drink, music and sex. His stories were legendary; diverting the realm of blatant excess, to swoon the edge of the divine. In the restaurant we were loud and gregariously ordering noting its absence on the menu, but he spoke the reality of cunning culinary mime, and good waiters know what’s up. They cajoled the cooks to whip the stops out, and grill the heart meat slathered with the boss’ imported sauce ingredients. I thought they would throw us out of the place well before the question of coffee and desert. They told me he was over fifty, and had been a caddy for twenty five years. I was dumbfounded. Fifty~! Aghast. The dude had a demeanor of late twenties, gainfully seeking fun as employment. I thought of nobody in particular, and comparted this man to them, finding them lacking in many regards, as one might imagine, bisecting the crazy circumstances of smoking a wicked dose of bud, on the bench outside of the restaurant, my nonexistence verified. Instinct took over, leading us astray; the rampage began.

"Do you think the universe cares if we live or die?" I said, "We’re instinctually attached to and repulsed by the question." My greedy fresh-thought machinations congradualted themselves. The mystery of what we know already coveted itself; more couples slumped on each others’ hidden hands, seeking the glory their egos craved, in moistening genitals. Break beats music vibrated the plaster molecules binding the walls, as we relaxed in a squishy sea of blaring psychedelic pillows, and dutifully passed an enormous joint over our heads between warring parties vying for the dubious trophy of ‘most stoned’. "It all means nothing, and everything, but ... where does that leave us? Everything seems rather excessive, whereas nothing seems closer to painful reality nobody’s shouting at street corners, because it’s so damned unpopular, few will tithe to its religion." He rubs his chin, and scratches his ear. "Maybe that’s the irony we can’t ascend, having pondered the immensity of things." I pretend ... like I’ve heard what he said. Actually, my full attention was doting a radiant flower girl’s breasts, way up firm and high, to quote a song. "What?" He repeats his thought dutifully, suddenly cognizant of what blinded me. "Damn." "It’s a strong argument for everything." "She sure is; probably on E though ... hard to sustain that incandescent quality in the world." It was a sore thought; the deal had gone bad—five thousand dollars was unaccounted for, and collateral was sparse at best, more truthfully wishful thinking, the chain had snapped at a single link, kinetically robbing our coffers for gain. "It’s odd how when the world explodes leaving you fucked, you realize the world hands out directions on how to view its actions-reactioned anew. Take it or leave it; your choice. Suffer, meditate, or rejoice." "Shit... you ready to blow this place?" "To where?"

Into the pulverizing beats we swayed and spun, as jerked metronomes spasmodically ticking a tune of beats per minute, DJs optimized our collective heart towards. The doors banged, and we entered the chill airs of feral cats on fire escapes, and nicotine addicts’ doses. The realities cleaved by the fire door were breathtaking, disorienting us.
"Of course I want children; I didn’t say that wasn’t important."
"Then why are you breaking up?"
"He’s gone a lot ... not very present. I want somebody to knit a juicy, nourishing household with." I elbow my compatriot.
"Did you hear that?"
"Yes I did."
"Juicy-nourishing?"
"Crazy. Women are wired completely differently."
"She was actually offended!"
"Yea. Her friend suffers a knee-jerk repetition of what women should do in their world. Be a mom and validate themselves. Make a juicy nest and reproduce, with a homebody provider."
"Yuck."
"So easy to say, so hard to resist."

Shift to CHANGE

2005-07-24T11:43:00.000-07:00

This thread has sidestepped to another location.

To pick up where this thread left off, go to:

http://daresay.blogspot.com

or visit the Bio of Brock

for other semi-related blogs.

Sunday July 24th

The post title is :

"Cross-Referencing the SOcial mores"

This blog will continute from another point in time

to be announced later.

The brevity of purpose presupposes itself.

2005-07-22T12:11:00.000-07:00

Helen called while we chatted, and he tried to voice his concerns, his [newly old] life was less tale than mundane. You’re where? She echoed. This response depressed him. When are you coming home? The brakes are smoking. I see a hill looming on our relationship’s curvy road. He embodied the map of many aspirations met, and much suffering avoided. The phone glowed with another world ... I wondered how insane this seemed to her. We walked a paradigm she couldn’t readily enter; as a drop-dead woman, there is no seamless wander through these realms. You are constantly watched and hit on; all the men want to fuck you. The women watch you warily, seeing competition and deceit. Incognito is a self-projected fantasy we hinge our invisibility upon. She probably relishes the gated world of burb-dom, freed of the insistent sexual fantasies of pent-up urbanites. Women get a raw edge in our world; little wonder many want to retreat into relationships, to create a microcosm of what they’d imagine they’d live. He covets something she doesn’t want, and if he was ‘her’, she would waste no breath describing her infidelity to his ideals. You would seek to retreat to the nest as well, bombarded with violence on a subtler level. Look dude, I wanted to tell him, it’s the price of a trophy wife. You have to build a castle to keep her. Don’t blame her for your own desire to gamble, and lose the house on a drunken spree, for it’s most likely, the very trait she liked in you. You admonish the illusion of a an you’ve crated to not take responsibility foe or friend, for who you’re becoming, or who you are.

Mexican music blared from the tired muse of a jukebox, leaned up against a grease stained wall. The ominous crowd outside dispersed as a storm cloud would, without intension to rain. Snails slowed time for being, almost inert on their planter box. How do you think they got in here, he wanted to know. Dunno. Maybe they’re pets, or Buddhas. A street car shook the ground, and one extended its tentacle, to reassure itself. I realized we’d watched them, for the better part of an hour. ‘It’s weird how odd we get, when you focus on the mundane.’ The small pieces of what we ignore, police the secrets we openly claim. Somebody kicked the jukebox; a siren wailed. Gotta go, he said. Later, I meant. The temperature dropped and the door slammed. I frowned to think the days have such brevity, and purpose.

That night, I sped through my golden shoals of twilights’ incremental birth.
Too drunk in dollar beers to drive; I rode the borrowed cycle
though the aimless paths of the park,
seeking the open seas.

Purpose defies Interventions control-mania.

2005-07-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

The sand took
its hard won place again.

Short of disasters, there are mistakes. When a sprouted feed bag spilled on the dunes, the horse refused to eat the gritty saved bits, thus its rider scattered his barley upon the ground. A week later, the park head happened by, and surmised what had happened, as these two events requited themselves in time. Fresh sprouts connected the drifting sand to a single place; experimentation connected what grew fast enough, to what would not be overtaken.

Bicycles were granted begrudging entrance to the park they would later dominate. Special permits to ride were brandished between certain days and hours, and a speed limit was mercilessly enforced. Policemen who had to provide their own horse feed, galloped after the offender, and lassoed them, removing them from their scant vehicle, which continued on, riderless. The metaphor was lost on passerbys.

"The self-disappointment of smoking again, is projected upon others who are only trying to help." he tracked the slow progress of two street people, moving their worldly belongings
Traveling and dragging their cardboard for sleeping, like blocky cutouts of themselves, reminds me we’re living in two dimensions. Time is an increment of what we’re afraid to encompass; the perceptual opening is the perchance portal fearless flyers arrive to depart through." And with that, he lit the sandwich of screens and DMT, and dove headlong into the oily plastic smoke curling from the bowl into his lungs. "Longer." his friend said. "Don’t breathe out yet." The Jesus look-alike nods, and puts his hands in full lotus. "Now!" He adeptly sparks the lighter, and plunges the feeble flame into the blackened bowl. "More." The manic swirls of smoke from the powder thickened until our pupils bulged; the adept coughed slightly, and restrained it. "Excellent." That was a massive hit. "The aliens are nearby." Then he slumped heavily into the couch, eyes dilated and twitches erupting at the corners of his mouth. The long-drawn silence highlights a small artificial creek’s burble, and the afterglow of plastic aroma wafting from the maestro’s pipe, as the maven psychonaut rummaged around ether worlds, peering for tidbits to retrieve. Finally, he whispered, "Interstices of space concurred in colors the human brain suppresses, to make out gray tones." The impact of an extra dimension makes the white balance wacky; functionally, black and white movies become impossible to watch. It seemed like an interesting development in human consciousness "That’s all I can say for now." For speaking is difficult from the beyond; the vocabulary at your brain’s beckoning is slanted horrendously towards the mercantile.

One got the impression her spare change evaporated into chemists; as nefarious candle burning defined his existence, in a sense. We tracked decayed leaves throughout her house, which slowly dried into rock hard paste. I wanted to introduce her into herself, beyond the black and white the psychonaut sought, toned radically with interstellar space. The person inside the person was engaged looking up the world of Dimyati, which was a single word written on a broad swath of paper, by a mystic, she claimed. Her terms scatted like shrubs looked harried and displaced, like an over-planted botanical park gone wild; non-native phylogenists soap-boxed mysteries into sanitary napkins, for serum and tissue disposal; tools littered her gavel table, ready to extricate inert necessities with insensitive procedures deafened to positive cause and effect, beyond our ability to measure. His face loomed in her scribbled wrinkles. Islands mounted the ‘surface’ and technically, were born into our word structure. "I have sconced, that the order of thought, is averaged through hegemony; it ripples cross the margin of time perception is born to. The black and white metaphor is SF." [San Francisco] he wrote afterwards, with purpose and accident, having asked for and received, the living testament his movie is color-wise with. I was slightly dumbfounded. "So, when do you leave?" Her manic hands shuffled reams of disorganized paper splayed with technical jargons spanning eight or nine distinct disciplines. What do you mean me? I asked her. "Sounds like he was speaking to you, she notes, with some amusement. I liter the floor with leaves, to cement the thought into place.

Exceptionably dangerous-looking, thick-necked bulldogs haunt the café entrance, as Carlos Santana plays, the sound a living reminiscence of the art and experiences he took with him, into our version of a world he changed. Latino gang members watch for others watching them; interminable vehicles of thoughts beseech bystanders with slick paint jobs, and sexy lines, and they scan the social horizon for violence, meeting no eyes.

Relax. You need some nice cricket sounds to call you every hour, and automatically play across your phone. ‘Relax’. Nice conditioning when you can find it. The difference between you and me, is this freak show constitutes your real life, where I come in from the burbs, and the hypo-reality of card-swipe doors opening air conditioned corporate offices. Those are maniacal militants with an excess of hormones and firearms, whose formative early training involved life-destroying drugs, and broken homes. They think the same about us; the power we wield is an order braking the aims of their order; for ‘law’ is an arm of you and I, waging it’s a war on a feud which doesn’t involve us. Exactly why we didn’t need to enter this hole. Hey, who marched with the civil rights movement? Whitie has a role to play, showing some solidarity with the brothers. We’re here to show burb-lovers like you not to cringe in a drive-by gangland massacre. Nothing personal, you know? Besides, this place has the apex of tacos for blocks around, it’s dirt cheap, and their salsa totally rocks. You’re making me feel better already. Why is the server wearing a sidearm? Oh, he’s really the security guard at the bank on 18th. What’s he doing here? Serving you feel-good, dummy. You’re up, what are you eating?

Mastery of nothing to master.

2005-07-14T14:34:00.000-07:00

If personal gain drives desire, its resultant is
how history views you. Hence leaders’ desire
to suppress, or write ‘history’
anew.

In some places, here is now. There is no clinical bar time, here is a determined fear ‘here’ is about to end, and slide into ‘after’. The pink was so intense, she said she still had enough little girl in her to embrace it. He derived a word for the paranoia of the between, which leads to the end... it was enebritemporalfalsiphobia. We laughed uprowdiously about it—in the straight hetro Mexican joint and the drunken dregs were checking out, staggering to the door, as the giant donut cop wove from the minuscule stall, stunned by the professionalism of the young girl, and the nervous arrivers were cessed by each other’s asses in line. "They give you lots of wine and cheese to lubricate you with and then you do your thing." It was a test; the mahogany of all the heads who have hung there, defeated by life and drink, combined to remain starstruck of too ‘on’ becomes torn forms of art against dirty walls;
and the man’s name was Aakwpewoehj, or some twisted spelling of such, suggesting curves exposing hidden corners of three-walled rooms, our beings constitute the boxes rooms define, like begging sounds of unheard music projections random strangers pronounce jungle whoops upon, the cutting into unseen vines waiting to be grasped (etc.). He was an odd fellow, with a mentality carved into trees twenty- five feet tall, as ‘fresh’ thoughts are the initials of explorers lost to eye-level.

The intensity of fear, is we’ll be duped or judged. He said the American girl saved him from Morocco [where he was?] rather starboard of port, struggling with everything that mattered he was so paranoid of losing his beliefs, in the Atlas Mountains the shamans orchestrated, his comings and goings within went without. I wondered when this happened, and if the American girl was real. I wanted badly to ask, but imagination got the better of me, as others were rapt with his sortie. He has a nasty scar parting his face which seemed to pulse as he spoke; I wanted too validate its story, and speak for it ... for I was certain it told an entirely different version of this tale. I had thousands of Is to concentrate into a vision of self which projected stirring stories into a mythos so elemental, I could use it to fend off my too many truisms to realize or count.

