Tag Archives: Stream Of Consciousness

The hummingbirds inside the evergreens

Back in New York time which is three clocks stuffed inside one as my brain re-acclimates and puts all the thought monkeys back on the treadmills; I will say, coming back from a week in suburban Pittsburgh that I am glad to bobble in the sea of beautiful women that seem to flock in the dozens in my Brooklyn neighborhood and in Manhattan though they’re slightly different kinds of beauty; I appreciate both.  When in Pittsburgh I looked around in a store and was amazed at how extreme the ages were; either in Medicare’s crinkly grasp or fifteen years old.   It was good to see my family, good to drive a car, good to experience the Warhol museum; one thing I didn’t know was that he was a devout Catholic;  while walking the halls I realized that sometimes creating art is a form of outrunning large shadows from birth  that feel built by institutions like religion that borrow pieces of your soul as mortar and brick and wild plastics and soon you can’t tell what you believe or what has been believed for you;  for me, Catholicism is a large shadow that is always in danger of swallowing me at the last minute, waiting at the gates near the feet of my soul when it all opens up like a planetarium on a night full of busy skies;  that was my permeating thought; art sometimes can be outrunning a plastic shadow or taking back what was borrowed from your soul and creating a fashionable Frankenstein of yourself; sex and fashion are two pieces, latent and waiting, together perhaps, to feed my life a high impact diet;  I love colors and my favorite piece of Andy Warhol’s were some sketches he had done using serpents as the theme and shapes. I would rather feel the large hunkering shadow and fight than walk around with a blind spot sponsored by the Vatican.

A few thoughts and wishes:
-I look forward to making money making art  so my dad can stop asking me when I’m going to make money making art.  I can understand but I also realize compromise is not on the menu, dine-in or take out;

-I sometimes hit these oil slicks of self hatred and try to get it cleaned up before someone else stumbles on it because I don’t want to have someone else to have to wade the tarry waters; then I think maybe her hands are the hands meant to hold the water and punish the bruises out of it and maybe I can do the same for her;

-I realize I have a great capacity for suffering but that as the mouth of joy opens wider so does this kind of new suffering, what I call Romantic Noble Suffering, where the pain of separation becomes some sort of melted starlight that poses nude in my blood and demands for me to wait, to wait humbly in purity for as long as my heart holds guard;  the harsh combination of becoming emotionally ready and self accepting with this mystical tonic of sexual harmonics that together make me wonder what Love is, what being human means and when does cruelty between Man and Woman melt into mere poetic love and hate in a calmness swung on vines hanging from two bodies. Somewhere here on this nutty orb there is someone who enjoys surfing on a ball of Mars hidden seas;  if so, I’m your man.

Professionally, here comes Frenemies…..


Genreless Scented art

Happy Thanksgiving to those indoors, outdoors, suffering, joyful and essentially all breathing living creatures.  As the earth breathes out here in the next year or so and the dust of history fills the air with a temporary smog and our junk DNA activates and we can all lick the on big everlasting gobstopper that I think God is, I hope that everyone has a moment or two today to at least have a gratitude for something;  I certainly am lucky in health, talent, all rivers of love and support that come my way.

There’s an increasing awareness I think I’ve mentioned of feeling where society pulls me versus what my heart wants;  paradigms and genres are sometimes like ringworms or some other nasty infection to me;  marriage and career are two areas and two areas where I am at the moment unsatisfied or still incubating; for career, it’s trying to tell the difference between selling out and asserting my courage; admiring those who have succeeded or being jealuos or however it materializes;  I would be very hard on myself for not having success by now where I wanted it;  it fills those little caverns with doubt about my choices, my talent and my place in this world;  soul spelunking is a hobby;  and now, as I’m sitting at my parents feeling a midnight surge coming on I can begint o see the difference between the distinct clean path that I wish to walk and selling out little baggies of self here and there until all that’s left is my right eyeball and some teeth fillings; I feel that oncming surge of success and joy and it must come at the righteous pace, with the alchemist’s eye for purity, and not too fast;  that’s asserting the will; the fued is how attached to any future I become.  I do know I feel genreless, without labels and without now caring about them but needing to have that one last three ounces of courage to step forward.  Three tiny biblical ounces to scrape together and down like a shot of Jagermeister.  I am not a comedian; I am not a poet; I am not a storyteller; I am an artistsic X-man, a genetic stew of all of them and a couple I may not know yet.

