I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.
My fingers are Santa's little helpers.
My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.
I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.
Sisyphus, sweating uphill.
Bukowski,
scribbling away
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
I'm a hungry Wampa without a Tantaun Chewbacca without a Bowcaster Greedo with good aim Salacious Crumb without the cackle A Sarlaac without a pitt Boba without the jet pack Echo Station without a shield generator A Snow Speeder without a tow cable I am Dantooine without the millions of voices suddenly crying out in terror that were suddenly silenced I am a Land Speeder without the vaseline smeared glob beneath my wheels R2-D2 incessantly chirping I do not know how big I've grown eating food of this kind I am the crying Rancor Keeper I am Yak and Prune Face I am SySnootles without The Max Rebo Band I am a Gundark without ears I am Darth Vader without asthma and an Emperor without finger-tipped lightning bolts Jabba without delectable frogs and Bib Fortuna without the head tentacles Watto without wings John without the Williams Leia sans slave outfit I am Dagobah without its swamps Bantha without the poodoo and I'm a dud of a Thermal Detonator I have convinced my new master to take of my restraining bolt I am Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen without Tupperware glasses I can't make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs I am the ninth moon of Endor I am Jimmy Smits as Bail Organa I am Kit Fisto, Plo Kloon and that other Jedi guy dying like bitches I am the fat, dancing Twilek in Jabba's Palace I am the bone in your Rancor's teeth I am Jek Porkins dying in a shower of sparks I am Industrial Light and Reality Luke screaming, Yes! That's true! Yes, it is possible! A tank without Bacta An AT-AT without armor plating Ewoks without a village and Han Solo without a bounty over his head 4-LOM without Zuckuss I am a canceled Boonta Eve race and a quadrapelegic Wookie wanting to rip off your arms I am the Star Wars Holiday Christmas Special and a swarm of sucking Mynocks I have a bad feeling about this
and
I am not the droid you're looking for.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Thankthegodsfortheglimmerof hope atleastinthenextpairofeyes thatlookat me they'llsee you andmycataracts andispeakslower now withlessenergytheysay Thankthegodsfortheglimmerof hope atleastinthenextpairofeyes
is the homeless man that I met tonight as I was walking home he gave me a good book list was calm and pleasant to talk to I told him that I had tried to volunteer at one of our local churches I was curious what he needed and invited him to my house I have all of my old clothes that don't fit me anymore, canned goods and a lot of Hagan's old camping equipment, a sleeping bag, etc. I gave him money that he reluctantly accepted and tried to give him my Steinbeck he wasn't interested and showed me what he was reading All he needs is hot, washed blankets Now, I have that covered and I spent two hours in the cold on a bench with him just because I said hello Mark looks like Rasputin and Zack Galafinakis we talked man to man about words books family feelings regrets we are both strong men
I'm sorry to see how things have gone in my life lately but I never would've had this moment tonight if I hadn't already fucked up the one I had
good bad
but I remembered the old me from a long time ago and I think the one that you loved
in my beginning as with every human being, we're born early into the truest sense of the word NEED.
I was given the sustenance of existence until I was able to live without any further original need and so I boldly, naively believing and brightly blazing thrust myself forward into life, filled with an insatiable apatite for self reliance, with an almost curiously anti-dependant desire; to be whole without any outside force, to rely on nothing and no one else.
I searched and settled and pondered and cursed thin air and most often through the years I've found myself in life continuously fighting an almost insurmountable surreal desire- to be needed by another... I've finally come to know now unequivocally that I am NOT, never have been and never will be.
I am a man, but I am not a leader nor a follower or a Father.
through disenchantment and heartbreak, through disappointment and disillusionment, through false promises given by and taken from me through the whole of my self-sustained life it has ultimately led me back within myself- clarity has come for me through a disintigration of truth an obliteration of hope a caricature of self a malignancy of soul and a blasphemy of love most people know every fire needs fuel to continue, or it must succumb to an inevitable cool weightless ash and a dissipating smoke.
my dilemma has been that I feel no need to seed another human into being in need of original love to survive, to endure another plight of life in utter ultimate useless needlessness... so to those I've loved I can only say this: "I knew I wanted to be with you, but I never needed you, I thought you might have needed me, but you didn't and you don't.
I apologize for not knowing that better back then.
The absolute wondrous horror of what was a rare Orange County mall experience for myself is today, losing its luster - so I might as well try to jot down what I can remember -
In Southern California, there are people. A lot of them. All attached to some type of device that transmits IMPORTANT relayed messages to their brain. Sometimes these PEOPLE fill up their tiny seconds with their IMPORTANT blabby-crap and sometimes forget to do things like say, HELLO, THANK YOU, EXCUSE ME, YOU'RE WELCOME, YES, NO, JUNIOR-DON'T-RUN-OUT-INTO TRAFFIC, etc. They also forget to drive faster, slower, at all and usually with any consideration towards the other millions of other dumb-dumby, spinning people driving out on the streets also. Sometimes their cars mirror the slow, congealing drips of mollasses inside their driver's skulls. Sometimes I point at these people while they go about their very important coffee retrieval and goods-purchasing daily sprees. Sometimes I don't point because there are a lot of bigger dinosaurs in this Pangeaic park of mine and I plan on settling into a nice, bubbly tar pit someday. I don't want anybody to fuck with that. I have plans. Rawrrr.
This is getting too long...
I only went to the mall after dinner to make my girlfriend happy. Her mall is my comic book store, but without the fast food smell, pimply teenagers and fat, sweaty men. Actually, both the mall and comic book stores have these type of people, but at least the mall is more spread out.
At the mall:
Clothing and accessories, when I rarely want them - are very easy for me to find. Not because I'm easy to please, but because my actual size in clothing never, ever actually gets bought by real humans beings because nobody is my size. My sizes are everywhere and always knocked down from a high price to a very, very LOW price. I don't know why they make these sizes. Why make clothes that fit drug-addict or tall Ethiopian builds? Or Ethiopian drug-addict builds?
