Thursday dusk arrived slow

Don’t waste your time coz I already did!

Quick reviews of the gaps in our apps, human technology.

8 1/2

I disagree
with this headline, you’ll see.

Letter never sent, part 4

bTake what you need and leave the rest. 7:41 pm cool air finally as we wait on Chicago style pizza with onions so you choke!

Review of Door Dash (terrible name)

I don’t like that they ripped off their drivers (now I tip cash) and they got giant start up finance from Saudi Arabia, who should have been chastised for journalist death so that is bad. But. Their service is getting better, I hear the drivers are getting paid and they paired up with square cash which I love. The dash pass isn’t really worth it and I’ve had my food jacked on more than one occasion – literally given to anyone who says yes when driver said are you (name). Yeah, I’m Wanda… So I think they rank 3 after grub hub (better vitals less snafus) and Uber eats which is fast cheap and predictable. So door dash if you order frequently and can take advantage of their promos gets 4 out 5.

The Lies

We try to think of when they begun

Murray speaks. It’s

That time

The Lies We’ve been told

And other sob stories

Reid Freeman’s Birthday (Mon 15 12:00 AM – 11:59 PM)

Someone my father out the Kaibash on

Nowhere hear as

Intense as


What does to me

HEroic Poetry 

Acetaminophen screaming for attention

Off the shelf
   She was
straight out of biologically 


with self-styrofoaming



Eva, The blow up woman 

      by There’s Something about Earnest 
She was always a delight 

My good man,

Said Arthur of 

delta (phi) dawn 

    the blow up 


who inadvertently got passed around 

like nobody’s business  

From the shores of kitschy koombaya 

to the morning after pill from Ralph’s 

          EVA bore. The emblem.

(lettered monogram to look like E-R-A )

“equal rights ass!” emblazoned across

the  made in China Badonkedonk 

 of a  plastic fantastic 

 mustang Sally 

In with the in-Crowd

   From Sigma Wink and a Nod

   to the Delta Phi Episolon Explosion


A regular 


at  St. Nate’s  palettes

    Covering for chaotic order 

    of secret societies 

    From the raging hormone set             

              Disturbed initiations leave indelible marks

                        No traces 


get a load of that broad 

She heard 

  • Don’t drink 
  • don’t smoke 
  • what do you do 

She’d been the goody-two-shoes, role played her brain transmogrified, pretended to be anyone she was NOT, behind darkness, just to survive, 

Everyone must accept one or face prison time. She had a “choice,” and after that anthrax shelter stint, she decided the Rutger Hauer lookalike would be best for her “needs” as an aging, not quite ailing, sometimes failing but rarely falling, just hurtling headlong trying to escape this dimension of nonsensical pain, needless suffering – as if there is an acceptable form, the need full suffering – oh fuck off maker, the great ether, send me your meteors!

I am but a woman 

entreating the sky 

to break open 

some mercy 

once in a while 

Abraham was a hologram. The woman’s perfect companion. 

We live in such Cyborg times what will become of love 

asked no one after awhile 

Once the last stranger had left 

the last  dreamer, dead.

But still

Beneath the skin

Resistance lives 

Beyond the caves of men 

The Bermuda triangle 

where Venus of Willendorf 

was found swirling 

in multidimensional flux 

I am the alpha 

Athe the omega 

I walk through 

The ballet 

Not dance but walk

So I can swim 



The last days of January

I came back to cottage # 43 to take a nap but instead polished off the Glenfiddich 17 (or possibly 12, I can’t recall because the bottle has already been taken to the recycling bin) and went through the box of cards I found in my father’s closet. You see, he is an amazing artist, despite having become a medical doctor because his own parents thought his dreams of becoming a wildlife manager were not going to provide him with enough God-almighty dollars, and so he has over 6,000 (at least) photographs loaded on his iMac which I have been wrestling with the past week to get his iPad set up so he can look at butterflies.

He perks up when he hears a birdsong and we tried to play the identify this song game but of course apple wanted someone’s credit card number for the free app, so I gave them mine which is always dubious as I can’t seem to live off the edge for more than a year or two at most (having decided to do exactly what my grandparents warned against–pursuing my first love, well actually more like third, and choosing a ‘career’ in film and television. (The first two are poetry and photography, with a hint of horses, the ocean and little creatures in there as sub-categories).

