In the room the women come and go…

talking of Michelangelo…

It is 11:40 a.m. on Sunday, nothing discernible has changed, Take it in. Bless that.

You may miss it all together, but there is some stretchiness to the cosmos, and believe half of what you see and none of what you hear or is it the other way around. Always get more than one source for your information. Unless that source is something trying too hard to be ‘something’ since the truth is such a rare commodity, it can be hard to recognize from time to time.

12:05 p.m. T.S. Eliot that unravels like pulling blossoms from a string. I begin.
But I do have something important to tell you.
circumvented by this serious discussion, the dark mistress of an ethereal soul, more dissolute prof·li·gate of syb·a·rite bon viveur, more resolved in my dissolution than any recompense therein.

And what could this absolve? You, specifically, from any belief that has not come between us, already, in passing misunderstanding, a specialty around these parts where Twin Peaks destinations tend to ruminate too long in my world.

The women come and go
prattling about Michelangelo

Oh please do not say
what is it
Let us go an make our visit

like a patient etherized upon the table…

I slip off into a mindless slumber where the senses are shattered so the inverse proportion can be gathered by slicing and dicing thru skin, blood and bone to save some aspect of your anatomy they believe something about that makes them want to patch it up, enhance it or downright remove it…if that were they case, I would have them remove any memory of pain from sciatica as I am now holding my neck in such a manner as to cause ultimate pain so I must stop with the inspiration and re-feng-shui the roadhouse blues, deal with the very real anxiety from being contacted by people who want to yell at me for some reason and want me to do all this stuff for them and I can’t possibly do everything they ask not to mention what I need to be doing not to even consider the fact that there are things that have been gutted from my life for this very reason, and the crux of the situation is that I never learned how to set boundaries so what starts with T.S. Eliot ends here, with my
stream of consciousness
on the subject of

Let us go then
you and I
where the evening
is
set out
against the sky

and then I bash myself for not being a better poetry memorizer, I only know snippets like
“And naked,
climbed the weather”

But it’s my own words that
fill my head
as in
rona you called and i answered
full belly moon
and more to the point
those were narnia-blossom-love odes
I could never achieve
again

now having been
siddhartha-sized upon the table
I am
striving for
emotional honesty
some sort of contribution of
innate attributes that are valuable

level of zombie apocalypse preparation
producer skill set (always useful,
like a leatherman),
willingness
saturation level very high
blood type unknown
could easily die
if you
inject me
with IVP dye

but there’s no reason to
do that
unless
you need
a barium swallow
which sounds
like a
dangerous
type of
bird
not the regular
suburban swallow
but the barium
kind.
Not as bad as the Boku Harem of birds, the sparrow
massacring blue birds maniacally
and just for fun
then making their nest on
the dead bluebird eggs
which they eat
Nature is cruel
not pretty
in fact
dolphins are known to violently
violate porpoises
(that’s just strange)
and
everyone knows
that chimpanzees
can rip
off body parts
like nobody’s
business.

This is a re-write at the end of a day and I merged the two and I’m hoping no one’s listening, except my publisher-to-be and agent-nanny.

Namaste, let’s call this the ONGOING ICARUS of February’s Life Story.

I’m trying to get a few different stories going now so they evolve into books or scripts or vials of story you snort before going out to the Blade Runner Star Wars (i can see it in my head but it’s not been made yet actually) -well-lit stairwell leading to 5th Element type environment–but at night. IT’s not dangerous. Yet.

So by the time it’s ten years on, I can teach story telling thru multi-media platforms/interface/just not in da butt stuff filmic reality, community college Boulder or Bozeman or anywhere mellow where I can have a cabin, a dog or two and definitely 2-4 horses and live out my days not too shabby, working on these fucking books which I sell at the internet fair (we have spaceships, 4WD trucks and sports cars for different modes of travel in this future world of Keanu K. Dick) and contribute to that non-profit work I know how to do. So full circle fuckstick I will be. That’s the goal which means at some point I have to get over my email anxiety.

I could survive a little while on all the excess chub I have gained despite being fairly active (not just laying around watching entire seasons of tv shows) from chowing down on retirement fatso fare (they are killing those old folks with Quaker midwest cuisine which means “is it really food at all? we can’t be sure, love, snide new yorkers and pass agg southerners)…but I know it’s related to anxiety and not being left alone–because I could never afford the real estate and the gate.

And on to what might have been is over because it never was and there are things that could be better than what just happened to make me so sad in the first place. That is not something anyone is likely to get to and if I may ask, if you read this whole post, could you comment with the words: THANK GOD THAT IS OVER> so I know you read the whole thing!!!

Much love to all my readership.

I cannot thank you enough.

Like Bukowski, Poe or Baudelaire

So out of my mind that I can’t think straight.

And so it goes.

Someone said that all the time every night. Do you think he ever got tired of his tagline? Do you think it caused that extra-maddening hard-hitting slam of the glass on the mahogany bar wedged into the corner of John Cassavetes mind meld. I can actually see it in my mind.

Why do things end up this way? What am I doing and have I done, so wrong?

And here it goes, again.

Unanswerable questions. And everything I do is wrong.
I am a Johnny Cash song.
My life is nothing more than tragedy
At the hands of fallacy
And here I go
Nowhere
Fast again.
100 more words to go to get thru this and who will even care when all is said and done? I wish I had is overwrought and, like Bukowski, Poe or Baudelaire, all I want to do is get drunk.

Double-edged swords

In any creative discipline, commercial success is a double-edged sword: On the one hand, it activates “the winner effect,” the well-documented psychological phenomenon wherein success breeds more success, or, as Michael Lewis put it, “commercial success makes [things easier], and it also creates pressure to be more of a commercial success”; on the other hand, it tips the scales of productivity and presence in an unfavorable direction, catalyzing the compulsion to produce yet more work in order to maintain the already-attained success and gain more, in the process withering the capacity to actually enjoy it.
http://bit.ly/WWKD_71

The circle goes unbroken

And so, the
sighs go
By and bye.

And so,

it goes, stop.

The idea. Stop.

Is. Pauses.

Nothing
Is
Worth
Telling.
Stop.

Words
Mean
Emptying

Never stops

Mirrors
Relate
Horrors

Stop being so
[insert here]

The past is a floodgate
Of pain
Fomented by
Barriers
To
Any
Hope
Of
Healing

For
me

Pergamum

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.

Dispatches from nowhere: how are you supposed to do that?

And how are you supposed to do that? I wonder.

 

“pay attention to your emotional reactions without necessarily acting on your feeling”

Went to bed depressed, woke up lost in sea of anger, resentment and complete existential angst.

And one of us will die first.

 

These confessionals yield nothing substantial, and yet, sometimes, just knowing that you read them is all I need to breathe a bit more.

 

Does that make sense?

Is it a voice completely alone on the mountaintop that I hear and cannot get out of my head?

 

Am I alone?

 

I don’t ever really know.

 

It would be much easier, if so.

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.