I get bored easily if I'm in a store that doesn't interest me. I can't sit down and be patient. I whine a lot and walk and walk around the perimeter of the usually-a-women's-clothing-store and pretend not to be a gay guy looking at clothes.
I went to an Apple Store for my first time and was completely horrified and amazed at existence of the whole poopy thing. Welcome to the future, Gramps.
The bathrooms looked better than some L.A. clubs than I've been in. Actually, DUH. Nicer than ANY L.A./Hollywood clubs. (this is the part where friends who don't read this snicker because how often do I go to Hollywood or LA LA?)
2b continued after i read this incredible hulk comic...
no matter what you think the day is going to be like no matter what your plans are no matter what lyrics you compose for yourself the night before
time passes no matter what you think or hear today is a symphony that sounds far away from yesterday
talktalktalk thinkthinkthink bebetterbebetterbebetter begoodbegoodbegood belikewater learn live breathe focus shooosh so pretty, so pretty as she strokes your head calm down, calm down don'ttalkdon'ttalk don'tthinkdon'tthink bebetterbebetterbebetter what'sgood?what'sgood? belikevapor rise to the top realize that falling down is natural dripdripdrip goes tears dripdripdrip thank you, says everything beneath you
Sweating in orchestra pits
upside down
thank you, says everything above you
no matter what you think the day is going to be like no matter what your plans are no matter what lyrics you compose for yourself the night before
I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.
Though I love Ms. Goodall and her caring heart and though I do love the fabulous Gombe chimps - my fingers aren't typing Shakepearean sonnets about fruit. I haven't written much lately. I used to a lot - and not just on this crap. An old roommate emailed me yesterday if I was interested in doing comic book writing and said that she was serious about it. Crap, whatever it is. Ummm...yes. Then you'll be seeing some furious bouts of the ol' clickity clack from my simian stubs.
My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.
I think in this last year that my hope has been more like a trickle from a broken water pump in Uganda than anything else and "creative environments?" I'm thinking that I need to find myself lot more of those. Really.
I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill.
This I still agree with.
Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses.
I am not Bukowski and don't want to be. I don't want what he had. Sorry, Hank.
A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy And the god of imagination.
I AM always peeing, that's true. I think I've been the whole Pantheon of the Greek Gods of Stagnancy in this last year. Imaginative, yes. Doing everything wrong and too late, yes.
Not really... I'm just tired And Full Of Poo...
Really. And I am always tired. And I have been completely full of shit.
No more poo for me. Really.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy And the god of imagination. Not really... I'm just tired And Full Of Poo...
Welcome to 2:15AM in the most anti-climactic town in the world - F********, California. Where cute girls in tracksuits don't give you the time of day. Where Guatemalan sisters get pissed off at you for not paying attention. Where balding middle aged men want to fight you because you got it all figured out. Where the drinks are moderately priced and strong - that is if you know the bartender Where collaborations of two blogging giants happen. Where getting tacos is an adventure you do not want to take. I really really really wanted to talk to the cute girl in red adidas tracksuit tonight. She remembered every nuance about me from 4 months ago.
She remembered what I did for a living. She remembered my name. She remembered the last time we talked. She remembered what I know about her. That kinda stuff just kills me. That kinda stuff makes me melt on the bar floor. That kinda stuff makes me tingle. That kinda stuff makes me love life. So, I did the only thing that comes naturally to me... I pretended not to remember her. She talked to a extra you would have seen on the boobtube. He was tall and wails a guitar that's not plastic.
...
I got it all figured out, Except cute girls in tracksuits.
***********************
There Are Always Cute Girls...
But not BEAUTIFUL girls beauty is you at your most private turning around to see if anybody else saw what you saw beauty is you sharing a moment and realizing that you have nobody to take a picture of you in that special place beauty is me crying last night talking to one of your friends on the phone and seeing a shooting star or maybe a passing satellite and not making a wish because it didn't matter if I did then because if wishes were always granted to the one's that wanted them than wishes are fishes and the world is Nuoc Cham.
Work is work but work is love. Play is useless and is not as special if I can't extend myself and continue to share joys with other people.
I am a very confused man. And I only say, "Man" because it seems weird to say, "Boy" because I guess that I'm not. But I am. A boy. The same, confused fucker that never loved anything less than what he'd been given or not or never tried to work with what he had. I'm so proud of myself, guys - I really am, but need to remind myself of strengths that I have growing up. I am full of crap and flowers. BUT I AM IN CHARGE OF IT ALL. My life. Your love. My mistakes. My heart. I've killed myself with confusion and with mistakes but wouldn't be me if I hadn't been strong or weak in the past?
Were you there with me in the 24 hour donut shops? Were you there, holding my hand on a cold bench next to me at the elementary schools. Where were you when it rained as i walked the streets? Where were you two years ago? Where were you to protect me? Where were you to squash the cockroaches? The physical, sexual and mental pain? You weren't there - I was. I'm here all of the time.
YOU WERE THE PERSON THAT I KNEW THAT I WANTED AND THOUGHT THAT I DESERVED.
AND YOU'RE HERE NOW.
I am a fucking, large pill hard to swallow. A beautiful boatload of hope and an eyeful of cataracts in your future, you think.
I am Penicillin and an operation that you're unwilling to take to clear the sickness cloudy doubt that obscures the vision and health of your heart.
There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.
Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 - 1900), "On Reading and Writing"
I am long-winded. Duh, kids. I've loved you all. This was a thing that Eugene and I thought of real quick-like and bored. I take his prose and turn it into a big, heady bummer. Badly-written but with an intensive purpose.
I am getting better and better - EVERYDAY.
But I still need your help. Why wouldn't I?
Be paper.