Back to the day at hand. My father keeps his room at 90 degrees or more. I am now wearing a t-shirt in Ohio after 8 inches of snow fell. This from a girl who does well in hot, humid climates, but loves snow because I never get to see it living in Los Angeles and now I guess I love snow because I guess you could call these pre-hot flashes for my pre-menopausal state, which I have self-diagnosed being too poor for even Obamacare.

My grammar and syntax are not up to par, and for that I apologize to all my English teachers and professors, but not to Bukowski, Henry Miller or T.S. Eliot, my favorite writers. This is all their fault.

That’s the worst-written preamble to a confession I’ve written in a while.


I sit down to go through my dad’s cards that he has made (photographs of birds, butterflies and petroglyphs) because I want to send thank you cards to all my friends who have rallied to send me here to see him for what could or could not be our last time seeing each other in the physical realm. I love my dad for many reasons — not the least of which being he is actually my adopted father, and for some reason, we have always just ‘got’ one another from the watermelon seed spitting contests, to playing poker for M&Ms to today when he flipped off the nurse (who I ‘luckily’ met later and agreed) with a gesture I can replicate but not explain and we laughed the way that Walkers laugh. She is a bitch, this nurse. I have let her know with my body language and explanation of how I clean his urinals because they stink of piss.

I apologize in advance, retroactively and from afar, so bear with me, there’s a story here in this roasted chestnut and for those of you who say you don’t understand me, well yes, you could hire me an editor or just leave me the fuck alone.

I sit down on the ‘love seat’ in his cottage and start going through the box of cards (one thing that did not have blood on it from his ‘recent’ ambien-induced sleep-walking fete that took him into his closet and left him bloody–thanks Cleveland Clinic best heart doctors in the world jerk-offs for not caring about your patients, even the ones who were residents and interns at your esteemed medical establishment, and me, I was born there–go figure) — and I start looking at the cards and choosing which one goes to Ashley, and Val, and Virginia, and the lovely high school friends who have so kindly helped me in a time of need that I don’t like one bit — and I started to cry as I have been doing lately, and I am not a crier. I hate crying. I am the person you can cry to. I am the strong one. I am the one who has nothing to lose while you have everything, and I can always make you feel better (emotionally that is, let’s not go to that other place right now)…

Because — well I don’t know why, to tell you the truth. I am crying right now.

It’s like when I would drive down Kahuna Road on Kaua’i at a certain stage of my life and when I would hear “Rocky Raccoon” on my White Album maxell tape, I would start crying. ROCKY RACCOON? Yes, it used to make me cry when I would hit this one turn in the road where I could see the Pacific ocean just perfectly as I passed Kapaa High School.

My Dad’s current girlfriend (he left my mom after 38 years of marriage, our family pretty much imploded and with it any hope of me believing in marriage–I have remained UNMARRIED despite having common law status relationships with 2 men in my 49 years, who I ultimately don’t trust) told me that my father said to her — he wouldn’t do a thing differently in his life.

We’re like that–I never regret. I don’t believe in it.

Thank you for putting up with this stream of consciousness…

Now, I must wipe away those aggravating tears and prepare to meet the grandkids of a dear friend of my Dad’s who want to go into FILM as a profession. And you know what? I don’t discourage kids from that–I just try to save them some pain.


A Greek city now in Turkey where preparing sheepskins as parchment was developed as a technique for making paper, which is now in essence wordpress, a virtual sheepskin, which evokes other things I realize and I don’t have a comment on that right now because I am trying to complete a disciplined assignment, to see if I can use Pergamum in a sentence but I am already done with that thought, that’s how fickle my brain has become lost in the virtual wilderness of thinking of what might have been.

This is what we do to ourselves

In the end, as human beings, this is what we do. It’s madness, folly and ultimately, in undeniably sensible circles, potentially meaningless. Does the meaningless drive us mad? If one of us is crazy, aren’t we all? The fact that it is in us to completely disavow ourselves from any identifiable features (human speech, our brain being centered on other members of our species, the ability to communicate, more or less. effectively [*grunts, dog gets beer is perfectly acceptable in this case] and the connection with another human being.

That seems to be all we can hope to live for. If we are part of a vast insanity where nothing matters, and we’re all just talking to some ticker tape version of our past (click, click, click every mistake accounted for) colliding with our survival instincts of the present [how I talk to the 7-11 guy] and our mental cuing of objects and items and sounds and mirages of memories all crumpled up on our link to ourselves in a cacophony of space. This is how I feel about our ability to land on a comet and the fact that we actually did so this week.

Until next time.