During the Gold rush, our hills were denuded of lumber, and businesses took residence in abandoned ships, mud bound, or slowly decaying into the harbor, where the garbage was dumped. Water arrived by Donkey and flue, and respectable establishments cavorted with gun-fortified mining claims. Growth was unprecedented; gun fortifications were built to fend off the threat England posed, of coveting California for its own, capitalizing on a war-weary America ... but the dunes’ winds filled them, as fast as they were poured. The proposal to reclaim a wasteland, fell from the minds of a few who worldly, knew Europe had succeeded at far vaster plans, wrenching acres from nature’s dry or watery grasp, to luxuriously farm. The area was inaccessible by horse and buggy; the winds were so immense animals would turn from the blasting sand ... there were no passable roads, and no shelters.

A few visionaries realized no grand cities exist without parks, and set themselves to the ominous task of thwarting greed, avarice and other (deadly?) sins lurking by would-be developers. They sought the largest piece of land they could find, for a park of epic proportion. Where some see no value, others seem to pause, and experience wealth. They choose the path of personal, or common gain, when they commit intentions to explore the feeling. Choosing the latter path, the proponents of the former band together, in an unusual show of single purpose, to eradicate you who mirror their own disgust with the path they have chosen. Honesty snares the thieves corrupt in their dens, simply to brandish arms, and massacre those who’d expose them, knives in victories' backs at dark. It is easier not to choose, and state your intention on the soul, you carry around. We follow the intensity of the Einstein until the Hitler kills him, leveling our gun to followers, for the subsequent round. A corrupt inner government, forgave the success of the park they claimed couldn’t be done, by firing its staff and abandoning it for many years. The leaders had run it with such eccentric efficiency, it made the city workings a laughingstock. People up and down the line were profiting from graft; this was their livelihood; something had to be done.

Which side are you on?

Napkin Fractals

2005-07-13T12:21:00.000-07:00

‘AV’ariegated history of political conniving
as if it trickles down to the public at large through impeccable channels
swerving the intersection of all peoples

In 1885, there were elk and buffalo in Golden Gate Park. A visitor could walk at tree level through an aviary in 1892, and traverse a bridge bedecked in bright yellow bolts and checkered carmine, from Chicken Point, to the then New Music Concourse. There was an observatory and an impressive falls, not to mention two windmills and a hallowed lake squirming in 20,000 fingering trout. Life was good, but open space is a natural attractant to the powerful—a tantalizing taste of the unspoilt to peddle and exploit. Developers are monsters in disbursal’s disguise, reining beauty and order. Extracting profit, they eradicate magic, for the most part, the arts are financial death wishes. Fleeting value must be exploited, its source is too evanescent to wrestle with. Apologies are those excepted to the weak.

Max was still drawing fractals on bar napkins when I saw him, a week and a half later. They had changed substantially since, in that his mind now folded the plane of delicate paper, rather than this fingers, which produced and begged an entirely different outcome as the virtual origami transmogrified. This is truism, I decided. The facts make themselves into recognizable form as they borrow lines the folds of time relay. I told him the meta-pattern is being reacted to, and crated into napkins he mass-produces from a higher sense of things; brother, you need a digital camera and a stitch program, to ... and he understands where I’m going, thought for thought, although his computer skills are nil. Fear is the arrival of paralysis. His eyes light up; yea! HOW DO I DO ... that? Number nine played backwards on the rudimentary turntable he plugged on/in for the occasion scratching it forwards to consume us; it was like that. The lifetime bartender was playing helter-skelter, soaked in sweat from an all night binge on high-grade meth. His house mate radiated adrenal angst; I thought about Charles Manson, and Adolphaphine; the hot springs where he reputedly laid low, and the young frond of a girl, who managed to crawl to the river with a slit throat. It all seemed to be coming together. The cap of the pen looked like a cigarette, and the nicotine receptors we supposedly aren’t born with, began to glow. You know, you are channeling Charles Bukowski is that the ‘pronounciation’ why are you writing at a bar? Besides it’s interesting and it’s here? Because ... but the existential side of that, is Pulitzer prize bl/and/or mundane.

in SOME WAYS he was designing a park. Not a ....Olmstead sort, but a far-reaching fabric, a two dimensional topographic map of plastic reality, which self organized into new playful alternatives. Every sentence has thousands of variations you’ll never have time derive; just say something, and it’s antithesis is contained there, waiting to be mined. It slowly dawns on me, this madness constitutes single frames of an entire movie, computers would shuffle and control. The fractal of all the possibilities he wrought upon delicate tissues were designed from the unconscious to connect in ways only distance could provide. Single cells’ destiny to clump into connected, complex structures, which tined inexplicably to others surrounding them, changing constantly all the while, suggested an experience his outer world proves its radical mirror in.
The enormous policeman dreaming of fish by a warm sea escorts the cute little whore to the back of the Taco joint, where it takes years of patronage to gain the respect of those serving you.

The accidental entry of a cartridge-belted hipster underlined the fact he’s probably never seen Alexandria, Osaka, or Dresden burn, and the riffraff filling the place, states it bluntly, by examining shoes. Drunken glutton-eers scarfed ‘cheeze’ saturated deep fry, chasing the caveman’s desire for calories—in whose vein, I threw myself into the pleasures free radicals ordained, and the hipster, so delirious to veer-vessels-grab-eyes, slunk into the corner, while I conditioned myself to the touche, that before the ‘developers’, Golden Gate park (and the whole of the Avenues) was nothing but sand. If personal gain drives desire, it’s resultant

Chad.

2005-07-08T18:39:00.000-07:00

Tell me about Chad.

Chad ...

Sucked. Drove me mad. Hated and loved him. Wronged him, worshiped him, lost myself at his threshold, wanted his babies, feared him. What elements are missing when you’re in love? It demands every emotion in harm’s way, and all your needles and pins. He was dumb and brilliant, a sensitive lover and a self-absorbed lout, who rated me as an object we discussed (as if I wasn’t there) but I forgive him taking everything I had, and leaving me here. Don’t I? Perhaps not. It’s conclusive, and open ended, not ordered, open and closed ... the door is banging, hands get severed in it. I’m attempting to restrain the tears she’s attempting to restrict access to, and we’re both failing. Ah, the morbid bliss of having been smashed to pieces ... like a wine perishing right before you, it’s so vintage, and precious.

Our bodies are reliquaries of all the edifying and ecstatic things we’ve encountered; the sun set over the mountains the moon mirrored in departure, and for one eternal minute, the two resided within my person, perched on alternate ridges of experience. Cells compete to assimilate this; neurons stretch their potent junctions; the desert hums for the eternal scythes reap while dawn emerges, moon hissing into cool evenings elsewhere. Hello? This is our mantra.

She drives a hundred and fifty miles a day, for no particular reason ... she loves to drive, so points’ distance weigh inversely to most people’s reckoning. I find it amusing she’s such a vehement recycler. She’s forty three and wants two more kids, although the four she has are college age, and making her sell her house. Do you know how much out-of-state tuition is?! Forty grand. Jesus Christ. Are you mad? I countered. Hell bent of eating dog food from a cardboard mansion on a violently-busy street? Sent to local college myself, the extravagance of making your single mom sell the inherited family house, seemed incredible. But what the hell. Why not? It’s a minor act of abasement compared quite forlornly to rasing four fanatically-rowdy kids ... or at least, that’s how I perceive it. Some part of me said, what a nightmare, and another was sad for the thought I’d missed such adventure. She, on the other hand, wanted to use what she’d learned, and perfect her process, now the glaring mistakes were behind her. Makes sense I guess... imagine only bettering one novel, until it was throughly dead. No starting afresh, aloof from the miserable drivel that last moped into; you must flog the intractable, abstruse passages to dearness, and innocent doe eyes again. I sadistically mentioned : Perhaps it’s the only thing you know how to do, to elicit a feeling of self worth. It’s a proven pattern the world is removing from your repertoire, just as drinking and driving to get home is crucially hampered by DUIs. The kids slide off the edge of the universe to leave you hand and foot tied to the branch you grabbed, attempting to keep them there, and now what? Another round? A new manic activity? Sell the house you painstakingly renovated over twenty years, just as it reaches completion?

Reliquary for dreams/dreams

2005-07-03T17:07:00.000-07:00

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The board's desire to hide, we all move upon it, culminates in an equal desire to expose itself, to increase the complexity, and scope of its game. The slow dispersal of fact, both contrived and verifiable, pollutes falsity with truth, to the point the entire paradigm becomes malleable, and open to reinterpretation. The slipstream of days dissolve into thinking, leaving little appreciable braille to touch, and recant into clarity. The upended mirror of jokes and coincidence earmark us, and violently sometimes, as warriors weighing the deadly prowess of self.

My bard friend describes the metaphors as meta-force, and warns us to attend to our pointers before perpetrating a pointer itself, falsely attempting to ‘solve’ or punish the messenger the direction represents. A symbol has little to do with ‘problems’, and a lot to do with focus, whimsically, as usual, which flourishes and court jesterisms rendering a message sublime for normal ears.

The men and women once boys and girls burbling with irrepressible energy looked tired and weary, dragging growing love handles as heavy suitcases bristling with deadly-dreary manuals nobody can quite muster reading. Their terrific weight of years depressed me; their false girth of confidence and success hid their quirky angularity, once tantamount to who they were, and would eventually become, minus the poisonous unction of fitting in, and acting responsibly. I marveled the over-coiffed doos of rigid dye jobs, and washed out wallet shots tattered, and dog-eared ... are these the same people I went to grade school with? Conservatism leeched from once lightened faces, casting a pall across the already ill-lit bar of a room. A few stars in an inky sky of the homogenous spun recklessly, bathing the wary in searchlights of X-ray, and predictably, dense bodies attracted gravity and chagrin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The maddening part about anything,

is its all-encompassing hunger for your time. Some people call that money, bit by bit, seconds of perception and energy elapse into that from whence we came. I recall the edgy collapse of my old p ... was I destined to suffer to find the art I loved? In seeing did I ... aradigm, where water poured from the earths’ mantle into finality. The roar shredded the air as the vista broke its laminar flow, and sailed headlong into perpendicularity; the feats of apostled saints dimmed significant otherness, and could-haves did-not, in ominous vertigo. A verification of dunes’ shifting in ancient pyramids covered or leveled, refused a teeter or totter; memories sunk into sonnets never rock-chipped, sprang to life, and demanded ears final moments. The bent mirror separated into droplets spherical, freeform and spattering into ellipsoids as they rushed at the ether rushing up to meet them.

Space if anything is a precious non-item we attempt to preserve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pre-empting the Perspectives we fall upon.

IT’s hard to know when to spill more guts, and when to sew the wound putrid with blood, up. Creating beauty is a culpable farce we attach to, as it creates us, and we resist its urges. We inhabit a manic frenzy chains define; there is a supernatural duffle bag of tricks I empty out, and climb within, wondering with innocent eyes why it’s never been so dark. The self-imposed front I present the world is if anything riddled with work I never seem to accomplish, or at least embrace, minus its joy of never arriving. The journey metaphor resounds the emptiness of space water roars over, crushing those beneath it. Some play errantly there; laughing and scrambling the rocks of peril. The mists drift in eventual stillness; plants bead the droplets to stems rivulets beckon.

The board's desire to acknowledge, we each ignorantly move upon it, to increase the scope of its game.

2005-07-01T12:54:00.000-07:00

The game morphed to react to the weaknesses of its players; it was nearly impossible to win without consent from the whole, for on a lumbar curve of consciously, and semi-consciously engaged stratagems; the people’s weaknesses were parsed, and analyzed into rules which intertwined with other rules just, or soon to be formalized (to the advantage of the individual and the collective). Timing is precision withe imperative, to exploit the crumbling defenses of a quarry who might soon become a felon in arms, as another player was incrementally studied, and deposed. The focused attention sifted from one topic to another; the ‘random element’ destroys the bastille, in weighted dice roles. We watched them bounce, devoid of curiosity regarding their birth, or who carried them into the game, infusing them with slanted values. The trick of pillaging effectively, is to include the wealth of the relative few in the scant ideology of the many, without bowing to the collective ideas’ demands. A careful line walked is one you can’t corner to become trapped in; radical policy shifts are unable to support ruse; tension insists on linear thought to resist its own integrity.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve completely lost faith in the open conspiracy of those you see as figureheads, assigned to the station of being government leaders. The individual is unable to assimilate the complexities of the million-ruled game, but thinking he or her puny intelligence is up to it, blindly forges ahead, following the pawn’s course laid by collectives, the shadows hide. The saga of Mr. Bush is a sad script of short-sighted idiocy the population is all too calamitously familiar with. Where else to look, than the environment which supports us, to see the short shrift we assign our deepest values to habit? Insurrection becomes a joke of the shirt worn, proclaiming the corporate logo we protest. Tat’s crazee talk! the older woman next to us shouted. My grandson’s in Vietnam right now! Show some respect! which tripped us out. Did she mean to say that, or was Nam a slip? Bashfully, I tried to discern trickster from crazy. She was so forceful, in her own authentic distillation, is there no way to describe her fanaticism faithfully? I thought, this is a supreme moment of something

quite beyond words.