Be loving, laughing, be Eugene trying to solve a Rubik's Cube because we talked about how cool it would be to do so. He just dropped it and scratched his head and is now pulling books off of my bookshelf while sitting on my bed.
I need your help, folks. Sorry for putting you off. The heart has always been on and is so heavy, man. So HEAVY.
Thank you. All of you.
I'm not heartless. I don't want to pick fights. I just want to continue to love more and to love you better.
These words don't do anything justice...but they do help.
They really do, you beautiful friend.
You've always opened my eyes.
I love you. And I'll continue to do so. You. Me. All of us.
and at every stoplight and every sign and billboard that I pass every bug and blade of grass
I can't do time anymore everyday is like a prison sentence leading to a quick lethal injection before going to sleep
I want to wake up, friends
tonight is one minute til midnight and I have don't have the will to spend time with myself
shirts are drying and trying to be shrunk to fit my body for Ollie's funeral tomorrow I'd rather cry about myself than to cry for other people I'd rather miss myself than somebody else I'm waiting to polish my shoes I'll look pretty on the outside I think I'm looking a lot more now like I feel inside and I'd rather have it that way
no more polished turds to go along with my shoes
I have everything that I wished for before and I don't fucking like it
tomorrow? Oh god, fuck - really?
fuck fuck fuck tonight's a lonely night and I'm not going to go out because I hate it when I go out too. It's just a bit more distracting and having empty conversations with somebody else other than myself can feel good
I'm going to see my sister and my new nephew and also see my father next week Not prepared for that either. Last time I saw my father I was in a happier place then but I was sharing D's grief and It killed me because of what she was going through. i felt hopeless and spent days, months and years holding somebody shaking uncontrollably. My face would fill with tears and I'd either look up at the ceiling or the sky and wish to the gods that they would take all of her pain and give it to me.
Last time I saw Sindy and Brian was a good time, kind of. I was confused and the relationship was going to shit. D encouraged me - kind of told me to go and that maybe it would be good for me and that maybe I'd figure out what I wanted to do. I was excited to drive by myself to Vegas but the trip back was fucking horrible. I was broke, tired, even more confused and almost drove myself off of a cliff. I shudder inside when I hear Vegas from now on. Bad, bad last day and drive back.
Hopefully, I can convert some of the symbolism of a new, shining kid that I'll meet for the first time who shares the same name as the dead friend that I'll be saying goodbye to tomorrow into something cyclically positive for me to chew on when I get back to my crappy town. Hopefully. I think the love in my heart is part of the problem. My head kills me. My fucking thoughts and my stupid mistakes haunt me everyday. Nobody's around. I've been told that this is my fault. I'm not around. This is my fault.
wanted to and now that I'm here I'm not feeling it
Like Hannibal sending the elephants back home Like Hannibal telling crazy Murdock that he can bug B.A. incessantly Like Emilia Earhart and Charles Lindbergh to turn back Like telling moonlit Werewolves and hungry zombies to turn back Like rewinding immaculate conception Like Autobots ignoring deception Like John Holmes sleeping off an erection
For years I dreamed of having the sort of massive oak slab that would dominate a room . . . In 1981, I got the one I wanted and placed it in the middle of a spacious, skylighted study in the rear of the house. For six years, I sat behind that desk either drunk or wrecked out of my mind . . .
A year or two after I sobered up, I got rid of that monstrosity and put in a living room suite where it had been. . . . In the early nineties, before they moved on to their own lives, my kids sometimes came up in the evening to watch a baseball game or a movie and eat pizza. . . . I got another desk -- it's handmade, beautiful, and half the size of the T. rex desk. I put it at the far west end of the office, in a corner under the eave. . . . I'm sitting under it now, a fifty-three-year-old man with bad eyes, a gimp leg, and no hangover. I'm doing what I know how to do, and as well as I know how to do it. I came through all the stuff I told you about . . . and now I'm going to tell you as much as I can about the job. . . .
It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room. Life isn't a support-system for art. It's the other way around.
Remember above all things, Kid, that to write is not difficult, not painful, that it comes out of you with ease, that you can whip up a little tale in no time, that when you are sincere about it, that when you want to impress a truth, it is not difficult, not painful, but easy, graceful, full of smooth power, as if you were a writing machine with a store of literature that is boundless, enormous, endless, and rich.
Still, it's a bit comical to think of Kerouac going through such rah-rah exercises before getting down to the actual act of writing. At some points, it begins to sound like one of Al Franken's Stuart Smalley sketches from Saturday Night Live: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"
In the years after he dropped out of Columbia, Kerouac was a merchant seaman, a brakeman on the Southern Pacific Railroad, a live-at-home dad, a runaway dad, and, through it all, a writer. As he dashed madly around the United States, hitching, driving, hopping on boxcars and into beds, and leaping up again to keep the toot going, he developed the writing method that mirrored his frenetic pace of life. In his "Essentials of Spontaneous Prose" (1957), Kerouac called on writers to "begin not from preconceived idea of what to say about image but from jewel center of interest in subject of image at moment of writing, and write outwards swimming in sea of language to peripheral release and exhaustion. . . . " Such verbal freedom, with its inherent lack of structure, was a mixed blessing. By exploring his acute sense of the American vernacular, Kerouac, like Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams before him, loosened the collar of American prose. But by giving himself this latitude, he ensured that much of what came out of his typewriter and his pocket notebook was not real art. In the end, he would pay dearly for his attachment to this approach. From 1951 to 1956, Kerouac pounded out some 11 books of poetry and prose, all of which went unpublished.
