plantation of the page...

I've recently learned that "waiting by the phone for it to ring", for whatever result, goal, or prize expected, is a futile and folly filled endeavor. First, if the bloody thing is going to ring, then it is going to ring regardless of the intensity of desire or discipline of patience by the anxious consciousness involved; mine in this case. Me waiting on this other side of the equation is both the least powerful and admittedly important variable acting on the whole of the action. There are a great number of interconnected values over vast distances and in this case, time, that comprise an unknowable machination of chaos and gravity and information. Which, to say, means that the awaiting consciousness is, quite literally, the last to know. It's only job is to realize and then be happy or otherwise.

I do want to know if I'm heading into the mouth of adventure and shortly if possible. If not, fine, I'll fill the arbitrary metric of time with myriadelights!, writing and bobbing for chunks of pure creation, white hot and molten from the pregnant World and onto the "plantation of the page and ink".

onomatopeia...prostitution...(and) More on this later...

I don't know if I've ever disliked a job more than I do the one I just quit a couple of weeks ago. What brings the bile to the back of my throat about this job today, at the Hotel Shmotel Shangri-La in lovely Santa Monica, California, is that as much as I disdain working there, tonight will be the second time I've worked there since quitting and I will be working an event tomorrow night (Saturday). Now why in the world did I agree to work there this second and third time if I hate the spot so much? Alas, poverty and near desperation can make a man do things he would not normally do in his right mind. So, I guess I am operating out of a wrong mind or maybe a "wronged" mind. Which one do I think? Like most things, it is probably a little mixture of both of those conditions. Regardless, the dull pain begins to creep up and down the complex lattice-work of emotions that I now begin to mine in hopes of controlling the fear and discomfort that assaults my vulnerabilities. Uggghhh. Yes, onomatopoeia is necessary to adequately describe what that sour in my belly feels like...nasty, but I have to be thankful for the chance to churn hours to duckets- the metaphysics of temporal prostitution... More on this later...

a glimmering, shabby past

“I’ll whistle when I get my motorcycle. Do you know how to whistle? So, just take your lips from the sweet of the thistle and blow.” She liked that. Her joy, as it is derived from me especially, is my junk, my hyberbolic fix, perhaps. She wrote back, “Sing for me baby.” So I got my little fix, for the day at least, my few and far between fix, like starlight, that upon experiencing it’s light oceans of time have elapsed. True sacrifice. I take my breaths, truly, between those fixes and that is my sacrifice to how deeply enraptured I was, with the World when I looked into her eyes, when I kissed deeply her breath and lips, when we sank in deep congress. I’m still building that custom motorcycle, one dream, one dollar, one bolt, every moment at it’s own time…Maybe that’s the lesson in all of this. Maybe I’m a sucker for a passionate pocket of the past and never recovered from impressions made. Whatever. She still makes my heart beat fast…and like that on and on of my lasting pump, I, the host must move and negotiate and engage the obstruction, the monstrous unknown, the dark beyond in those eyes… Whatever curb or lovely bump, whatever the tender risk produces, I’m down…

crazy mother fucker/ me

Before my sister went to bed earlier, I told her that I'm worried about the constant quantity of anger that has been settled in my heart for what seems like a long time. I told her that oftentimes I feel the urge to "smash motherfuckers' skulls and shit". It didn't sound funny nor was I attempting to inject any humor in the sentiment. I was serious and not sensitive about these strange feelings. Usually when I am feeling extremely vulnerable, be it angry or otherwise, I have the urge to weep. During the conversation's elapse I never once felt the urge for catharsis, I never felt anything but straight forward violence, carefully explaining itself to a particularly beloved and trusted kin. My careful sort of madness got it's message out as clearly as it could have. I do not, of course, think I am crazy, but honestly, what authority does anyone have to really mean that. I will continue to function and write because that is what writers do. Holding on to fresh and cool with this digital function and phalanx, even if I swallow my tongue, the words, rainbows of cum and kisses, will still come. A thousand thousand kisses before that day for sure...too many things to do with my tongue before it's sacrifice. It should be sparred for the sake of...a thousand sighs.

on and on...