The shallow island of self waters level.

2005-06-29T14:42:00.000-07:00

The storm wanders the vast sphere of the sky’s current horizon, carapace at random to bolts of light, seeking purposes people find themselves within, unable to see the perfection inherent here, or there, as their cases may be. Darts of sky’s manic release crash among us, sending the sensitive, and unwary flying. That night I boarded a large yacht equipt for excesses beyond my imagining, of what daily life contains for us; and I wonder ... is the outside relative to the in, as the other way around suggests? The hosts sound as hollow shells when you rap them; an echo bouncing back ... in perfect camouflage? How else do you field the playing masses, minus the fence to deter, the audience from killing the refs, and detaining the teams, squeezing the stars for autographs, while shredding their jerseys for souvenirs? At once, inured, and possessive to tales history perseveres to reorder, these industrialists blanch at the notion they are not superior to those who mark a different, less logical path. The sycophants shadow their witless social tact, assuming the shoe-in will occur, if they put the host at ease, laughing where laughter isn’t. The appetite of those successes is rather sublime, and difficult to measure ... the cost exceeds the gain, in many respects. Yet those respects, are blighted by ignorance social adherents progress, simply by following minus thinking thoroughly the issues morals discuss.

Anyway, the appetizers were excellent, anterior to the view, which excelled no matter what you stood upon. The booze fowled tongues to truthfulness as the stars glittered; I turned to the man next to me, and said : can you believe how beautiful the varnish is on this boat?! He proceeds to illuminate just what it takes to reach such perfection. The owner paid the premiere maven of the art, to apply the last coat. He meditates, and strips naked in a dust free environment, wielding a hand cut, hundred dollar brush. My in. I ask the owner, how he heard about this character ... and what drove him to such excess. He looks me straight in the eye; there’s an interesting flame kindling there. Why do you ask, he cons me, as I con myself through him. Breaking the shallow ice the sycophants skate, I venture ... Well, is there anything else we’re here for? I see the night’s jewels in that vanish. It lends a depth to the mirror life thirsts for. And his eyes’ center burst into a searing fire; a couple taking liberties with personal space, moved unconsciously to the railing. You don’t say, he stamped on my brain, like keys of an old manual typewriter.

Objects are nothing unless they’re illuminated by love. Fear is also a form of love; the loss of what we’re attached to mutates into energies surroundings absorb, as does the anticipation of reward. What seemed to be his accountant, or lawyer yanked hymen from virgin away; some business deal via cell phone, demands an attention to find obsession’s overt call anew, through less-coupled double-entendres of individuals floating effortlessly on light-streaked lakes. Someone hands me a mixed drink and I cuss inertially ... out of habit. Ah love, you tour it briefly, and it’s ripped away. Can I read over your shoulder? I guess so. It’s challenging to wire yourself from a self-occupied place. The spectator makes it all the more difficult, as they remind us what we’re doing, judging what comes up, or out, if you’re lucky enough to read it, before crossing it out. Are you gay, he asks me. Huh? Like the yacht owner’s call, I am copiously jarred from my pervasive thought, I was just about to worship into reality. I look at him, somewhat vacantly. How did you ... then I get it. I donno. What made you think it?
An interesting discussion ensues, and I leave the wiser, to the benefit of the interruption he provisioned us in.

Tweezered and plucked for brillance.

2005-06-28T15:10:00.000-07:00

How do I greatgrandfatherclause our mutual puniness to the human illusion of order? I like to think about leaves, and winds on hire for hair blowing, streaking lawlessly though sylvian streets on a motorcycle; but the pay is lousy, in fact, it’s reverse pay, as it costs you dearly ($$) to escape the everything we’ve reacted against i.e. created. Scatter is sacred. It’s the seeking of non-scatter, which is cyclically vice-versa.
Well, that’s pretty straightforward.
You’re doing too many things.
Duh. Life reeks of brevity.
It’s better to do a few things, and suffer less for them.

Where (and why) do our brains latch on to life rings like this? Sometimes, to be certain, success is measured by an absence, or preponderance of suffering, other times, who really cares? Why carry a bottle of water fording some treacherous river, if you know the river’s pristine to drink? I aspire to find the middle ground, where either is natural, and this fellow is not inclined to; his resultant blade bleeding me. Sometimes, a person is scattered. Occasionally they’re are fixed there. States are insistent upon their opposites to exist, and flower proudly.

I’ll take that into consideration; but I have another approach to life, which you amass to failed attempts which elicit nothing. Nothing is the end result of all endeavor. Your successes will soon dim, and your advances will obfuscate them. The petered notoriety in the legacy of your inventions, will soon fill the minds of computers crushed by bulldozers, in slag heaps. Your order will scatter, as surely as ashes will, when the urns are upended to winds of our choosing. I see spotlights sending snow-blind wayfarers to a tunnel shining their same, and I must enforce my own paradigm by sending you there, to appreciate the dangers of seeking light, rather than appreciating exposed feet stumbling through self-imposed darkness.

Well said, I think.

Everyone sees flaws in transparencies right away. Project images on a screen, and their depth dies, sequestering them to lesser scrutiny. It endemic; you can’t compete with information we choose to validate from one less dimension. Being open, you are open to attack, as ‘proponents’ devise better ways to destroy that which threatens those secure in their castled selves. Order is tantamount with defense, while chaos favors infamy and invasion. The security of your existent routine demean the mores which threaten it, for mind severs reason from risk, hiding the long-ago tryst; an unholy alliance between them is a silence broken occasionally and covered quickly again.

Is it really so dramatic?

Attend a native American Peyote ceremony as a participant, to gain perspective, to assimilate fully, rather than push away... your visions as anomalies, as flickering glitches in trustworthy, highly-proven systems... It is developmentally paralyzing to the level of paradigm playing pieces ... in two dimensions ... One must be higher. One must be lower. There can not be unity in our world; tension keeps us stuck in ...
What?
Good question.
The correction fluid spills on the table, leaving a snow drift permanently affixed to the well-fondled wood. I considered what a disaster it could be if you’d purchased this toxic solvent to get high, if you loved the table, the paper, or needed to fix mistakes for a vital report. A combination of all this and more, intrigues me. What frame of mind precludes the label: disaster? The happy coincidence of art mentality? The damned if you do or don’t resignation state? The quantum foam perception of matter serves dividends, when objects alter their forms. Just nothing vibrating, don’t be so plussed! We now eavesdrop, as there’s no other choice. "Apparently he had a crush on me, but all he could talk about was guns." I love that line, following a diabolical spin designed for a man at the game, tabled next to me—about hairy legs, and how this poor redneck sod knew nothing about women. The vexing complexity overwhelmed us; as potent mates veered and out; I saw she’d be fat not far from thirty, she somehow knew it, wrought her craft perfectly, weeding mavericks and dimwits out. Correction fluid is amazing stuff. It bonds with molecular tenacity when upended in direct relationship to where it should not be. The girl walks out with a bank clerk, or a well-heeled slave of the hallowed appearance of money minus the power to wield it for pleasure, and I unkindly watch her shirt hike, to see the stretch marks of diet maintenance food binging. With sadistic told you so, the years accelerate a film of her decline, dredging has-beens from sad-wish condom clubs, feeling powerless, like the other sods ineptly floundering with subjects such as guns, when they’d like to be in her shoes, desired by half the half of anyplace she goes. That girl’s a bitch, the feisty tablemate declares. Or, your pent-up side is jealous of the enactment of your dreams,

I (almost) decline to say.

Statute of Variations.

2005-06-26T12:52:00.000-07:00

Can you write about your education?
No. That’s far too large a question. It would take weeks.
How about your current profession?
That’s a rough one as well.
Should be easy.

Numerous, broad-reaching forms of nature meet art, to weight synchronicity in silent, gut-wrenching journalism. This is the photographer’s calling, whose established or unknown masters release shutters at exact moments with limited time or resources for error. We are the tenders of theory’s strings, removing the corners or frames to imagine from. We tend not to focus on an individual’s style or strength, but a picture’s emotional content, its end result, and how its geometry add subject matter moves us. Like any art form, photography is a corkscrew of falsity and turns, as few realize what part of it is forged and what is really life, freed of compositional constraints. So few are truly biased to the unpredictable, connoisseurs favor the (illusion of the) unposed in moody, difficult settings, captured on low-latitude films with unforgiving devices.

"Capturing" evanescence, shadows (the illusion of) "truth", but demands collaboration in many artistic realms, primarily through a bewildering array of half-completed, glacially moving works, it plies us towards and away from. Each image attracts and repels the melt of our (brittle) end moraine, in turbulent calving of ice faces, and (peace in) comparison with others.
Those who appreciate the subtly have suffered by the hand of it; nobody knows a slap of love, until the sting of red fingers marks them so. People ask me questions without realizing pain lengthens and shortens answers, insomuch as they languish in the tedious malaise of words. In a visual realm, the artist takes his life in her hands, and full of fear, cuts his heart out, while she screams.

Shouldn’t it?
Perhaps. Depends.
On what?
Exactly.
Ah, that’s uh ... pretty dense.
You asked.

There’s what you do support-wise, and the goad to take the leap into the next level, where support is erroneous behavior. Relationships mirror mirrors we lose our images within, until the in-venerable I shimmers everywhere, normalizing a universe of its making, with the intrinsic flaws each individual brings as flowery gifts into the world. The loss of perspective is life’s blindness; we grope to the ghoulish guideposts looming from an endless array of sandstorms swept up inside us. Reference points recede into a trackless mire of gray, where incidents reflect our beliefs like outdated web pages.

It’s a simple question. (Or I assumed it was?)
What do you do? Right? What is it?
Yes. You know, how do you keep the wolves at bay?
How do I support myself.
What’s your occupation?
As opposed to my passion.
Indeed.
I don’t have one.
Frustration
is amusing
when the recipient understands
him/her self enough
to embrace the chaos of not knowing.
You know what your problem is?
What? ( I hate it when people will that upon me.)
You’re too scattered.
Compared to what? The universe?
[compared to]

Myself, for instance.

How do I great-grandfather-clause our mutual puniness into the human illusion of order? I like to think about leaves, and winds on hire for hair blowing, when you streak lawlessly though sylvian streets on a motorcycle; but the pay is lousy for that, in fact, it’s reverse pay, as it costs you dearly monetarily to escape the everything we’ve reacted against i.e. created. Scatter is the seeking of non-scatter, which is cyclically vice-versa.

Quote unquotes us [some what in]-finitely

2005-06-25T13:00:00.000-07:00

The eagerly-sought death of artisans’ works at the hands of imposters and con me, shows a culture how far it’s fallen, that the poultry brains of its citizens worship what they’re paid, and told to. That developers would with alacrity, bulldoze history to eradicate a fresco of what’s real, and replace it with the illusion of what’s history, sounds the depths of our values, quite effectively. Cheap prefab versions of quality reek their pathetic facade, next to crumbling originality; truth must be punished with permanent obscurity, reducing its recognizable coherency to archeological digs, or better still, dust for winds’ teasing. Then again, truth is worthless unless it sings blue from the hallowed lungs of those who wield it, sparking those who’ve never heard it consciously before.

Mmmm; so . . .

I think of the dead musicians, and sculptors, the inventors whose brainstorms were ignored, or more likely, stolen for breakthroughs savvy, but unspirited businessmen plundered, and I’m sickened by the invisibility ‘actual articles’ warrant in a deadened sensory awareness with which, we inhabit our worlds. This tension specializes the few to the many, as they walk the gambit of falsity perpetrated upon. Quote: A certain Charles Manson madness pervades the place, most unsurprising he laid low, with a bunch of red-necks here. One gets the impression multiple bodies habited overgrown, shallow graves ... young rape victims and crooked swindlers, copper seekers and drug dealers, ordinary citizens rising at night to fill your sky with hallucinatory faces, and your dreams with demented journeys to the underworld. The remote lodge, powered by an ancient Pelton wheel and fed by wire-wrapped logs, burnt to the ground in the seventies, once its pathway was purged of violent shotgun-toting guards, who lived in a ragged teepee. And so on, unquote. It was soggy, and difficult to read, stained with moss and riddled with small holes, as if buckshot had penetrated history, from beyond or before it was written. Funny how metaphors heir way to our pockets, so we’ll yank them out
with our keys.