But when his novel On the Road appeared at last in 1957, after years of haggling over changes with editor Malcolm Cowley, Kerouac became an overnight celebrity. Suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of the King of Beats. It is here that Jack Kerouac: Selected Letters 1957-1969 picks up. Kerouac was suddenly a one-man shopping stop for all things Beat. Travel articles, stories, jazz readings, plays -- you name it, and it was requisitioned from the eager author. Meanwhile, there was one party after the next, and Kerouac got progressively more inebriated at each event. A shy man, ordinarily generous and good-natured, Kerouac became combative when drunk, and he needed to be drunk in order to deal with his fame. Two years later, he wrote to his agent, Sterling Lord, almost asking for help: "I'm really now rapidly going to pot and on the verge of becoming a blob. . . . And what bothers me is the way I have to constantly drink to put up with nervous appointments . . . and vast nervous parties where everybody is staring at me and fulfilling their preconceptions of me as a drunken fool."
As fame used him, Kerouac tried frantically to use it, before the spell wore off. "I wanta get these masterpieces of mine published before everybody gets sick of me," he wrote to Lord during these heady years. And Lord responded valiantly, managing to place Kerouac's previously rejected manuscripts with domestic and foreign publishers everywhere. Kerouac published two books a year for several years, flooding the market with his work and raising the ire of critics who got the impression that he simply dashed off a book every few months. Some of their criticisms were indeed valid, but they were unnecessarily vicious. Kerouac's former mentor and champion, Kenneth Rexroth, began denouncing him in the New York Times Book Review, and Time magazine unleashed a persistent barrage of insults. One especially cruel critic wrote that "reading Mr. Kerouac's On the Road or The Subterraneans, I am reminded of nothing so much as an insistent and garrulous barroom drunk, drooling into your ear."
The more critics attacked him, the more unwilling Kerouac became to meet new people or see his old friends. He wrote to Gary Snyder of how disillusioned he had become: "I was in love with the world through blue purple curtains when I knew you and now I have to look at [the world] thru hard iron eyes." As his mother got older, Kerouac was forever cooking up schemes to bring all his family members together under one roof, and to keep away from the partying friends he had shared his life with. By the time of his death, he had cut himself off from all those former friends, becoming paranoid that he would be implicated in Allen Ginsberg's revolutionary politics. Instead, he stayed home and laid waste to himself with cases of liquor. "I only have one body and one soul and can't handle everything at the same time," he wrote in self-pity. Eventually, Kerouac got to the point where he couldn't handle anything at all, not even the thought of breaking the tape at the finish line. When held up to the bustling, bright, and wonderfully optimistic Kerouac of Atop an Underwood, these late letters tell a sad, cautionary tale.
Me likes to eat good stuffs. Likes the good stuffs wet and the good big, heavy hands on my top. Me pees and am hapy and likes the patpatthumpthump and realeez like the wets slopeez good stuffz, slippee good food. Yum. I like itz.
My head iz tired alotz and I like the warm thing from the sky and fun and play.
I like tha big man with the sleep eyez and the beteer smellingz womanz whoz tall and pretty eyes with the sparkle thing in herz eyes too and the smile like dreamz things when I kick my legs when sleeping.
I like themz so much makes hapy deep in my belleez.
Heaven iz combiningz nice food stuffz and themz peoplz that are good.
Puppy Iz happy most happy when always sleepy taller and shorter sparkle eye hapy making me hapy also mean more tummy and food tummy for me
I care more about the next election stolen from me children of mine that don't exist broken hearts and unspoken conversations
the October wind tonight curls up the corners of my mouth and I'm hopeful I know this because I know that I'm not standing on my head
I can hear you talking about me and please shut the fuck up I say the same to myself when I really dont know what I'm talking about which is often I've learned shutupshutupthinkmorespeakless
there's nothing wrong with staying in your room and being afraid to go out you know where it comes from you know what little moments in hours produce 1 or 2 moments of clarity that help you get to step 3 or 4
there's nothing wrong with throwing yourself outside your house/heart and not giving a fuck you know where it comes from but you know that Einstein's most famous formula had a lot of previous scribbled incarnations and that his crowning achievement equaled DESTRUCTION.
SO.
There's nothing wrong except what you'll make right.
Maybe I'm more like the reclusive J.D. Salinger, but without the talent and the one good book. Am I'm totally not comparing myself to HST. Well, I do have access to arrows. I can't wait for the day that I get arrested for shooting drunk kids in the park with my bow. And no, I don't have a quiver or go to Renaissance Faires (sp?), but I am as pretty as Legolas if not prettier, that sissy-boy.
I'm thinking that I've got to keep up the blogging-things because I'm developing some serious gaps in my chronological documentation for my future sperm-spawn. I mean, I sure as hell am not going to talk to them, so how will they know what I was doing back in the day when we talked on cell phones and had polar ice caps?
Not that they'd be able to gleam anything useful from Fat Free Milk because unless they were looking for bad poetry and fart jokes, then they'd be better off asking one of the many Tijuana whores that I've traded comic books with.
This is why I don't write as much anymore.
Because I am even more distracted than I used to be, more of a drunk, super-sexy, totally Greg Louganis, getting paid for writing on a regular basis for an awesome company and pecking away at things, but not consuming them wholly as I should.
My brain gets so synaptically overloaded, I think that it just goes into Cherynobel-status. Meaning - whatever.
What? Huh? I can't concentrate. Air conditioning and planes and the setting sun and to-do-lists and have to drive to pick up my car
Trying hard to concentrate and trying hard to dredge up a small glimmer of fiery ferocity in my fetid and failing mind to write on a reality TV-related proposal, synopsis thingy-ma-bob for a guy that used to run one of the companies that I worked for a while ago.
Hard enough to re-invent yourself and to try to use a mind that's not really focused on words but focused a little bit more on love, loneliness and the last year.
What's funny is that I used to tell myself how strong I was, how unique I was and used to define myself in catch phrases and terms and didn't realize what defines a person is action, consistency and letting both of these be the conduit for what your heart feels. This creates everything. This keeps the wheels turning. This conducts the symphony of the uphill and downhill heart, man.