As for marriage and seeking someone, I’ll leave that for another day.  I will say I trust my dreams, my imagination and my instincts around it and close is closer.  I cannot settle a sinle quark inside me for someone just to have someone. That kind of thing for microscopic black holes around people that suck light;  so I wait here also; active waiting without compromise. Vines of Babylon hang from her Sex; that’s all I know for sure.

Good night, detoxing America!

The laws of thermodynamics and attraction

A lot of growth means recognizing patterns;  I keep sticking the gold key in the top lock even though it’s not and when we see the patterns we own it and can boot it out on its cans or stuff its belly with our lives until we have a five hundred pound tumor pattern on our back and human beings do both;  for me it’s attracting certain personality types and starting to catch on to it;  even though I may get rid of the person, the type will reappear again and again until it’s flushed out like a fading stain.

One type is the Energy Vortex manipulator. This is where the person essentially acts out drama using everyone around them as players without any concern of consequences and especially gifted in using words to suck you in to the hole and convincing you you’re wrong no matter what stance you take; carrots are orange, carrots are striped, I’m right I’m right! I had this with two women in my life over the past several years and last year when I ran into the second I woke up to it and the good news was that it was weaker than the first storm and I caught it;  I”ll expound on that uncensored fairy tale some other time on stage probably.

The second type is the neurotic secret artist writer person in a position of authority over me. The first was a sociopath who was my manager at New York Times, whom they allowed to fire me while naming him employee of the month; also another story to unfold when I have the moments; he would tell me his science fiction story ideas while showcasing his complete inability to work with humans or show knowledge in my field of expertise.  Very dark energy and petty.  I ran into the same type a few years later while developing my script with a production company. The developer made me feel like I was stuffed inside a toaster oven when I was done speaking with him.  Very uncomfortable.

So it’s about patterns and seeing them for the first time so you can stop them and I do believe in the law of attraction and also the laws of thermodynamics so my goal is to integrate them so not only do I attract but it generates such light and heat to spring a planet loose or set fire to patient kindling;  illuminate and eliminate. Heat and patterns together at last; and i’m getting adept at it.

I apologize for the negative slants in this blog towards some people patterns that have come through my life but sometimes the truth is the truth.  Politeness can be very damn exhausting when you don’t mean it.  Shalom!!!!!

Excited about Frenemies.  Have a poster, a promo video script and am now beginning the search for money as I wore my new suit for the first time in public.   Also starting to get my solo material together. My new working title is Looking for the Black Box of My Soul.  What do you think? Yes, you Mr. Jamison Whiskey commercial extra.


Changing the oil filter on the engine of the mouth and word

All writers I’m sure know this feeling when every once in a while you look back through old bits you wrote years ago and think wow I wish I still wrote like this; it’s usually a silly insecure way to stay glued on the past but it’s very effective, giving memories weight like stones so you can be dragged around by a past that may or may not have existed.  My goal in life, or one, is to get rid of all of my pasts.  And to build the perfect lamp. And also to have sex in St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  If I had the therapist my ex in California had, who told her while she was making like a Category 5 through our life to ‘keep going with this, you need to act out’ as if I am a Jim Henson muppet creation for the servitude of her healing, if I had this therapist, she would say ‘yes, go have sex in St. Patrick’s Cathedral; in fact try to do it with a virgin entering the convent; might as well act out full on;  but these are some of my goals.

Here’s something I wrote a few years ago in sort of an addendum to my solo show Pentecostal Warhorses about the aforementioned ex.  But this little addendum applies to more than one person in my life; I’m a different person and a better one than when I wrote those, or at least in a better mood but I like it cause it has verve even if the verve is wrapped in a bit of cranky sauce. And it reminds me of one of many pulsars that float and bob in the sky inside and not to forget to keep that voice pure; that’s the fiercest battle. Sometimes I look at myself, in those valley of the shadow of doubt spells, and I wonder why I’ve held out so long when I seem to have had to so many changes to become a successful playwright, screenwriter, performer. I’ve had my chances. But if one molecule of disease hits the water supply, you have an epidemic in a month; my soul is water, the body is mostly water and space inside the water, so when one little bit of compromise rips in, I’m flat and useless.  So how it is with the art; keep that satellite signal between that pulsar within and the pen pure; fanatically pure.