And so it Begins.

2005-06-22T14:55:00.000-07:00

2.

Made for explosive situations. Kevlar. Things which are veteran to some, and breakthrough to others. The mad rampage of instruments in Billy’s head, as he cites his angry versions of self, crouched in apparition, rain slicker open, inviting the sea. The same alley where ... (but the dog departed) and the fish small and headless lingers, for those who seek/goad the release of time. I watch billy become sequentially drenched by passing flourished rains, individual drops spatter on pavement wearing rainbows of fossil fuel use, fracturing into small bits, as we will. Stunning women who’ve thought excessively over their facets, trundle by laden with shopping bags, turning with pity meets horror to Billy, whose rants awaken them. I wonder how much the streaks in her hair (coloring) cost, and if they deigned its fade to the coming tan, from the savage electric salon. One almost thought, here’s the real goddess, straight from the wilds of a tropical paradise. A disorienting stretch of minutes ensued, where each person’s appearance spoke the ravings of multiple personality disorders. Billy was the crooked, stretched madhouse mirror alms paid conscious entrance to.

What protects us: the moats we dig and fortify in subsequent walls, with slits for sniping the siege engines of people’s greed ... you are protecting, what I want. I don’t’ even know what it is. Life is a prefabricated silence the soul struggles to shout across, attempting to awaken the heat of the passion suffering feels as we force ourselves upon the stakes fires’ din to kindle us in. It has stopped raining, compared to rain of the instant before, and billy receives two dollars for his troubles, or general state of exposure. His selves gather at the fire monies elicit, and congeal into a heartfelt smile, followed by a damp cig–arette, to spatter them again.

How many pieces of him are angry they’re wet?

Pies divine their appreciators by the number of slices they serve, if they’re a asset to the taste buds. How many wives will Don Giovanni wet? It was seven to two in the afternoon, and all the mental giants dreamed of, was a coffee, and a paper to fear, filled with impossible stories. Smokers shortened their lifetimes outside, twenty paces from Billy’s diagnosis the world is fucked, breathing slowly in, and out. The whole place was disgruntled, and die-hard, gird in weapons to alarm others, and broken within themselves, thirsting with freedom and adventures. Hey you. "What?" Did that guy say something to me? "Don’ know; meybee ..." Meanwhile, steaming Billy hit three jackpots in prey, with his best craziness ... "That’s the suffering of profit." As authenticity is the act of artists frog-stepping their roles into life. "I seriously doubt he thinks he’s doing well." Neither did the suffering artists who later generations glorified, in their stubborn efforts to resist the comfort of the known. [Artists–shmartists.] An artist is anyone with a vision beyond the known, who attempts to manifest it; this alleyway between high buildings, is inhabited by persons of all disciplines and opportunistic occasions or concerns. The dirt Billy’s lying in, is the river’s offering. It is truly the magic occult of ‘the delta’, where those driven by profit vainly attempt a harness of the divine; damning is moating; effect minus versa breeds vice in paychecks’ garnered; suffering collides strife with physical idioms, as it of the ‘I’ suffocates a very-metaphor reality, we term ‘our world’. "That’s nice, did you manufacture that beforehand, or dish it out writhing for me?" The latter I think; but knowing little of time travel, I could have been quoting.

Train Wreck

2005-06-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

The bliss of time. The saga of time, the past time invokes—his Christ emptiness wrote my tale, in unpronounceable cooings. Seconds tick minutes when we’re engaged in passion, a state which includes suffering,but who cares? Consider the maelstrom of sound a rock star enjoys. In earlier eras, a musical preference would have been narcotica, procedural, or natural, hardly posing you as 'odd'. ‘The church’, whatever church is, naturally blanches at lyrics. Anything is termed profane, by minds which issue it The sheer pointlessness of change, in a time-defined world, normalized and redefined bewildering arrays of suffering, as passion shifts from the flesh, to the existential. Passion veers through burning hoops, into quiescence, brewing carnal desire in monks, locked to their secular cages. The rules swing and bang like the gates winds tease, as we attempt delicate ballet, predicating its ‘grace’ upon whims we snigger about. Suffering sizes realism and grants us compassion for yokes we seek to keep.

Two freshly-impregnated twenty-somethings rub their tiny but burgeoning bellies, and talk about the state of the sated dissatisfaction of their peers. I listen with interest, to avoid the throb in my ankle, recently sprained, and tender to certain thoughts. They stopped nine words into a two breath sentence, to gawk a bunch of semi-reformed meth-heads led by a Fat Albert look alike, as they sloped by, shagged and enervated, looking for something intangible, mustering their focus en-mass. People moved, in the strewn alleyway, letting the motley band’s energy ooze past them. After a moment, she resumed, as if nothing had happened, and I bumped my foot against a table leg, hearing myself almost yelp with pain; but calculatedly coughed instead. This is the ankle I sprained in almost identical circumstances a year ago, driving me to write a novel about the phenomenon, as I used to think this level of synchronicity was weird. Time exacts our displeasure into a need to understand; I’m sure even far-sighted physicists considered the quantum realms inexpressively bizarre; and they still do. Weirdness becomes normalized in nascent layers of established reality, while scientists shrug, slowly parsing their don’t know, to know.

Technology is moving faster than any generalist can keep up with; new editions of complex problems and software to solve them, slash our previous prowess to base antiquation. The narrow-scope specialist will thrive, wowing no-nothings and armchair generalists with torrents of complexity no typical life span will effectively probe, or ford, if it plans on diversifying. You think so? Maybe. Sounds like a trend. We clink berries over it, smiling faces splattered with juice, as the conversation turns ... I tell them about the alley, and the pregnant girls, how they thought the world was ruined, so they didn’t vote, and right after they said the system was fucked, a mangy dog paraded down the alley, a headless rancid fish peeking from its grizzled maw. They smell was excruciating ... I nearly gaged when it poked its head in the door. I wanted to say : You two over there : the universe is here with a connection; but who would get it? The simile of ‘Believe you me!’ separates the id from the superego, Shut up! Shoo that mutt outta here! I can’t handle reflection that loud. And so on. Dude. Can we change the topic? The rancid fish thing is ruining my berry high.

The lithium salt scum from the underground spring stained the shallow cavern, excavated to find copper for coming wars. In a state of controlled panic, I scribbled my name in its odd smell, and woke up, wondering if lawless types and Manson-mentality, seeks balance in places of calm ... like here for instance ... warm water, old growth, silence, and crazy medicine comes together to draw the whacked to specific land. Eventually, being dim-witted and glaringly messianic, ‘or’ egotistical, they shit in their newfound nest, as non-native souls to North America have. I hear good-hearts shlepped tons of trash out, when the ruffians were eventually mustered. Having destroyed everything, they moved on to destroy/heal everything all over again.

I’d tried to make a living without compromising, and the end result is driving me insane. Slowly but surely ... the details are overwhelming me ... the balance of struggle and suffering result in a twisted ankle, to slow down, and abnegate from the madness. Hundreds of emails and dozens of phone calls, schemes beyond reckoning to pay for what would hopefully fund schemes to pay for schemes’ larger schemes, constantly upgrading hardware to raise the variant bar of the shape of the schemes I dared to scheme. For years, all resources funneled towards art, and debt inferentially grew, as the balance of fun and work erased itself in a decades-long blur of tilling what’s barely arable. Ideas of ten times the resources of time and money to enact them haunted me; I was an unhappy ragamuffin of failed ploys and frustrated roundabouts, dead end shortcuts and found materials.

Old mining equipment litters our overgrowth, hidden by change and years. It dowses times past by existing, yet seldom does it occur to us, to restore it, display it as art, or use it again. That "technology" is old, and therefore, nascent to ideas we’ve bypassed, in favor of things which now exit, to be found, and not examined for secrets. We assume the choices of progress are inherently correct, by function of existence over versions which did not enjoy mass procurement, defined by producers’ greedy whims. Inside us are entire landscapes of reality refracting choices we make and made, underneath the greedy versions of ourselves, obsessed with recognition, and powers. Locked in the actual mirror, we are blind to the versionist theory of many Is embedded in a single over soul, which in turn is embedded in ... the danger zone ... thinking like that! Oh so they’d have

you believe.

Suffering is Life's-spice sprinkled generously.

2005-06-19T12:14:00.000-07:00

In the second attack of Braille for lane control, the night parsed our muddled drunkenness to flowers’ opening, and relayed it’s abuse in blessings, as they laid the heap of rubble at the slate which constituted his marker, signaling his departure from the world. Scratched in evanescent chalk was a crude description of his sharp fear before the shrapnel which severed his leg, caused him to bleed to death. ‘Anotghe body for preditor Bush’, it read, in broken English, or apt spelling, underneath. It was a harsh vignette, of a harsher war, congesting us with visions which derailed dreams to nightmares. It’s weird she went there, to see that. Is it curiosity, or atonement for a collective wrong, which nobody seems empowered to do anything about? Meanwhile, the billion concocted details we ride through our ‘organized world’s confound us to confusion and distraction, shunting us from the scenarios which would awaken us. The cross-eyed quasi mongoloid was playing with his ear buds, which seemed to be shrieking death rock music; he was white as a sheet and clearly anxious about his coffee order, which even by Kant’s reckoning, was taking an inordinate amount of time. He turned to sate himself on my soul; his pupils were holes, stargazing time.

The panic of time. The saga of time, the history time invokes—his Buddha emptiness wrote my tale, in unpronounceable expletives. Minutes tick as seconds when you’re engaged in your passion, a state which suggests suffering. I consider the maelstrom of sound this fellow enjoys. In early eras, his musical preference would have made him a candidate for being roasted at the stake. ‘The church’, whatever church that might be, would blanch at those lyrics. The sheer pointlessness of chance, in time-defined events, normalizes and redefines suffering. It shifts from the flesh, to the existential. It veers through hoops, into quiescence, brewing like carnal desire in monks, locked in secular cages. The rules swing and bang like gates winds tease; we attempt to dance delicate ballet, predicating ‘grace’ upon the whims Gods snigger about. Suffering sizes passion to realism, and it gives us compassion for blades of that, which we cut, to keep their length ‘correct’.

Meaning well ... or is he?

2005-06-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

The Second attack of Braille for Lane Control.

Check for missing pieces here. The loss equals the gain, of which nobody can quite concisely imagine beforehand. Three constitutes a crown of thorns, if you certify two as a correct number for a loving relationship. They swear specific versions of Bible on it, as if kids don’t count ... did you know my fucking Catholic doctor wouldn’t give me vitality pills?! He said I had to be married; I mean, is that a law, or what? I’d turn the bastard in if he wasn’t so generous with pain medication. God knows we need some help every now and again. I always try to talk to people, to be friends, but ... shit. It’s hopeless. Nobody wants to listen, you know? Doesn’t matter where you are ... It’s a world of talkers out there. I went to Mardi-Grass, an’ my bro, he loved it so much at the end of the event, I didn’t know if he hated it so much, he was crazy, or lived it so much, he was mad. Oww, I love that song ... American woman, now stay aw-aa-ayy ... but not really. I’m wondering why people get so sequestered, or dense, they’re unaware they’re talking too much, which forces me to revolve around the wrongs in their world. Finally he senses a rambling diatribe and redoubles his efforts to snare me. Was he ever aware I was doing something before he sat down? He is a shark, prowling the tables of everybody, looking for energy scraps.

"You attract whack-os like that, because you’re actually interested, and most folks are too socially inept or stultifyingly-mainstream to acknowledge these quirky souls, not to mention sordidly self-focused like him, they are bereft of curiosity concerning our amazing universe of others." The T-Vee flickered its mind control through a deep funk of (cheap) cigar haze, and I paused to view it’s intensity. Welcome to Lifestyles of the Fucked-up, Famous and Upwardly Obsessed ... how large and soulless can your gated community clear-cut castle be? Shallow mercenaries struggle for basely-obtained riches in prime-time consent, broadcasting sickening Hollywood perspectives of egotism to the otherwise-generous and caring masses, kindling each person’s ever-present frenzy of the inner rat brain, single-focused to secure the dwindling reasons to overeat, free of guilt. They gnaw their countless competitors until they weaken from deception, or blood loss; an end result in death or disfigurement of aesthetics and close communities, but I have to admit, this show is fascinating, in a way. Like a horror movie, or mushy insipid movie scene, where you’re forced to hide your eyes, but are equally compelled to peek though the web of fingers intertwined. ‘At least his kids seems normal.’ the guy next to us says of the final contestants, simply to rile his frail-looking lover, who in thin veneer covets that hyper-American lifestyle. ‘Yea. Hopefully they’ll rebel, and become environmental guerrillas, to atone for their parents’ consumer terrorist crimes.’ She slaps his elbow. ‘They’re not that bad. Look how they enhance the world, with their skills.’ I felt like I’d missed something, so I didn’t take offense ... maybe there is something to mammals on TV, displaying their nests and dens to others. Keep an opened mind, the Buddha might say. I like the leather couch. And his sports car looks fast. The sky over his house is beautiful, especially reflected into his fake lake that’s nearly as good as a real one. Wound around the idea o fwhat it looks like to the outside world, he rounds our heavy thoughts around ourselves; his wife thinks it’s a perfect place to raise kids ... in a serene sterility, devoid of actual nature, real community, or notable art? I feel sorry to watch this, I said. But it’s a pleasant sort of sorry, seeing my life is full, although it radiates frustrations and sorrows, when I force its works through small holes.