I just can't concentrate, because of you - because of me.
You know, I've wanted to get rid of this for a long time. I barely write anymore. Blogging's...what? A little bit of exercise and a lot of self-indulgence - or at least that's what it seems like I've been doing for the last six years or so. I've lost focus and have limited amounts of energy. It's hard to be witty and clever and to invite new people to read your smatterings when you're trying to regain or cultivate some of your vanishing spirit. I think that I should use the internet strictly as a tool and not as a vessel that's supposed to define me as a person. I'm really tired, man. What little energy I have needs to be saved and not spent on self destruction or stupid writing that goes nowhere.
I don't know. I know that I need to continue to work on my soul and work less at wasting my time - which this seems to be.
The enlightened buddhist would say to cast off my attachments and personal possessions.
Isn't this one?
One less thing to think about or to be a slave to?
"I want to live a real life... I don't want to dream any longer." Now. Now. Now. Everything that you always imagined Everything that you've always dreamed Every night and daymare every mistake every beautiful moment everything you've ingested needs to come out, kid wake up wake up wake up no more dreams Now. Now. Now.
Now that I'm a complete whore and have to bartend for 30 hours a week, I can start writing my will. It's all over folks. Stick a city's-worth of drunks in me - I'm done.or now. It forces me to not go downtown and talk to drunken idiots because I'm bored of being at home. I barely have patience with myself.
I just decided that I AM going to go camping this weekend because I need to.
I'm writing in a backyard while everybody else is asleep. My, how things have changed. Oh, I forgot to mention writing absolute crap is all still my norm, right?
I don't have much to say because of how much I want to. Time is limited, crucial and tick-tocking at an alarming rate and I don't know how to handle it. I know that I shouldn't let the hard-caked and sun-baked soil affect how much I whip my beasts of burden when I have potential gardens growing. I know that I feel more like a Pollack painting than a Rockwell. I know that I feel more Communist Manifesto than Catcher And The Rye. I feel like a dark-knighted Batman, without the vigilance and with the obligatory dead parents, I feel like an invincible Tony Stark without the armor, I feel like Bruce Banner in a desolate desert without the anger and infused Gamma radiation...yes, wanting to be left alone, wanting to be an incredulous Hulk of focal strength.
True believers, what do you do?
Marvel at your universe and let Galactus-level, cosmic events make you feel infinitesimal?
Do you let the Gods govern your Earth-154?
I am an amalgamous Perry White and J. Jonah Jameson.
BEND, Oregon (AP) -- Using his trusty BB gun to help him return to Earth, a 48-year-old gas station owner flew a lawn chair rigged with helium-filled balloons more than 200 miles across the Oregon desert Saturday, landing in a field in Idaho.
Kent Couch created a sensation in this tiny farming community, where he touched down safely in a pasture after lifting off from Bend, Ore., and was soon greeted by dozens of people who gave him drinks of water, local plumber Mark Hetz said.
"My wife works at the City Market," Hetz said. "She called and said, 'The balloon guy in the lawn chair just flew by the market, and if you look out the door you can see him.
"We go outside to look, and lo and behold, there he is. He's flying by probably 100 to 200 feet off the ground.
"He takes his BB gun and shoots some balloons to lower himself to the ground. When he hit the ground he released all the little tiny balloons. People were racing down the road with cameras. They were all talking and laughing."
Couch covered about 235 miles (about 370 kilometers) in about nine hours after lifting off at dawn from his gas station riding in a green lawn chair rigged with an array of more than 150 giant party balloons.
Sandi Barton, 58, who has lived her whole life in this town of about 300, said she and her brother-in-law were the first ones to reach Couch and shook his hand.
"Not much happens in Cambridge," she said, adding that about half the town turned out.
"He came right over our pea field," she said. "He was coming down pretty fast."
She said Couch gave some of his balloons to local children.
It was not clear where Couch went after he landed.
It began after Couch, clutching a big mug of coffee, kissed his wife and kids goodbye, then patted their shivering Chihuahua, Isabella, on the head.
After spilling off some cherry-flavored Kool-Aid that served as ballast, Couch got a push from the ground crew so he could clear light poles and soared over a coffee cart and across U.S. Highway 20 into a bright blue sky.
"If I had the time and money and people, I'd do this every weekend," Couch said before getting into the chair. "Things just look different from up there. You've moving so slowly. The best thing is the peace, the serenity. VideoWatch Couch explain why balloon flying is "a beautiful thing" »
"Originally, I wanted to do it because of boyhood dreams. I don't know about girls, but I think most guys look up in the sky and wish they could ride on a cloud."
Couch's wife, Susan, called him crazy: "It's never been a dull moment since I married him."
This was Couch's third balloon flight. He realized it would be possible after watching a TV show about the 1982 lawn chair flight over Los Angeles of truck driver Larry Walters, who gained folk hero fame but was fined $1,500 for violating air traffic rules.
In 2006, Couch had to parachute out after popping too many balloons. And last year he flew 193 miles to the sagebrush of northeastern Oregon, short of his goal.
"I'm not stopping till I get out of state," he said.
To that end, he ordered more balloons. Dozens of volunteers wearing fluorescent green T-shirts that said "Dream Big" filled latex balloons 5 feet in diameter, attached them to strings and tied clusters of six balloons each to a tiny carabiner clip.
Each balloon gives four pounds of lift. The chair was about 400 pounds, and Couch and his parachute 200 more.
"I'd go to 30,000 feet if I didn't shoot a balloon down periodically," Couch said.
For that job, he carried a Red Ryder BB gun and a blow gun equipped with steel darts. He also had a pole with a hook for pulling in balloons, a parachute in case anything went wrong, a handheld Global Positioning System device with altimeter, a satellite phone, and two GPS tracking devices. One was one for him, the other for the chair, which got away in the wind as he landed last year.