The hardest thing in the world is trying to force an idea- to force anything for that matter. The Easy Breezy is the creation conjugal bed...I'd invite a couple of lightning quick wisps/nymphs into that gravity down, soft thrust, breakneck...I'm beginning to fall in love again with myself, language, words, their "glue". It reminds me of girlfriends and the beginning of togetherness and summer, warm bellies and wet kisses before pressure, coolness, agenda. She wants me to kiss her. I feel it in my heart. I take the story by the hips, open hands that press, her head swoons about and down...

And even though we always want everything to be perfect with her that is not reality nor could it be. There must be a balance with the force of that passion and energetic. Well, back to the creation machine, these funny television shows of mine, these short stories and on and on...

like Christ's first week...

this one is turning out to be a productive one for everyone, especially the future.And like Christ, I, to am proud of my pure creation. Yes, the future is going to be in love with what is begun this week. So the writer marches on and a brutal march it is. The mission is product and continuance, word count, world and universe and situation construction and destruction. That is the name of the writer's game- consumption then creation within a context structured of that reconstituted goo's stuff. So let's just say pretty much infinite within parenthesis. There is a lot of the DNA of the writer in his writing. This is more obvious than it is, necessarily. I am now at a place in my life where I have the ability to change those traits/behaviors about myself that I may find undesirable. And if I do not make this effort and succeed, then I am a failure again and again until I settle and suffer shall the World. As is the life of the writer. I take my burden very seriously to uplift the World by the force of my language equations and the dynamics and situations they involve. Here, we won again!

the sake of tomorrow...

And three days, das, das-like meaning German-like like German engineering, quality and built to last. So I continue the links, everyday in this chain. Gaining and building upon an anxious momentum as we turn some scheduled corners while preparing for the Haiti mission. Counting down the days to the role of dice, the role of a lifetime and the risk of a lightning strike, roulette and revolvers...I am the most keenly aware of the inherent tenuous nature of these contracts, explosive and blade riven. But this one...and let's pray for war are our mantras. But if this voodoo doesn't present itself, then I will hurl myself headlong into the television production and fiction writing mode. A mercenary or a writer/t.v. wannabee. So funny the seemingly random directions our lives go in. Remember Plinko on "The Price Is Right"? Now matter where you placed the disk on top of the platform, some flailing gravity would drag it down a new circuitous route, unknowable by human or machine calculation. Each second, each moment new is a miracle of chaos and energetic dynamism. And the wonderful audacity of the human consciousness to consume and organise and divert oceans of information into normal reality , albeit dazzling, but minus the good drugs, frighteningly normal...On this third day of the new year (such another wonderful arbitrary point of concern) I forge onward into the crispy void and wade toward my destiny. I'm praying for war and writing for the sake of tomorrow...

02 Jan 2011 Part 2

Yeah, I guess if I open the page on one day, but do not post it until the next, then the date displayed on the post will be the day it is opened. Not too interesting, but noted and proof of continuity is revealed. At the Lounge, the LBC on La Brea, with my friends and alone...I come here for myriad reasons...a bunch of them have to do with things I've resolved to correct about the self, that abstract, strange thing. Anyway, here is the opportunity for passion and exactness in the changing horizon.

Yes, the Wild.

02 Jan 2011

The second is the real first of the new year mythology because it is the first real day of work. For the hopeful souls that resolve and will to make the new year their bitch, the second of january starts the long honeymoon of heavy lifting associated with changing some precarious behavior about oneself or improving some lagging aspect of one's life. Be it going on a diet or more generally living healthier, reading and writing more (my personal one), or being less apologetic and more focused on the moment or whatever else the ego can come up with to slake it's fantastic thirst for more, for the vanity fair ongoing- today is the day where one actually feels the pull of resolve. If it's cigarettes, then you want them really, really badly today and if you're going to fail like a champion, then you're already lighting up (or already have). And if your vice is drinking, then prepare for a hanging over sometime by the time you wake up tomorrow. For me, I'm trying to keep up with my web log this year, so here is my attempt, my second one at continuity. Yes, it was the beginning of the heavy lifting for me, but I'm enjoying the gravity, the weight and the expenditure...

01 January 2011

Let's start the new year off with a start! a small, but symbolic movement. Everyday a start to revel in the passion of creation and language and their betwixt!