Termination Shock

2005-06-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

It was four ten am, I’d finished the last piece for the show, and with eyes crossed, reached for the fixative, which clear coats the delicate elements of the collage. I shook the can for at least a minute, and daftly sprayed. The bow shock of my exhausted, mental heliosphere found a deeper ellipsoid, as the interstellar wind smashed its apparent chaos upon my canvas, in glaring bright silver spray paint. I let up on the nozzle, completely perplexed. Ten hours of work, gone in an instant. In a finale of the roving mind, I’d switched off, and absently grasped the wrong can, stood there doubled over in shock, ground up, paralyzed and raving inside ... hit the table with one mighty blow. The thin stem of a martini-glass leg punched through the oak hardwood floor; the table collapsed and spilled its wet contents onto ...

Termination Shock : The turbulent gray area where the velocity of our solar wind drops, as it feels the effects of the interstellar winds, which are, and swirl the forces of other stars. The band had been mobbed by girls, the producer told us; we nearly had to run, at several points. "Uh huh." I’m staring at my pants. The floor was a touchdown catastrophe ... do you know what time it is? I ask him. Uh, sorry. I keep forgetting the zone change. Doesn’t matter. I’m fucked anyway. You okay? Not particularly. Sorry to hear that. The phone rings all day for people who don’t exist who want to fill out surveys and buy useless things which become their own rocket science, and I’m meditating on the increasing palatability of dog food. Increases in animal meal technology are my new old age social security, seeing how art has backstabbed my happiness, and financial well-being. Well, that’s a drag. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have any money either. Yea, but you’re in Europe, partying every night, and surrounded by girls. He laughs; Yeeah man, sheet happens!

I’m so on edge, the slightest problem elicits thunderbolts. Breaking a shoelace is a shuttle disaster. Your backpack hooked on a doorhandle ... my god. Walking about at snapping point, zero money and security ditto, manic with ideas in a paucity of time or materials to finish them ... it’s a romantic torture without reprieve, slowly grinding us into dust from which we came. It’s a tension of extremes which swing the harmonics of alternating poles, vibrating under the current of things. He doesn’t sound the depths of the heliopause, where the boundary of an individual’s unique solar system becomes unclear. I think of all those trim, beautiful, boyishly-devastating, small-chested Parisian girls, and find solace in their imaginary arms. Crying shame, they’re wasted on those big-boobed porn-hungry sluts he’s repping. The crap is peeling the actual finish from the floor, as I carefully spatula my flunking grade up, and decorum keeps me from wondering if it might just be better now.

Since art is suffering, and passion is suffering, what isn’t surrounded by, or in a state of suffering? The weeds suffer when I pull them because I’m suffering trying to get a paycheck so I’ve become a gardener faux this week. The lawn suffered when I mowed it. The house owner suffered when they saw what I’d done to the floor, which made me suddenly suffer with the momentary add long range suffering of never doing anything correctly, or at least, to my ultimate satisfaction. Now I’m beholden to the generalized yoke of nonspecific suffering, radiating from all sentient, and non-consentient ‘un sentient’ entities. I’m glad for the tour updates, by one hand, and on the totally opposite other, I’m depressed by them. They highlight how I suffer, because I’ve felt those highs. I crave the heights I’ve experienced, contrasting them through the lens of my pants, and the hole in the floor, which was nearly a piece of art, I could have sold.

Why do you do art, if it makes you unhappy? Good question. It’s only the rude awakening after art, which is proven difficult to deal with. Like a one night ... no, that’s a bad simile. I never have those. Like love perhaps, if you must. In one night, it’s easy to be grateful, and grasp an event without judging it, no matter how wasted you were. It’s the repetition of pain which sears us, and ruins our innocence. Anyway, I’m thirty, and thirty is stultifying if passion in fact, invests you in misery. Don’t rain on my parade; I’m going blindly into the crucible, assuming I contain the essential essence of what will transcend this base metal world the masses hide in, or blithely inhabit. Well said. I like that sibilant flow to the tunnel light, as the goods train approaches. Don’t forget to throw yourself to the wall, right as rapture hits you. The transition can be bloody, and somewhat intense.

It’s good to know risks, and good to ignore them. I’m told I ride my bicycle like a maniac, but to me it seems normal. If I considered the pavement at 40mph, hurtling between crawling cars, I’d make a fatal mistake, sooner or later. Some people approach rock climbing, or insanely-strong drugs with this demeanor. I appreciate this sentiment, though I have great difficulty manifesting it. I trust I’ll be okay; safety equipment is for those who’re afraid they’ll go down. How droll; party’s over already?! It’s just getting interesting. That’s why I wear helmets. That’s why I don’t. Same argument elicits different thunders, and differing echos; depending on what fist hits whose table, the floor may or may not collapse. 1.) Trust and courage. 2.) Unnatural faith, and constant awareness. 3.) Acts of love forge the basis of self, which withstand lament better than suffering.

Letter to Mars.

2005-06-16T11:50:00.000-07:00

Dear Mmmm,

I appreciate the long letter letting me in on your side. If I were in town right now, I'd be having this discussion with you in person, as it's obviously important, and as we know, email tends to remove what's truly essential between people. If I was wrong sending out that email, then so be it ... I am only trying to show you the group reasoning behind why I did it. A large apology is more important than two individuals’ petty issues.

Surely, you don’t think a challenge to solve a longstanding provocation, or grudge which affects a community, is a threat or reason to leave its fold. Your membership with our institution, on almost every level, is unassailable, and not a fragile affair one controversy could affect. I'm not saying you're wrong, or that you didn't feel unappreciated, or used, or that you weren't publicly embarrassed, or any of that.. All of us behave like a little kids in some tense circumstances, and likewise inhabit a lot of denial... I have little doubt there was a scene, perhaps on the level of Wwwwww’s birthday party, owing to his ego-driven need to give, which is pure and seamless only some of the time. I see you have extended the olive branch, and it's more or less up to Zzzzzz now, but look what it took for you to do that, so a slice of the community could witness the event. Other parties are now quite likely to throw the towel in, as you threaten to, rather than truly face what occurs in all messy group dynamics, are melding pots of what occurs in closer relationships too, and the end result of it, is, nobody will truly benefit for the sake of future learning and adventures beyond this. Let me attempt to speak my peace here, because I feel I haven't yet been heartfully heard. We do not evolve by accusation, but rather by understanding our mutual weaknesses, and openly, or publically embracing them.

Your rebuttal was reactionary, and thus, not in the best interest of either yourself, or the people you sent it to. Yyyyyy's forward was destructive, hard-core, and unapologetic, plus it suspiciously backed a certain sentiment you already had, so it was self-serving of you to forward it. I cop to living one's words, but I stood only to lose from that forward I sent, as I did NOT want to become involved, but was specifically asked to facilitate. That party energy had a motion to it that was going to come out one way or another, so I thought better now than later, and a neutral party makes the better messenger, where rival sides force cards to a table scrutinized for sleight of hand. I welcome your challenge I had other intentions, as I don't think I'm motive-free and am far from enlightened. I hope you’ll ferret a sentiment of know-better out of me, so let's talk in person about it (I'm interested); yet I don't see how I had/have anything but personal hassle to gain from this... thus my initial reluctance to even engage in it.

As I said in emails before, I am primarily interested in group dynamics where personalities clash, as every individual habits their own personal prejudices, which are seldom correct, yet they contribute substantially to a collective understanding. You think you were trashed, but as I'm sure you and others have noticed, Zzzzzz trashed himself in his apology. Our assembly is not one of idiots; we feel a pulse which lies beneath our pulse of superficial things, despite whatever "explanation" or 'official' line has been adopted. Those who are attempting to hide become flustered by exposure; if we have faith in our peers' intentions, their ability to lovingly embrace us is assured, and any realizations which elicit more sharing, deepen the bonds of everyone.

The kind of email you sent Xxxxx and Zzzzzz is the sort of sentiment the whole community should be aware of , so they can help facilitate healing on any occasions between you, them, and any recognizable versions of him/her/us that resemble the circumstances of such problems. This is truly vital stuff for us to grok, as it's the very thing which isn't occurring in our country... an honest disclosure of what's happening behind the headlines we've stopped believing in. Your wanting to make others see and feel as you, having been ignored instead of invited to perform ... what you did is on many levels, as childish as having a tantrum and breaking a record. That's important! People need to know you’re big enough to admit this, so they in a similar vein, can admit their faults in altercations with personalities which mirror certain aspects of themselves in challenging circumstances which proffer themselves for resolution

or warfare.

Let's face it, Zzzzzz can't fully apologize, or take criticism either helpful or negative, in any timely manner to save his life... it's truly unrealistic to expect him to do so, without being the paragon of what we'd actually expect of him ourselves ... and as you know, that's the kind of thinking which elicits global change. This concept is the backbone of why you send those political messages out. You're still sitting on a grudge of fifty bucks from how many years ago? And thus, he is too ... a problem which could have been cleaned up right away for the benefit of all of us ... But was it? In a timely manner, at the expense of our fragile egos or whatever it takes? Isn't this group worth it? Xxxxx is going to divide her allegiance to side with Zzzzzz, because that is the nature of relationships ... a loss of perspective meets love with its hat in hand. She girds herself to fight for underdogs, be they ER messes scraped from auto wrecks, or starving cats in roasting Louisiana cane fields ... it is her great special strength and occasionally her downfall; but I think you know this about her already. Zzzzzz’s inability to deal is magnified by her heartfelt desire to support and stand before him. That's why we have to be bigger than all of this, to re-foster love where suspicion, hedging, and judgment have secretly stolen in. And I'm talking about not one instance, but a living paradigm.

Truly, do you imagine

I like taking the heat for this, or perhaps I have nothing better to do than stir explosive chemicals for the sake of stirring? From up close, and from a distance, I see how damaging this whole affair has been (for years) and want it, and all future ones to emerge sufficiently to be solved with a useful precedent afterwards. This isn't about a few people covering up problems which ripple out to the masses, it's about sharing, and increasing the number of loving watchdogs finding the subtle shades of similar mis-communications in themselves, and throughout all of us. We need everybody looking, to carry the load of positive change into a better world.

And just for the record (in case you now think otherwise) I feel nothing but awe for everything you've done and given to the community ... this is not about my 'situation' with you, because I don't have one, except that I enjoy you, and consider you a co-conspirator in general creativity and fun. I would hope you would blow this whistle on me, challenging that which you energetically consider to impede a state of love. And I do NOT lavish this sort of attention on strangers. I admit I have higher expectations of your capacity to deal, and evolve socially than I do of others, but that's a product of my respect for you; and I don't think you would you want it another way. I apologize for going on and on about this, but I believe it is essential for any group to air its grievances in a useful and evolutionary way, to increase the level and quality of honesty we in turn gift to the outer world. In the esteemed contexts of music, art, love and dance to name a few, the group we inhabit has changed many people, and raised consciousness. Please accept this as a kind of distinguishment, as I have a billion things to do and an extreme shortage of time to further any of them; however, I think the topic of group-assisted loving to resolve and heal internal strife is important enough

to warrant our close attention.

Love, Rrrrr

Reality is profit drinking.

2005-06-14T11:05:00.000-07:00

Regarding the Decorated General

This was fairly typical thinking during the 30's. A specialty of the Methodist church which must have considered the general a strange bedfellow. It and some like organizations sponsored a high school oratorical contest in Indianapolis, a center of isolationism. There must have been fifty contestants from each of the six or so high schools. How about that, I won. The pitch of my speech which I at least half way believed at the time was that WWI was pretty much sponsored by and primarily for the benefit of the du Pont company, the country's largest ammunition maker. And they did make bundles. So much so that they bought control of General Motors.
But I got to know the company pretty well. The first case I worked on after law school (1950) was the du Pont-General Motors case, an antitrust case in which the government successfully argued that du Pont must sell its GM shares. Our firm, famous as Dean Acheson's firm, defended du Pont. I got to know du Pont pretty well and wrote what they called a "definitive memo" , "Does du Pont control GM?" Think I wiggled, it obviously did on some things but never across the board. Sad the government won. I think that if du Pont had remained a major stockholder it would have sensed what the Japanese were doing to GM and would have straightened GM out. All the top GM men I met, and I interviewed a lot, were sort of mesmerized by GM's then power and totally unable to fathom that a train wreck was coming.