For food he carried some boiled eggs, jerky and chocolate.
Couch flew hang gliders and skydived before taking up lawn-chair flights. He estimated the rig cost about $6,000, mostly for helium. Costs were defrayed by corporate sponsors.
Easiest way to get her out of the room is to show her your embededded MySpace clip of little children crashing on Big Wheels and Tricycles. This means that I can write more because now I'm a dick. BUT. I wrote this, didn't I? And that, in some sick way is a lot better in the long run than me having to watch "So You Think You Can Dance".
Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.
* ABC Saturday Morning Preview * The Adventures of the Galaxy Rangers * The Adventures of the Little Koala * ALF * The All-New Scooby and Scrappy-Doo Show * ALF Tales * Alvin and the Chipmunks * Bananaman * Barbie and the Rockers * The Batman/Tarzan/Lone Ranger Adventure Hour * Battle of the Planets * Beanie and Cecil * Beetlejuice (1989) * Belle and Sebastian * Bernstein Bears * Beverly Hills Teens * Bionic Six * The Biskitts * Blackstar * Bluffers * Bravestarr * Bucky O'Hare * The Caboose Kids * California Raisins * Camp Candy * Captain N: The Game Master * Care Bears * Centurions * Chuck Norris: Karate Kommandos (1987) * Comic Strip (included Karate Kat, Mini Monsters, Street Frogs, and Tigersharks) * The Completely Mental Misadventures of Ed Grimley * C.O.P.S. * Count Duckula * Dangermouse * David the Gnome * Defenders of the Earth (1986) * Dennis the Menace * Denver the Last Dinosaur * Dinoriders * Dinosaucers * Disney's Adventures of the Gummi Bears * Donkey Kong * Dr. Snuggles * Dragon's Lair * Drak Pack * Droids * Duck Tales * Dune Buggy * Dungeons & Dragons * Ewoks * Fanastic Max * Felix the Cat * Flintstone Kids * Fonz & the Happy Days Gang * Foofur * Force Five * Fraggle Rock * Galaxy High School * Galtar * Garfield and Friends * The Gary Coleman Show * Get Along Gang * Ghostbusters * G.I. Joe * Gilligan's Planet * Glo-Friends * Go Bots * Grimm's Fairy Tales and Storybook Series * Heathcliff * Hello Kitty * He-Man and the Masters of the Universe * Herself the Elf * The Hug-A-Bunch Kids * Hulk Hogan's Rock 'N' Wrestling * The Incredible Hulk * Inhumanoids * Inspector Gadget * Jason of Star Command * Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors * Jem! * Kangaroo * The Karate Kid * Kidd Video * Kissyfur * The Kids' Super Power Hour * Lazer Tag Academy * Leo The Lion * The Little Prince * The Little Wizards * The Littles * Madballs * Mario Bros. * M.A.S.K. * Maxie's World * Maya The Bee * Meatball and Spaghetti * Mighty Mouse, the New Adventures * Mighty Orbots * Mr. T * Moncchichis * The Mork & Mindy/Laverne & Shirley/Fonz Hour * Muppet Babies * My Little Pony * My Pet Monster * The Mysterious Cities of Gold * The New Fat Albert Show * The New Scooby-Doo Mysteries * The Noozles * Pac-Man * Pandamonium * Paw Paw Bears * Photon * Plastic Man * Pole Position * Poochie * Popples * The Potato Head Kids * Pound Puppies * Punky Brewster * A Pup Named Scooby Doo * The Puppy's Further Adventures * The Raccoons * Rainbow Brite * The Real Ghostbusters * The Richie Rich/Scooby-Doo Hour * Robocop * Robotech * Robotix * Rubik the Amazing Cube * Saban's Adventures of the Little Mermaid * Saber Rider & The Star Sheriffs * Saturday Morning Supercade (bunch of cartoons based on arcade games like Donkey Kong, Q*Bert, Frogger, Pitfall!) * Scooby's Mystery Funhouse * Sectaurs * She-Ra: Princess of Power * Shirt Tales * Sky Commanders * Silverhawks * Slimer! And the Real Ghostbusters * Smurfs * Snorks * Spartakus and the Sun Beneath the Sea * Spector Man * Spiderman and His Amazing Friends * Sport Billy * Star Blazers * Starcom: The U.S. Space Force (1987) * Strawberry Shortcake * The Super Mario Bros. Super Show! * Superhero High * The Tarzan/Lone Ranger Adventure Hour * The Tarzan/Lone Ranger/Zorro Adventure Hour * Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles * Teen Wolf * The Thirteen Ghosts of Scooby-Doo * Thundarr the Barbarian * Thunderbirds 2086 * Thundercats * Tigersharks * Transformers * Tranzor Z * Turbo Teen * Trollkins * Ulysses 31 * USA Cartoon Express * Visionaries * Voltron: Defender of the Universe (both the vehicle and the lion versions) * Wheeled Warriors * Wildfire * Wolf Rock TV (1982) * Wuzzles
Time travel when you sleep and you get to correct the days mistakes
Csgucscsugcs I think I'm done. Thank you for playing. Where do I go to return this? Lament... Anthony Stark Colleen Kevynn Chico Dawne T China Jane Trinitee Maria Bella Rosa Judi Reynaldo Dad Denny Milo Harry Cash George Jack Jerry Dennis Joe Sindy Brandy Patti Yellow Sabbath.. I am Iron Man without the armor or the technological affinity My Best Christmas Ever...
Might of written about this before. I know that I have, but I think that it was in one of my notebooks. Maybe I wrote about it in a magazine or school paper. Somewhere.
Back in the day. When I was young. When the top of my head probably came to my fathers hip - my father and I went down the street to the Xmas tree lot. This was a REAL lot. One of the ones where you actually picked a tree and a bundled up gnarly neanderthalic man sawed it off for you and lugged it to your car. Not one of the drugstore parking lot lots. Something that you didn't do in combination with grocery shopping.