Getting nervous, could be mistaken for Buddha

These extreme feelings might be quite upsetting to your rational thinking; it’s important to gain enough perspective on the current dynamics so you don’t go too far over the edge today. Staying centered is the best way you can respond to the oncoming changes.”

That was the part of my horoscope that I care to share with you today, Monday, November 10th, and no, I can’t sleep because all I have been doing lately is sleeping plenty and taking naps when I want and I can’t avoid or live in denial forever and at some point, what gives? Does the universe necessarily provide? Why do people tell you that you should think that because if you don’t then bad things will happen like all the kids finding out about Santa Claus at the same time because of bring your Parents’ Loser Friend to School because Your Parent Was Working Day.

It is clearly a cacophony around us at all times and it gets nearly impossible (or perhaps I should relinquish now, who knows what the powers that be have in store for me, really, as even the best laid plans are paved with good intentions, et cetera and so forth and I purposely misquoted that in case you were wondering and thinking to yourself that I am stupid and inane and poorly educated and that I don’t choose to ignore rules of grammar and punctuation because I actually know what they are and am conveying the drone like army of words going through one of our brains at any given moment on any given day).

The bottom line, however, is that I need work and everything has either evaporated or been the usual, typical, so over-it-bullshit and what do you do in this case when you’re not insane enough to be Van Gogh but you are as talented a dish washer, if that makes any allegorical sense to the four of you who blessedly pretend to understand me.

I hate this feeling, scroll back in time and you’ll find plenty of tales of woe, desperation, why did this happen re-tracing the steps–and none of it makes any sense. It’s not like you can flip a switch and BAM, all those troubling effects that come together as atypical maelstroms whenever you could really use a break, all those bad decisions that people hold you accountable for when they want to kick you when you’re down (but if you somehow eek by and survive, becoming a famously hedonistic rockstar, well, then they salute you–the outcome is all that matters in the end, and that is as ridiculous as they come, Thomas Pynchon comes to mind for no particular reason, and I am free associating to see how long I can keep this thought going in any structured manner and I think I have to wrap it up with a caveat, those always work, right?

The caveat is: I really don’t know exactly what to do and I want to know what to do and just do it. I am sick of trying to figure it out. I really don’t know how in a creative realm you can build on absolutely nothing, how can that be? But then again, the piece of machinery you have worked at a factory for 25 years, let’s say you’re lucky enough to be of the generation that endures the transition from factory worker to automated bot and your skill is poof, just not necessary anymore.

Or, perhaps, you’re lost in a sea of mediocrity and that’s all people actually want. They don’t want too much of anything challenging. And you’re too confusingly smart. That’s a bad thing. I wish someone had told me that was a bad thing. I wish someone had tipped me off that this was a stupid idea. That I really should have just become a high school teacher. But then I couldn’t have developed such a highly-evolved cannabis connoisseurism. Yeah, I know that’s technically not a word, but if I said it, you’d probably laugh, unless you were a complete dolt, which I am sure NONE of YOU are, but the other millions of people who don’t know who I am, probably qualify as some level of numb, vacant, oblivion of entity, where am I and what am I doing here? There is absolutely no one to talk to.

There was a time, I am told, when writers went to Paris and stayed on the property of Gertrude Stein who was an enigma, perhaps just to me, she seemed very stern, and I was more interested in Hemingway and then Baudelaire so I moved on rather quickly – she seemed bitter sometimes to me, out of reach at others. Emily Dickinson, Jane Eyre, some lonely girl on the top floor am I, but now, looking to jump.

It’s so silly to be sitting here when I could be better put to use. I have done the right things. I have certainly done the wrong things and there are plenty of people lined up to tell you what they think those things are, but many of them live by different standards anyhow so their opinion is based on values to which I do not adhere. If my humanity is expected to be removed from the situation, I will fail the test of wills and I will stand for what very little I do have that I can say has been consistent. I don’t want to use the word that defines this sentient decision-making strategy because it sounds so fucking pretentious. I am a messed up fool. I try to operate with integrity. I am constantly mindful of it. I attempt to be mindful of my humanity all my conscious waking hours. I fail at this miserably. However, I treat people with respect. Not that that would outweigh a damn thing, but the fact that it accounts for nothing is a bit of a downer.

So be it. Sharkfest among shark tank on shark week for shark lovers. I wish I had the resources to get out, whatever that means. When people say ‘out,’ unless they are in a mental institution or prison, then they are really just full of shit. A pre-born baby would also qualify if anyone ever asked them, what were you thinking? LET ME OUT. Or do we believe, like Wordsworth, that it’s more like, NO, NO, NO! I DON’T WANT TO GO OUT THERE!