But back to du Pont. In spite of being an ammunition maker they were totally opposed to war and vigorously objected to our tentative pre-Pearl Harbor efforts to enter the war. For du Pont and I think any business war is quite limiting. Sure you can make lots of ammunition or if you are a banker make lots of loans, but it's all a one string thing. The strictures of war such that you can't grow your business in new and more profitable ways. Du Pont could not have commercialized nylon and probably couldn't even have developed it during wartime. Ammunition is profitable but nylon, wow! Bankers can't put together big profitable international deals during war time. So, although I have no doubt about the general's sincerity I think he's all wet on the reasons for war.

That's not to say that I think our wars are always for pure and holy purposes. A lot of people think that we are in Iraq today to protect our sources for oil. And depending on your viewpoint, that may not be the purest possible reason.

Bill Moore

Bill has a point there, however, I am reminded how so many of my friends conduct their personal affairs at work, the sure thing of a paycheck giving them license to further their stature at the expense of hands that feeds them. Like having a benefactor who pays you to email your friends, government contracts are the gravy train slop is funneled off, to fuel the dark careers of nylon, because it can. By the time each breakthrough is tested, it’s been investigated extensively in secret. Van Morrison plays on the radio and I wonder how much acid he heated in his neural junctions to see God the way he did. If he’d never played music, and instead, had fitted pipes ... chances are he’d be what?

We Drive with Insight in our Smiles

2005-06-11T16:33:00.000-07:00

[Orcas Island]

We’re rounding the corner at breakneck speed, the serpentine double yellow glows our high intensity high beams, as edgy chemicals run down our throat backs, tweaking our brains. While passing a CD cover littered with lines of untested trypamines, signs blurred into nonsense, arraigned from white-tailed deer skittering across a blacktop psychically marred with carcasses of all those who didn’t succeed. The radio is a lifeguard’s megaphone, cartooning us with dialogue bubbles, petty emotions want to fill in, and the road weaves the car sensuously into questions dots underline, covering trees removed for straightness, whose roots deeply penetrate the ground. Deep, lush, greenery waves its auto-inspirited winds across terse shoulders, mowed ages-past, and the challenge of feeling hours evolving, let alone a transparent legacy of horse and buggies, wears on us. I slap myself gently, to say I have, in the process of staying awake, the speed we’ll approach imaginary moments is terrifying. Hendrix scores his sonic genius as the car hydroplanes the road’s rushing water, channeled by sad deforested hills. The whoosh of the tires sealing out fates, adorn us in solitude; we’re crammed into a small metal capsule, as numbers unwind to maps’ whims, and loud thoughts screech needles to records’ plasticity.

I type the word trypamine into the electronic dictionary, and it suggests strip-mine as an alert, or alternative. That’s funny; and it occurs to me the language is manipulated by those who publish the books, and the shadowy agencies which rebuke, reward, or regulate them. These English Oxfords are going to schools. Youth will be changed by what they contain; do not elaborate on mind-alterants, and jagged swear words. At birth, babies can hear all sounds of every language on earth, but the ability dims from the moment we’re repeatedly pointed at one; this openness actually atrophies, and dies, as the brain refocuses to the grosser subtly of what it needs to survive. The ‘perfect pitch’ of our birth in thoughts is lost, as years erode the belief we’re less happy than we wrecked our lives to be. [Luckily …]

We’re not actually adults, as far as brain development is concerned, until we’re 25 years of age. That’s why soldiers and churchgoers are recruited substantially earlier, when they’re still technically unformed. The moral judgment wiring isn’t fully operating, until our prefrontal cortex has matured; so imagine an idea that’s so complex, it takes twenty three years to flesh itself out; and even then, you’re at its starting line. In regards to non-egotistical operation in the world, most humans are cradle-borne to shallow epitaphs. We are functioning from the brain’s amylgada, reacting to early fears our higher functions ignore. The prefrontal cortex, where the [I ] self begins and ends, tells us others are separate from that which sees them. Mirrors are images selves frequent, as a reflection of not the thing itself. I provides a level of abstraction, few are desirous to optimize, to reach the religious state within oneself. Of course, all this focus on regions and structures addresses a storm of unpinpointable feelings, and is but simple modeling to relate complex, interconnected mysteriums brains are probing to digestible, intermediate shades of biological infinity.

Self realization:

The rigors of daily life in the under-activated, industrial countries rages; there are nine hundred messages in my email box, and I’m quantitatively fifty three hours short of sleep in a mere twenty day stretch of attempting to esprit fun while trying to somehow support myself. The largest rabble-rousers in life are hiding in our mirrors each morning, yet forgiving our enemies confuses them. The conundrums derived from our ongoing slattern of self, fuel the mission to express creatively, in most of life’s arenas. A generalization of what encounters whom, on this pathway of life, is a pleasant fairy tale; the real concentration camp is our mind; we fence the profound with wires which insight mangles, slipping the sacred’s savvy agents, plying us with [secret] microfiche, the double-agent bullshit, of who’s serving whom the dis of the in formation.

When you discover a loss of horizon, stop digging, for the hole is only going to get deeper, and harder to extricate your problem from.

A moment of rational repose.

2005-06-08T21:58:00.000-07:00

General Smedley Butler was the Ollie North of the 1920's as well as the most decorated Marine of his day before he became an adamant anti-fascist. Words of wisodm from 1933:

War is just a racket.
A racket is best described, I believe, as something that is not what it seems to the majority of people. Only a small inside group knows what it is about. It is conducted for the benefit of the very few at the expense of the masses.

I believe in adequate defense at the coastline and nothing else. If a nation comes over here to fight, then we'll fight. The trouble with America is that when the dollar only earns 6 percent over here, then it gets restless and goes overseas to get 100 percent. Then the flag follows the dollar and the soldiers follow the flag.

I wouldn't go to war again as I have done to protect some lousy investment of the bankers. There are only two things we should fight for. One is the defense of our homes and the other is the Bill of Rights. War for any other reason is simply a racket.

There isn't a trick in the racketeering bag that the military gang is blind to. It has its "finger men" to point out enemies, its "muscle men" to destroy enemies, its "brain men" to plan war preparations, and a "Big Boss" Super-Nationalistic-Capitalism.

It may seem odd for me, a military man to adopt such a comparison. Truthfulness compels me to. I spent thirty- three years and four months in active military service as a member of this country's most agile military force, the Marine Corps. I served in all commissioned ranks from Second Lieutenant to Major-General. And during that period, I spent most of my time being a high class muscle- man for Big Business, for Wall Street and for the Bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism.

I suspected I was just part of a racket at the time. Now I am sure of it. Like all the members of the military profession, I never had a thought of my own until I left the service. My mental faculties remained in suspended animation while I obeyed the orders of higher-ups. This is typical with everyone in the military service.

I helped make Mexico, especially Tampico, safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefits of Wall Street. The record of racketeering is long. I helped purify Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers in 1909-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests in 1916. In China I helped to see to it that Standard Oil went its way unmolested.

During those years, I had, as the boys in the back room would say, a swell racket. Looking back on it, I feel that I could have given Al Capone a few hints. The best he could do was to operate his racket in three districts. I operated on three continents.

So there you have it,

[I like] Ike said a few things, nobody sought to remember

as well.

90 hours in sanity.

2005-06-08T14:10:00.000-07:00

It was a day of greenery and fog, a vast compendium of smells normally squelched by rush and exhaust, a fractured puzzle of senses attempting to conjoin, and convey what’s 'profound' I heard a song on the radio and started bawling; the flock of geese stopped calling each stroke of their wind well-muscled wings beat, and flight ceases overhead. They’ve normalized jack hammers, and pavement, for pavement’s sake alone. Vertical or horizontal, we’re numbed to it; monotony calms us into a frenzy within. Energy eats at our core, and dies are cast to replace what existed, when we wrenched the dies our partners gave us ongoing to the concussion our parents hit us with. In a short period of time, we’d become everything they aborted, with the additional trills of what they’d only dimly imagined. The crushing finality of what can be accomplished without wrecking balls, defeats their process, for ether dreads requirements which die under the yoke of ‘horrors’ and disfigurements; to the enlightened, all events are transitory; and complainers find solace in what they choose to manifest, and therefore attach to.

The evil in ordered societies.

2005-06-07T13:21:00.000-07:00

The proto-stars of souls yet to manifest on this plane, shield the stunning polarities radiating from this reality its very care givers, who inhabit a sacred world of subtly, give. The beleaguered ensigns shipped to birth, unapologetically precess us to ruin, for the gravity of the issues humans rotate about, slowly increase, and incrementally tug us in. I wasted an entire day attempting to change a tiny corner of my existence, and moreover, wondered how many such wonton bowls existed, waiting to be drained, or filled. Hundreds of people stored these outside of themselves, all around me, every day, awaiting my bump, for dusting, or disruption. I saw the bait and the lure the strike secures, in an unconscious instinct hunger pales by, to secure what can easily be overturned.

In the manner of the crackly spark gap of early communication devices, and horror movies’ Jacob’s ladders, she had saggy tits, and squishy haunches spurting out of hip hugger pants. Her wire-reinforced cups fringed in black lace poked from a Danish milkmaid top, clinging oh-so loosely to the fine skin twenty-somethings often possess into their thirties, highlighting nearly off-shoulder straps screaming her perfect collarbone to dead gods, and jealous women alike. Her tall Norman Continence and flaming red hair dominated the romantic elements of the room, for a fine meal becomes the companion of a lifetime, when shared evenly with wit and mirth. Fainting attracts attention, but you’re auditioning unconscious behavior, so the tree fell, but did you hear it? The oppositions’ attach to each other, and forge our viability, or charm upon the world.

She had a scowl etched into the lines of her face, and I felt sorry for her ... managed by my troubling thought : If any niche is an edifice to use, would base survival seek mates via opposition’s miens? Is ‘beauty’ with a ‘frown’ the ultimate attractant to all those hell-bent on fixing people, or things? If only, to liberate the smile which I sense exists underneath! I’d lavish whatever it took, to radiate that (her) beauty upon the world. She had a bewitching quality to her; a challenge. Can you break my inner sorrow? Will you be the knight, or priestess, who wrenches the way from the dare, I pose to the world? An unhappiness which mysteriously persists, with windows to clearer places, to carry us along ... ten dollars she’s ... no, I take it back. The destructive demeanor of humans, is also a demiurge.

Studies show many children threatened by strangers, run towards their parents, in cases where they feel fulfilled or nurtured, and ran to the imaginary corner, for tracing the inherent required a dedicated resonance with the unknown, but the syllabus of the evening piled upon itself, starting with a loose plan to attend a lecture by a famous Danish accidental tourist, who found the narcotic of walking in metropolitan areas, and proceeded into an unplanned barrage of connections with inference, as it relates to ... as the divine stalked us every step of the way, asking us to pay attention to its innumerable signs conveying her frustration and hope, she mouthed the words of, as he spoke. I thought, this woman is a gem, or I should say, a work of art, while he related to us as kin, sharing strong allegories straight from the heart.

The naked greed of the developers, schooled in the institution of take care of yourself, and fuck everybody else, was sufficient to me to warrant a change of address. All the concerned citizens, in an era of portability, leave the toxic waste zones the narcissists create, extracting everything they can from situations designed to serve others, leaving nothing but a hungry rat pack, chewing one other’s tails. They too then migrate, to the migratory routes the selfless populate, to bed the innocents into their subterfuge, and bleed the wary of sight. Idiocies of public space, and planted greenery are for architects’ plans, a lying fodder to secure the job they’ll cut the accouterments from, as they never walk or sit on benches, do they? It’s occupancy which drives them, into the suburbs, for the newest version of their idea of success, in a thousand more square feet, and another garage, as if too much, isn’t enough. The idea is not to serve the people, it is to extravagantly serve themselves, breaking every rule they can, as it’s a game to do so, to increase their share of the grossly incurred plan they’ve perpetrated upon the land. People, the happiness of the social offer they represent, is the least of their concern. They think, will this look good ... for me?! How will it raise my standing? How much graft will I get away with? And you think I’m overstating the case? Our government harbors these souls, as compatriots. They have been raised without quality, compassion, or taste. They are out for themselves, and are filled with short-sighted moral agendas, which crush the institution they’ve allowed themselves to get rich by. No wonder the knowledgeable flee, or give up completely. They know the American system itself, has degenerated into backstabbing The People it professed.

You people are basically evil spirits, I tell the delegation, inspecting the site to be razed. You’ve decided long ago the bulldozers will win, and sit here in conference to appease the rules’ thinking otherwise, as you’ve no platform or organization to stand on, but naked greed. They didn’t like the admission, for it caught them out of the blue. Three people applauded, and the armed guard dropped his tense hand to the gun, which I noticed was cocked. I raised my hand and spoke : Why is that thug here? You’ve paid him because you’re aggrandizing a series of lies into truths which won’t stick. The question you have is, when will it unravel? Will we be scott free by then, to befuddle the next well-meaning citizens of their precious space? The guard you’ve paid shows us you don’t trust us, and why? What have we done to you? It’s a mirror you see, of your own sacrilege to those you process into ground up, dehumanized waste.