It was cold. But Southern California cold. So that means, like...60 degrees. My father and I had trudged deeper and deeper into this mini-forest looking for a nice, full tree to take home. I don't know where my older brother was. Probably playing Atari or watching football. Definitely not dating girls. My brother was a very late bloomer.
We found one. Not a girl or a late bloomer, but a great-looking tree off in the distance. Looked huge to me. Gigantic. As we approached it, I realized that my father wasn't around anymore. He was behind me, crouched down on one knee and had his hand placed on something by the ground. I crunched back to where my father was and heard him speaking in a strange voice. A tiny, soft voice. My father's eyes were misty. He had stepped on a baby rabbit. It was probably no bigger than my hand and was jerking spasmodiacally on a blanket of pine needles. My father was softly saying that he was sorry. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry...
I kept on looking back from the dying baby rabbit and to my father's now alien face. I couldn't figure out what was more of a shock to me - the little thing dying before me or the glimpse of actual emotion on my father's face.
My father eventually barked an order at me to KEEP ON GOING. I did, because he was my father. My father told me to not stop looking back. I did, because he was my father. I didn't ask any questions. I did, because he was my father.
We got our tree.
Do I remember how it looked that year in the livingroom?
No.
Do I still remember that tiny, twitching rabbit?
Yes. Perfectly.
Best Christmas ever?
Yes.
Why?
Because I'll remember that one for the rest of my life.
I want so much and I want the world to go away In what way, I don'y know my world? the world I had? the world that I have? You can't start from scratch if you've alway been starting from scratch or you can't start from scratch when you never had an itch to fiddle with? Like a declawed cat in front of a scratching post or a eunuch at an orgy. Jimi Hendrix with webbed hands me with a brain Would Chewbacca without H Solo be co-pilot Jesus? Would Goblin exist without with Jane Goodall? I'm sorry. I've never known anything and was sorry I pretended that I did. I hope that I didn't harm you to a poi
See? This is shit. Complete shit. I'll be back later. even with all of the mistakes. Seriously - I'll be back.
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Sorry - cleaned the keyboard with my sleeve.
I was going to write something about how my life somehow mirrored the Bush administration's handling of everything involving planet Neptune and especially their political stance on Jem and The Holograms.
Today was old bruschetta tough. The rain cost me money. I couldn't work because of it. You rained TODAY, rain? Seriously, give me a break, Lucy Gods. Do you have to pull that football back ALL of the time? Amputate my legs. That's the only way I'll stop trying to kick field goals. WAAAGGGGHHHH!!!
LAST YEAR AT THIS TIME, I WROTE THIS......
Friday, May 25, 2007 Found the post - difference is that now I fully admit to a lifelong's worth of depression, addiction and Restless Leg Syndrome...and Quadsexuality...
(so this is a repost or a repost of a post...)
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
I Don't Know If This Was Written For Fat Free Milk - But I Found It In An Old File...
John Constantine…
Waking up can be a mistake. Some days, I feel like I’ve made a bad choice. People who die in their sleep may be geniuses. Maybe they found out something in dreams that I never will. Maybe they had a divine moment of REM clarity and said holyshitfucknowigetitwhatthehellwasithinking? Then they’re done. Pop goes the cork. Bright burns the light. Sink the ship. Fries are done. Game Over, Ms. Pac Man. Fireworks. Smoke in the air. The crowd leaves. Holiday over. Laughing all the way to Narnia, Hogwarts, Orange County, Krynn, Hoth, Middle Earth, Oz, Hollywood, and to that place where The Brothers Lionheart went.
I’m quiet now. Maybe I cashed in all my emotional stocks way back in the 80’s and 90’s. I’ve made some bad investments. Now, I just seem to float around, all gossamer-like. Kind of like the one, thin spider web that seems to stick to your face no matter how much you claw at it when you go out in the back to water your lawn late at night. I won’t go away – but I’m not as big as I could’ve been. Just a bit annoying. Making my presence known. Not doing any real damage. Somebody once compared Jimi Hendrix to the thin wire filament of a burning light bulb. The light that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. That’s how I feel. Like the slow parts of a good movie. Radioactive waste. I know I’m still young, but you really should’ve known me before. I was crazier. I fucking either wanted to be left alone to scribble away in the darkness, to think, to break things,or wanted to question and tear the world apart. Now, I wish that everything was quiet. Silencio, por favor. I don’t think. And when I do. It passes through my brain like caffeine. All energy dissipates as soon as it’s fleetingly conjured. I smile a little, but always look like I’d be happier somewhere else. I wish I knew where that place was. It’s definitely not in front of a computer screen anymore. It’s definitely not outside. Definitely not inside my head, or out of it. What makes me feel happy now? I’m not depressed or anything. I’m just talking. I know that a lot of my biggest changes have happened in small amounts of time and sometimes the smallest change can happen in a long time. I know that if love and life played by our rules, that we’d all have that pretty, little picture in our head be a reality.
Slow, progressive, Earth-shaking change was cool back in the day. Spending a couple years here or there, doing the same ass things - but making adventures in the meantime...was cool – but, we were a lot younger then. What happens when the amount of time starts stacking? What happens when the amount of decay overpowers the fresh growth?
You get the fuck out of town. Okay. Where, and for how long? Guess you have to find out along the way, eh? Change yourself? Duh. Whatever. Instant change is like ramen noodles. Unsatisfying and shitty.
This might not make sense – but like I care. Keep your snide, little comments to yourself, or go visit a clever BLOG. Say what you want. Just don’t be funny because I’m doing all of the fake, unreal cleverness here.
You know why I liked Bukowski so much? Because he was honest. He was ugly. He was fake. He was the poetic John Merrick. He was sad. Depressed. Brilliant. A pig. He wanted to be left alone, but needed love on his own terms. He went postal before postal was postal – but he went postal on paper. That last sentence makes sense if you slow the fuck down.