I guess it depends on whose belly you’re in. If she’s a crack whore who has run out of crack, your odds are better on the outside, I would say, just making an educated guess. If, on the other hand, as soon as you are born, you get to starve in Africa, well, then perhaps, sleeping and then drifting off, bypassing the pain and suffering on earth, would be the OUT that those little souls may seek.

Whatever softness falls, so be it. I have given up my dreams, long ago, and that saddens me to no end, and yet, I press on, and I know why and I am not sure it’s enough, but the fact that there’s no alternative, if you believe in the potentiality even one bit, if there is any inkling of that bastard hope still left in the shredded beefsteak of your heart, if you can even stomach the thought of being human, well, then you go to sleep, watch your worries pile up and your happy times come fewer and farther in between.

We are on a downslide. They say. Things are changing. We have to start somewhere. Ever notice how there are a ridiculous number of takes on the post-we-are-fucked scenarios from zombies to droughts to juvenile delinquents who are way too good looking to be believable & who apparently must put their fingers on a pulse and say “he/she’s dead” at least 2x per episode, to viral pandemics and bot-run infrastructures where man is incidental, doomed, pretty much not worth saving.

Or so said Arch Angel Gabriel sitting at the bar, throwing down one last cold one before Michael came in, he knew he would be there right at 3 o’clock like he always was, before shift change. They were tired of saving us. Tired of reporting back to the Maker that Mankind was proving to be a worthy experiment. Not a waste of time and effort. Throwing good carbon after bad. Bad seed from the start.

CASE IN POINT: Who comes us with the notion of mutually assured destruction, I ask you? When I learned of that sometime in my middle to high school years (I read a lot because I did not have a boyfriend and lived in the country; most of my friends had boyfriends and did not study on Friday nights) about the policy that came about with Department of Defense wizardry – I forget the name – and I am surprised, but that is how much I have been forced to capitulate any fire I once had, any thought that I could withstand with my ferocious stamina the ubiquity of insolence, the measure of meaningless that comes with the turf.

The surf and turf. I cannot resist saying stupid shit like that. I have missed so many callings it just makes me sigh. A journalist being shot at or even better a photographer, why didn’t I ever pursue that? Because I thought of it as a hobby. I was never professional enough in my own mind or I didn’t think it was a career? Who knows? I stupidly discovered moving pictures and that’s when the photographic memory came back into play after the more pragmatic side I wish I had listened to now, but if I had, I’d be dead inside, so who knows what the right answer is, after all, until we actually die, IF THEN, because how are you supposed to convey whatever that realization might be in the time that you have to communicate in a human convention — language or some other form of show and tell. Because the time-space continuum is really what’s at play. [Can we trust the people who died and came back? Maybe that’s a whole ‘nother stage entirely and the other category is die, bam, realization of oneness with the universe that you cannot ever articulate to those you loved. Hopefully you can’t see them, like in Ghost because that would be heart-breaking on top of all this shit.]

I need a job, I have needed a job since my last one abruptly, inexplicably and capriciously just evaporated. There are no guarantees. I held out longer than I thought. 6 months so far. I was hoping for 2. I was still insane after 2. Around 3, hitting stride, feeling groove, last lap, right at the moment when damage was purged and focus was being re-built, derailment happened. Now we hope that some good can come of that to limp along for a little while longer, but the idea is really that the talent and resources be used up and appreciated and not left to squander and die because of pettiness, incompetence and ego that run rampant like a scourge, that if, I am not careful, can swallow me whole, once again.

I don’t want that. I want a job. It should not be this ridiculously stupid to hone in on the right one. The whole internet job search thing is probably the worst thing that has happened to some ‘industries’ — as there is an illusion of opportunity out there but 1) are there people on the other end? You NEVER hear back. NEVER. 2) are there even jobs? Do these big corps get tax breaks for creating jobs but that only goes so far as advertising some Producer Job at NBC-UNIVERSE-REVOLVES-AROUND-YOUR-yeah, yeah, yea… which APPARENTLY NO ONE is qualified for because I never hear of anyone ever doing that job and of course, never even got an automated response: we got your email, jackass. Why did you even apply?

Ridley Scott I wish would hire me to run his unscripted division and then I also would hope to be allowed to write. Or I sit at an avid scrolling thru crap footage making a story for you and the network loves it and people watch it and it’s amazing that way.

Prayers next.

Thanks anyone who reads this. I am sincerely in need of work, as my savings is down to naught.