The gurgle of heat lightning seared the purple clouded majesty we sang about, as bombs burst in civilian enclaves seeking the mythical terror cells, increasingly hard to discover, as each blast swears more in. Luckily, this is the logical fodder of inert recordings, which never reach us. I gaze at the developers, and see them in general stripes, surveying fields of recruits fresh for the graveyard. It makes them very important, to have such powers. Missiles roll down Red brick Squares, in demonic rallies of taken minds, freed from their personal insight, to follow themselves, instead of those who are empty, and need followers to survive. These people are shells, whose only consonance is extracting money, for themselves, from those who should know better.

The guard escorted me out, and not one person thought loudly enough, to speak about it. I suppose this insight bothered the part of me, which hadn’t bit the hand they tried ... to feed us with. Are you people that full of ... but what’s the point? They remove what doesn’t work with the plan they’ve decided is right. If they were higher up, they’ve thought at night, they’d have people like me killed, for halting the process which clearly, is right. They maximize their following, and profit, in a tight spiral upward into the political sphere, for this is a training ground for lying adroitly, and sheep’s clothing themselves in lily white frocks.

The happiness intrinsic to the mysteries we certify to crave for release.

2005-06-05T12:56:00.000-07:00

Nothing’s quite as it should be, or so it seems. Why are you so ... dissatisfied?! she grilled me. To be perfectly honest, you complain more than anyone I know. No shit?! Really? I’m embarrassed; [but that’s a sovereignty; if you don’t complain about the state of ‘reality’ and try to shift it, you may as well gospel accompany the goose-step with the problems themselves. Damn right I’m ungainly; battling denizens of ‘existence’ takes wit and courage not to mention a supernatural helping of humor. I exasperate myself on romances with imposing odds of enlightenment; trucks miss me by inches and I suppress my aghast ... try to learn for later from it. They were screaming at their occupant, one the phone for a reason, as I legally entered the intersection, and they blew the red. Never even hit the brakes; god damned bicyclist. It’s my fault, see? I should have seen it coming. There was no way to see, but I should have felt it, not just right before, but by a longshot, or a longer shot, late last week, or a month ago ... I missed every cue along the way, and you wonder why I’m hard on myself. I veered for no reason at the last second, and the car missed me. At least I’m still alive, if that’s a topic to jeer or rejoice, ignoring all the lessons which led to it. I ride life totally exposed to offer myself, like a sacrifice, to suffering. You are taking a fraction of the risks I am; so it seems like ... and your friends ... {happy family archetypes} face it, you don’t read the paper, because it makes you dreary, and depressed. If you’d seen people slashed with knives bleeding profusely, healing before your eyes, you’d think we’re inhabiting an unspeakable ignorance about our ability to be more than we’d imagine. You’d henceforth judge by meteor trail, not the miserable rabbit runs we follow to ... ] I had no idea I came across like that. Sorry for being a downer.

Earnestly, I wish I’d screamed yahoo! As the truck barely missed me; scraped another life from the lost and found lottery! But no, the ominous overwhelmed the joy quickly followed by anger. I thought it my civic duty to follow that truck and ... what? Make a big scene? Idiots SUV drivers on cell phones vs. fragile cyclists, the latter wins. Drag the dude or bitch from that environmentally-unfriendly capsule and ... funny I didn’t know the sex of the pilot, though I looked point-blank right at them. They, as ignorance on earth, burn me up. The me is only worried about itself; fortress onslaught against family and friends, let alone strangers ... ‘the enemy’: etc. There’s a catastrophe of depleted uranium ammunition in each mind, poisoning its own environment. Who cares rules the plant and animal world; I breathed healing and tried to relax past, the shock which embraced the beating heart of mystery’s system.

"Well, Bin Ladin said that one of his goals has been to bankrupt the USA... he surely seems to have managed ... to move us that direction, since we've re-allocated some half a trillion dollars, overall, to 9/11 related activities. Actually, what’s more alarming, is General Lebed's tale of the missing suitcase nukes (may he roast in peace) introduced another twist:—the KGB was purportedly planning to bring these ‘lost devices’ into Europe and the USA. If the US pisses ‘them’ off sufficiently, could be a Russian finger on the trigger; US then nukes Mecca etc, the oil fields go up in flames, and Russia and China suddenly have new spheres of influence round the world.."

And I’d heard that horrific rumor too ... that the them might be Osama, as third parties are needed in destruction’s coup, and the deepest tier of the perpetrators in any moral madness, must remain intact.

The mad conjunction of nows pushes us headlong to the edge, where the turbulent waters funnel down dark holes, and sheets of apparently placid expanse bend over hidden perpendiculars, spilling their liquidity in glassy fragments of tomorrow we’ll climb and blunder over. The midget transvestite is smoking a thin, elegant cigar, and leaning against a bike rack, watching the pudgy northern English legs walk by, bruised and welted by some unseemly object; he’s at eye level; and her years betray some innocent pats on the ass, mingled with over-mascaraed tear streaked eyes, as he inhales and holds the carcinogen in, feeling time wick thin, as the inner bell sounds, trembling him back to the battered door with no address. Bin Laudin wants to bankrupt a country which reprints its treasured buffalo nickel, it has to recall, because the animal we annihilated in ruthless slaughter for the sake of killing, is shown with a penis. What will the children think? The population is fully divorced from what fuels its hunger to eat. How more backstabbing can you be? Check the bloke next to you, and realize his own knife is in him, and yet, we persist in worry we’re next. By whose hand, the question to ask ... this blood on me? The quiet lunatic is raving to himself, recounting a lengthy prison stay, "... hope it wasn’t the third eye, know what I mean?" "If you’re up to it, and why not?" "When you’re up for twenty, any port in a storm feels just like home, I reckoned ... gettin’ the sea’s better’n fantasizin’ bout it. Any day; you ask me." I like that—any ole port in a storm. Nice metaphor; at which point, an ex girlfriend in a big trashed 4wd truck pulled in for gas, a tiny wiry number brimming with madness, her energy gyrated by genius, emptiness and self-destructive egotism, you just knew its splattered demonic mud job was her handiwork, and it bespoke hardened daring. She was Flowers, birds, LSD and solo ascents on word of mouth routes sane climbers abandoned. I watched the bruised tart recede, wondering how the classy midget saw her, then turned by and by, to my enigma of male and female. Though co-dependent, belligerent, destructive, and cray-zee, I have to admire her. She’s a work of art, prancing around in a state of passion, stirring the shit, and making the mundane interesting. A time bomb to date, but ... what the hell. She schools experts in explosives.

The lunatic, who was probably a determined Stanford researcher, stupefied by the intractability of any problem’s deeper levels, who dropped out and found a purpose selling exotic designer drugs, mumbled some nonsense, before getting quite agitated, and mentioning Hitler. I checked his face for ethnic cleansing, and detected speed rash, which had a slight coherence. There was a form of meth with Hitler’s moniker, in full pharmaceutical jargon and form. Detecting an audience, the tide of concert turns, and he tells me, the ‘Furor’ ordered he be cremated with the last twenty liters of gas in Berlin, afraid they’d [his dreaded enemies] would see his self-murdered corpse, and realize what happened all along. We both looked at the station, dispensing fuel to glutted Americans. The dull, base, political razors countries shag each other’s private parts with; ‘Can you imagine—

Twenty liters of fuel left ... in all of Berlin!?

We scour our reality, to conform to this thought. A capital city. A world power, which nearly extinguished free rule. Overfed humans squeezed environmental death into tanks, from tanks, to spend driving to stores. It would be termed petrol though, which is more poetic, the final twenty liters of Berlin fueling his funeral pyre, the fitting though melodramatic performance for the next act’s world, playwrights would mention. I’ll bet his attendants cheapened him, by pouring half that bounty on Eva, leaving the skull piece, with the hole in it, showing a late-breaking cower/dice. He appeased me with a loud guffaw. Did he really kill himself, the should-know-better speed-phreak asked. I rounded his corner; well, he did die in a struggle at the bunker, as the allies entered his city, and the refuted third Reich fell.

The drive for romantic love can be stronger than the will to live, researchers have discovered, as if they’d never read Romeo and Juliet, or the obituaries of jumpers, or jilted boyfriends, after they turned the guns of anger on themselves. The MRI brain scans of fervent early romantic activity suggest ... not unlike a drug craving, an all-encompassing hunger, or thirst ... which worsens if rejected ... you’d think these scientists never experienced raw soul-stripping emotion, to speak of it as regions and neurons. A native American with a fresh orange hospital bracelet was groveling around blocking the doorway people politely avoided; I draped him over the bench, his face barely dreaming, a nearly lifeless corpse of a human being, soul dimmed to a candle flicker. I’d seen him in alleys for decades, drinking increasingly-potent circuitry-smashing elixirs, but the end result was hearsay then. He’d never dreaded death by alcohol more, than the moment he forgot to fear it, winding him into this state.

The rampage of a rain-sodden existence hits---

2005-06-02T09:35:00.000-07:00

Seems like, "evil" is often aligned in self-focus. "Good"— he says, considers a collective. We’re planting ideas like trees; my friend who’s a quiet genius of complex machinery and interconnected systems suggests, the motifs of mythological dilemmas funnel through our societies, extruding us into archetypes which adapt to the subtle cues of humans missing their plant nitrogen, or potassium to break their earthly boundaries, and penetrate each of our higher lives. A mobile bank of missiles a ludicrously-placed parade of dicks waiting to shoot offensively, their white-helmeted attendants ramrod straight, attending the vertical as charges attend concise angles of attack. I love the way he expands when he smokes, blowing rings farther than anyone would hope to I have to parlay the right thing to do through the egotistical maniacs, or else nothing will get done, and I’ll be the one who suffers. It’s a tricky business to shape these lumps into useful conductors, who’ll badger and crow our insight to others. These stubborn idiots take the limelight, because they’re human, and pathologically destined to derive strength from controlling others. It doesn’t matter I’ve been doing this job almost flawlessly for thirty years ... they think they know better, knowing little to nothing at all. They won’t hesitate to tell me an idiocy I’ll need to refute, at which point, they tell me I’m a control freak who needs to be taken down. If I left, this whole place would collapse, and no actual research would get done. The new administrators and overly-specialized professors have a deadly ignorance of real world issues. They couldn’t weld a broken rib in a gale to save their lives. No doubt, when I leave, doom will descend; and the question isn’t why, but when. For that reason, I’m staying a few years longer, to infect them with common sense.

"It’s a male problem in this society, that men have no responsibly." Rudy looks at the feminist spouting turnstile truth anything but quietly. And I suppose by shouting in a public place, you’re being responsible? I’m being equal. The paradigm shouts to me every day. Your flippancy shouts to me. The art on the wall shouts loudly. It’s a shout from start to finish, so I’m simply being here, and adjusting the color accordingly. I shake my head. What’s with you? Nothing.

I’ve come to equate art with suffering. So? That’s nothing new. The way, as Taoism suggests, is always down that path; what did you expect? I tried not to. I always listen to the one percent chance, and rule out the inevitable breech of reality it suggests. Anyway, who cares? So it’s fun, so it’s suffering. The latter is a prudence from the lure of expectations it’s meant to be anything else. What’s the problem? You’re not making a living at it? Duh. That’s the litmus of suffering, and success in this society. Living, per-se, isn’t it ... the problem is ... I don’t want to do anything else. Every scheduled event angers me; I curse at the slightest crush upon my time to engage more deeply with it; seldom am I exhausted, and must physically sleep. Every minute I wick from the limited hours I have, to basely support myself, angers the passion welling in me; I toil to try to expand my time, to suffer at the helm of that, which makes my existence miserable, because it is slowly bankrupting me. That’s a mess. You’re telling me.

Don’t be so hard on yourself. That’s easy to say; you’ve conveniently forgotten you don’t come from the future, and the past. The meld of ideas from the extremes into a height of a magic few acknowledge opening, is a mainstream suicide move. My pathetic accomplishments are flawed by the fear and ignorance I accost, to ascribe to. The reality we laud, is the one of animals, but less than that, one unconnected to the earth and sky. Were we aware of the teachings we’re constantly grinding to ash [to hide] we would be horrified. We strode by a early middle age crack fiend with his teenaged runaway girlfriend, as he wiped himself next to a dumpster. It’s disquieting how easily we run from etiquette, and self-respect, to who cares?! Wadded napkins littered his homemade toilet, as if he’d missed, and she pretends its vulnerably, business as usual. I think, girl ... how did you get into this? His tats are runes; I wander tissue scarred vied and shouting the piano keys of an abused, vagrant life ... a moment before Rudy’s listened to Tom say, I think a few people recover from broken hearts, they never know they had. Like what? Hard to imagine it’s transparent, that smashing to bits. As kids, he goes on ... our parents shatter our selfless love, in so many ways, its hard to count. Sexual abuse, abandonment, judgment, forcing foreign beliefs on us ... those are the recognizable cues. The preponderance of them are much more difficult to define. Children are subtle instruments and unformed bricks; the partner of ignorance and innocent natures breed the formation of saints and devils alike. Parents are crude instruments of recollection, of the process we were broken to ride. It’s not surprising we’re mad, and pass the madness one by one, on. Few actually reconstruct themselves, from their childhoods.