Jumanji’s in my heart, but the Hellraiser Cube’s in my pocket. I don’t know what to do.
I really do wish that I could meet Han Solo and have a drink with him. He’d understand and just say a coupla gruff sentences that WOULD MAKE SENSE AND SUM UP THE WHOLE DEAL. Then we’d have more blue drinks served in Tupperware glasses.
After work today, I was at a stoplight and saw the mayor of my city walking across the crosswalk. I said hello to him and he said, Hi Kevynn! That’s nice, even if he is a politician.
I like my cats, my friends, toys, comic books. I also like porn, threatening mean people with violence, and fucked up music. I’m writing about absolutely nothing.
I need to live on a ranch and just make all of this stuff go away. Trust me – I’m not trying to be all complicated and deep. I’m far from that and I don’t want your sympathy. Your condolences are like cheap crack. It strings you out in the end. No caloric value to it. Ample amounts of empathy does not make a healthy diet. I need direction. Something other then TAKE A LEFT AFTER THE STOP SIGN or GET A NEW JOB. I need something…I need it like Dracula does. I’ll know it when I taste it. I used to watch my mother suck the marrow out of chicken bones when I was young. I tried it a couple of times. I remember her chasing around a couple of geese that I thought were pets. I remember her chopping their heads off with a cleaver, Wally. Feathers floating in the air and headless bodies flapping.
People talk too much. They need to just stop for a bit. Most of my days are just one, sticky, continuous conversation ball thrown at my head. Too tired to dodge em’. I just let it roll down my face. Nodnodnod yesyesyes. Bump on the head. Everybody just calm down, shut up, and leave everybody else alone. Walk around, play with your kids, walk the dogs – but, still…shut up. You’re about as original as…ME. Which isn’t much. I’m an ungrateful bastard. I’m the ugliest beautiful person you’ve ever met – but we all deserve to be hunted down like Frankenstein.
I'm living Pinocchio's life before he knew that humanity was possible. I'm living the life that the story books never told us listeners - About how hard it is to be a boy and what being a man really means.
lielielie to yourself time passes along with your nose
Gepeto's dead?
Now what?
What changes?
time passing along with your nose along with your nose along with your nose along with your nose along with your nose along with your nose along with your nose
Whatever you're doing now, don't make a habit of it. Take more walks. Skate. Read outside of your room. Offer to walk a friend's dog. Restring your bow. Mani/Pedi. Soup Plantation and The Los Angeles Times.
Only you can get yourself out of this pickle, Dill.
So...wake up and get out of bed.
We'll take it step by step.
Sloooooowwwwwwww-like because you're not too bright and usually scream when the sunlight hits your fragile, pasty head.
If books were spontaneously created and based on our morning's forgotten and previously-dreamed ideas, than librarians would...QUIT.
God, what I wrote last night was GREAT. I had it in my head for an hour or so and it was so good that when I woke up I DIDN'T rush to put it down because...it was GOLDEN.
THIS WAS NOT IT. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ....... ........ ........... .............
A lot more difficult when your current life is more drama-filled than you would like and the heart and soul slowly grinds like tectonic plates. One of these days, many years from now when I’m wheezing away on my deathbed and watching my life flash before my eyes for the last time – I’ll soak in the life that I saw and say… God damn, I’m glad that’s over. And die.
You get a picture of where I've been I'm disappointed and distracted I hate where this day ended up It's best to be drunk than to be with drunks But I'm sober Which is always good But not tonight
Phone's off the hook No one knows where we are It's a long time since I Drank champagne The ocean is blue As blue as your eyes I'm gonna take it with me When I go
Old long since gone Now way back when We lived in Coney Island Ain't no good thing Ever dies I'm gonna take it with me When I go
Far far away a train Whistle blows Wherever you're goin Wherever you've been Waving good bye at the end Of the day You're up and you're over And you're far away
Always for you, and Forever yours It felt just like the old days We fell asleep on Beaula's porch I'm gonna take it with me When I go
All broken down by The side of the road I was never more alive or Alone I've worn the faces off All the cards I'm gonna take it with me When I go
Children are playing At the end of the day Strangers are singing On our lawn It's got to be more Than flesh and bone All that you're loved Is all you own
In a land there's a town And in that town there's A house And in that house There's a woman And in that woman There's a heart I love I'm gonna take it With me when I go I'm gonna take it With me when I go
dont care about work dont care about dental plans or taxes or presidents or Oprah or Dennis Quaid's children or Darfur or The Panchen Lama
Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms
wear the same shirt everyday and know that being on the computer often is a a waste of time and that iphones, pods, tunes and pee freelys are nothing but jokes in the grand scheme of things
Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms
sometimes cry when Sigur Ros plays when memories flood parched circumstances and realities when clothes don't fit anymore and what you knew versus what you do now don't do anything but blow doubt into the ventricles of your tired heart
Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms
sometimes play ferociously think floating thoughts wish earnestly dream the impossible hope for the best and cry salty tears
if every silent worldly thing had a voice about everything then nothing would be said about anything because the majority of God's children would rather talk about Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms
I made friends with a dog that I thought was homeless tonight. I took care of her for a bit and was concerned/freaked out, thinking that I now had to do some investigative work or take in a dog that my landlord would never let me have. Ends up that that her owner doesn't keep an eye on her too well AND it ends up that you should never give a dog chicken when you have no dog food around.
Because now she won't leave. She's been outside my kitchen door, bedroom door, back gate and front door. I've been in this type of situation before but usually it's not a dog but a person that smells of cheap perfume or a friend that needs a place to stay for a month but ends up eating all of your food for the following six months. I'm doomed to these type of situations eternally.
In my past life I must have been Mother Teresa or....ummm...Doctor Doom.