I like people who earnestly hide their neurotic tendencies on their sleeves, hoping with shuttering fear they’ll be seen. They attract me as flies blunder to flowers, dizzy on the pedals of roiling and riotous colors. They alternately slap, and reward me for appreciating what they covertly shout, afraid I’ll prove my worth, by looking deeper than they can. This process devolves to hatred see-swinging the irrationally-ecstatic, in rapidly-increasing ellipses. If the eulogy of this union is love, I’d be surprised, yet I persist in exploring its fringes, until the gravity of drama sucks me in, shields down. The fiery explosion warms those nearby, frozen by childhood scars. Lightning broke the instant I wrote that. Somebody dropped a glass, which clattered metallically, yet remained whole. Thunder pealed the occupants, and then, the double rainbow. I jostled a man with a laptop, so he’d look. Every woman who walks in the door is aware of people watching, and self-consciously adjusts her clothing, to either hide ‘fat’, or show off curvaceousness. Funny to watch; the cosmic judge is arbitrary, misled by endless variables, she/he threw the referee role to each of us, long ago.

The sun scorches our inability to stand up straight, and doubles us over. The years pile upon themselves. Notables fill ledgers yellowed by notables beneath them. Muses list us in ordered ranks death trumps the cards of; one era’s hero becomes the next one’s enemy. The few things which move us determinedly through life are fragile at best; we use our resources to keep them alive, to assist us. They are life’s fingers grasping the divine edge of destiny’s door. [Aman and a women amen.] The door shut to the street noise, unleashing a maelstrom of sound I’d missed.

My housemate : the empty shell men suffice, and exoskeleton of hard edged protection for the squishy insides, which don't
know what they want, or which direction to round to find themselves the popcorn kernel bursting from the inside,
confined by circumstances apparently out of control, in the form of agonizing limits to the expansion the soul thirsts

from and for, knowing the passion which needs to be satiated. In either case, it's all you can think about; the search,
and the discovery, if it's truly your own, are the same state of binge despair ecstacy and depravity. The loving kindness
of how we're good eclipses the animal state, when the fortress of the ego/id suicidal
grate is raised.

The Certainty of Crayola Crayons

2005-06-01T11:34:00.000-07:00

I woke up with one shoe, and blue paint all over my hands—don’t ask me what happened. All I can say is, at least it wasn’t blood."
I joked with her about narrow escapes from saucers, and who knows what color vital fluids are in other regions of time and space.
"Don’t say that," she said. "You’re giving me the creeps. I had no recollection whatsoever of what went down, or with whom.

Blue paint ... I considered that. I love either explanation, diving from a gangplank amidst ball lightning as the Aurora Pulsejets are scrambled, or being locked in the trunk of a fetish artist, blasted on mickies, pain pills, wine and cocaine. While speaking to her, the radio spat interviews with sports fans, the latter five were couch surfers, one of which raced Indy cars with his father, and uttered this epithet: "I love the competitiveness of it... being able to crush your friends." And I drew my breath in. Just when the world seems as mad as it can be, you get an eleven year old perspective on things. And theater never seemed so shallow; one has to wonder vouchsafe about ancient Scottish Rite followers, fornicating to loud chants, coveting the orgasm state to fleece the mind of thought, to discover things.

It was a pretentious time of my life, where I touted adages, lies in the likes of: No matter how little there is in the fridge, a gourmet meal lies waiting there, as surely as Michelangelo’s David lay dormant in its original slab of marble. The trick exists in its parsimonious alchemical rendering, which dilettantes are blind to. Most chefs, and I use that term most loosely, are habituated to fresh ingredients, not macaroni and cheese in a box, where the latter’s a powder in orange. No amount of Zen will return two week old wine from ruin, unless you’re not long for this world, having mastered its finest lessons twice.

Associating pleasures with narcotics posed difficulties in quitting one, for its compliment seems intimately attached to it, suggesting both must be sacrificed . Because the feeling you receive from the pleasure is shaped by the intoxicant, the attachment to it is profound, as it threatens the sanctitude, or defining aspect, of the pleasure itself. If you’ve been using the drug recreationally for years, it has invaded your cause and effect to the point, it is part of a larger weave. Stopping it affects everything you most attach to. What we turn to is the noble glory a war veteran suffers when they recall momentous times, which stripped them of fundamental safeties and pleasures. They have been brought down to their naked souls, where survival instincts short-circuit. Here, you can release anything; the atomic bonds behind higher ideas collapse; all things are fleeting; moments become hours. I remember with surprise, learning the Latin of Passion is suffering—and there you have it. Misery is a product of the ground we rise from.

White pow(d)ers elicit black depressions. What did you expect, eternal enlightenment? You’re borrowing from something, to fuel another ... it’s a debt with interest, so choose your expenditures wisely. In its court, the bankruptcy clause is nullified. What you own and believe (same thing) is ground into raw material, and melted down into base ingots, for resale. You must begin again from zero. Being impatient people, this is impractical. Usually, as a stopgap, people turn to god, and grab the life ring of preordained dogma, the whole defends with its lives. I’m just warning you ... the I told you so won’t reach your brain stem, once the pat answers take hold.

a supremely overweight professorial type is alternating between The Epic of Unitarianism, and the Atlantic Monthly article on the US Armed Forces game plan to militarily subdue China, in the coming cold war, madly highlighting each in three neon colors accented by roller ball, clipped to his contractor-grade nylon web suspenders. Good god, the thinking usually goes ... has it come to this? I get the eery certainty, I’m living some Riemann1 hypothesis that’s slowly driving all the sane people mad, and frighteningly, vice-versa. Who on earth would covet the idea of a cold war with China? Are we so stupid, we’d elect another maniac as president? They bottle feed us the idea, before it’s reality, to make sure our subconscious is pacified with its repetition, that ill-lit foundation of sycophancy forges belief.

Longer harder better prettier love... the phone call.

2005-05-29T14:23:00.000-07:00

We were draining planters punch with ice
chipped from the permafrost freezer as the phone rang
he checked the caller ID his girlfriend asking if he
was going to be home needed a ride somewhere
you said you might take me
yea but ...
So he’s stuck, you see...
Because if he leaves to drive her
because she’s too afraid to drive herself
he’ll resent it, and she’ll resent it, knowing ‘
he’s left his life to serve her, severing the moments
which make him himself. However, it’s the romantic thing to do
and he’s not taking the bait of built in bullying or guilt,
so she resents him, because if he really loved her, he’d want to drop
whatever he’s doing, and safely ferry her somewhere she’s
too irrationally afraid to
take her self.
He’s in the unfortunate position
of letting her down no matter what he does
so he tells her that and lets her down, by not staying
silent about the messy aspects of relationships she’s rather
didn’t portray themselves to poignancy
in their love nest.
He hangs up the phone
Shit! No wonder I’m so fucked up!
I lump his back with my fist ... heckling the mess.
Ook/I’m with you. They pass it on to the kids; our mothers gave it to us,
and we’ll in turn ... [Welcome to the insidious circles fathers play to the
misogyny which bred the deeper disillusionments you’re fresh from.]
Yea. It’s a bummer man. Makes me want to go live in a cave.
She sets herself up for failure reading ads
in brazenly glossy magazines
and then blames me.
I don’t know. She’s blaming herself too
for not being ‘perfect’. You’re just taking the subsidiary heat
of her internal war. What girl doesn’t want to look like the models
be a super partner parent you name it
know a lot, and be an angel?
You’re the towel of her frustration
a perspiration mop
for a flawed world.
That’s just great
he exclaimed.
It makes me want to drink more.

He made me reflect on the process of being understood. When the primary desire to couple is met, the subculture of problems within, which may have spurred it, are gremlins looking for strings to pull. The buttons they push lack descriptive focus, and attach themselves to happiness or sorrow. I consider how fleeting contentment and quietude can be; we struggle for global templates of what is newly amiss, then shift allegiance to their banners. No longer is going together enough; now we need to be married. Next we’ll need kids. That car lacks power. I need a V-8. I need headers. I need ... the faster computer. The ski boat. The blond. The stoniest bud. All along, underneath, sprites and gremlins toss our insecurities around; the vertigo which ensures poses problems we’ll grasp to, to Soviet Union ourselves into comrades slogans can stick to, to pass on.

I have to decide if it’s worth it
to tell her things ... when I know the processing of them
will take entire days. Misery and wasted time result
from highlighting her insecurities.
I wallow in the excursions from the present
which seem to be a direct result of honesty.

I hear you.
She’s mad she’s dependent on you
and has to ask. She wants you to know
she needs a ride, and show your need to
take care of her, which makes her made of something
less than she is, which she’s highly dedicated to hiding
but likewise resents, and of all people, she doesn’t want you to think
she’s weak or incapable, yet, who else would she show her insecurity
and fragile times to ... in fact, she demands her space to do
just that. How can she be with a man who won’t
let her cry to the subtle tune
of no reason?
So,
she hates the fact she’s dependent
yet she loves it. If she transported herself
she would seek another edge to bleed on.
Without fights, free of tension;
[the gremlins emerge
to call her out
of her cave.]
Can’t have
that!

40 love-lost knights

2005-05-28T13:32:00.000-07:00

Your relationship with the fact

piranhas are cowardly and freakish alone, stressed to the point their skin changes color, highlights the fat of the businessperson, showing their narcissistic insecurity through power derived from others. Ceilings are floors; parades are funerary processions; pillars of community are thieves and criminals illuminating tokens, and owners of SUVs are flocking to illegal horns which deafen pedestrians. Who cares, with a noise-canceling interior? Ego drives the road we struggle to navigate, aware we’re technically nothing. I wish I believed the universe existed for us to conquer, mine, and destroy. It would be much easier to murder those who blundered into the rifle sight of that particular aim. I’d like to duct tape the offending owners’ heads against their high priced sirens luring the best part of themselves, from their higher purpose on earth. Gangs protect those who are lost, add nationalism in the face of world terror to the scene of Catholics burning witches alive, afeard of the power a single person could muster, if they strayed from the herd banding together for sanity. Excuse me for taking a saint’s name in vain, but Jesus Christ! When will the hollow men in power fall to the people’s shine for reason, and truth? We magnify deceit, by converting to it, in-between a few sad rallies for virtue. I tell myself not to be terrorized by my imminent failure in whatever I passionately undertake, but increasing our faith is hard,

without books to tell us how-to,

or what not to do.

He was

a latent honorary homosexual,

unfulfilled by the ususal fantasies most half-ways inhabit. His friends courted their internal dramas like prospectors scratching Nevada mountains for precious metals, setting up shop with (surgically altered) hermaphrodite dykes, and waiting for the meteor to hit, or the ground to rend, crawling charred and smoking to the next (human) disaster zone. We guarded the ‘perfect drunk’ as my borrowed brother called it, without formal apology whenever these wrecking balls came around, whining their little worlds to entire universes. A rampant, chomping cigar-fest of (utterly) bohemian types ferried us on an Arabian carpet of incense smoke to

Running from

the earthly marathon lends itself

to stumbling across its course, and completing it unwinningly. The greater undermine becomes the surface sinkhole in time, filling with rain and stagnating. Finer examples of change are unseen or heard, for being so subtly present observing the holes, from the ravage of gravity,

or the explosives they sought

to contain.

About This Posting ... Please read.

2005-05-28T12:57:00.000-07:00

To the curious...

Feel Free to use these bits of nervous novels to be ... they are completely off the curriculum, non sequential, unedited, unreadthrough, spur of the typewriter and potently poorly stepped with mainstream society. They exist as small bites of barely expressed reality, and are completely based in true events, personal experiences, people, times, joys and catastrophes. Eventually, I read and rewire what you see here into avante garde whatevers to depo them at the site : www.daresay.com which is brimming with abstruse and nearly incomprehensible works, but Finnigans Wake and all, what the hell. Draw from there too.

You may reassemble what you discover in any way you wish, make a novel yourself, a chapbook, a slam, add illustrations, etc. but credit me as the distance and send your precognition to brock@wily.org so I can enjoy your take on infinity.

After all, co-conspiracy is more fun.

Enjoy!