Anyway, here’s the piece:




There are people in your life that can get away with murder through your eyes. It’s absolutely forgiveable, because your heart sees with all of it’s eyes, some glossed over from decades of sleep, some never used, but all of the eyes of the heart start to glow until the chest feels like a Lite-Brite set or a techno-honey comb. And all of those eyes see and all they can do is hand out forgivenesses like the earth does to the weather. What’s between two people is ionic and perverse and, for me, at least, meant for the plume and the page but it does not change the eyes in the heart, each one chewing it’s blink at a pace that’s rapid and sweet, complete, complete and perfect. So when I sit on my jaded perch looking down at my own shoes convinced they’re the reflection of other people, i feel the separation between myself and these eyes. Excuses, anger, suffering and the great doubt that comes with shedding a heartbreaking alliance with the past. The great doubt which looks like a blatant vagina or an electric amoeba and all I keep seeing are Pollock’s brushes on the floor. It’s wild, nothing more. I don’t know what’s past that. But for the past few months it’s been growing, this feeling like I’m walking around wearing my izod shorts from third grade to the public. Like I used to do when I was little, cut off the feet of my footie pajamas afte I outgrew them because I loved them so much. I get attached. And so I get so attached to people, fleshy footie pajamas. It hurts like a bitch. But the past few months have been laced with more awareness and this deep, intensifying feeling that I simply cannot hide anymore. What I am hiding, I don’t know. but it feels like hiding and it has to go. So every night, and this began a couple of years ago, though who knows; when you try to measure non-linear feelings with Cartesian time it’s like measuring an apple’s weight by shouting at it. I measure my life in flesh bearing moments. Little moments shift us. Like a moment when you pick up a Little Debbie wrapper that goes flitting across the street and at that moment you realize you always loved your ex-wife or

Spalding Gray’s transdimensional topography

I just bought Spalding Gray’s posthumously published journal entries over a span of about forty years. I barely started and what already strikes me is how, other than pioneering the bare it all life as art style in his monologues, he still was an artist who crafted his pieces and still kept some things hidden; maybe some of it was out of negative audience reaction or maybe there were some things that weren’t meant to be shared.  I often tussle with that in sharing my own experiences;  it’s often tempting, like some clods do on Twitter and Facebook, to express one’ feelings for another person through posts or tweets or some straight stage confessional;  it’s horrifying actually how that happens.  My rules if I can state something more poignantly and beautifully in writing and honors the other person, I do it.  If it’s a beef I have and that person’s still in my life, best to have it out in person. I won’t even do emails. I don’t like emails for having a conversation or expressing any negative thoughts; arguments that weren’t meant to happen start that way.  Wars begin that way. I fear one day the art of conversation will only be found in museum displays where you put on headphones and hear two wax figures you see before you have a conversation and actually emote and listen. I look forward to opening that museum.

And so with this new book comes my jaw which is so sore from grinding teeth in my sleep and now to some point when I’m I’m not certain anything other than gargling on a bag of marijuana, which I don’t smoke, would do the trick.  My teeth hurt. my gums hurt and I don’t know what to do with tension even after running, meditating, visualization, etc.  I think I’m about to give birth and so my jaw’s in labor.

I promised myself I wouldn’t snark on other people in my public writings but I just saw Rick Perry make a complete ass of himself on footage from Jon Stewart where he forgot what the third agency was he was going to shut down if President, even after people hollering from the audience and Ron Paul making suggestions. He plum forgot. I forget my keys, where my glasses are, how to play Chopin; I never ever forget which agencies I would shut down if I were elected President;  and I do have a list that would get hosed down with the eyes of angry owl.  These candidates all cell divided and genetically mutated from one creature that sits on a fake toilet somewhere in an lab in the Yukon thinking it’s constantly trying to poop and it can’t so it keeps scraping off chunks of cells that wind up running for President and filling our lives with utter bullshit for over a year and a half;  All of these cats. I am registered no party; I can’t vote in primaries; on those days I sit in my apartment and make a fake ballot box and vote for fictional characters I believe would make good officials; Mr. Bentley from the Jeffersons for Secretary of the Treasury and etc. you know the obvious choices.

Jon Stewart had a good time as all his correspondents with this gimme from Rick Perry. Then right after that Adam Sandler was coming on promoting his new film Jack and Jill. Al Pacino is in it.  Not Allan Pacina, the Al Pacino.  I guess he’s planning on buying a space shuttle and needs a quick couple of million.

Sparkles is back; this is the name I gave the rat that lived and scratched and self bathed  inside my wall and ceiling for months. After he left Son of Sparkles has returned to wreak vengeance.  I don’t like killing any living creature.  I know it’s the way of Earth for many species but I have trouble with it; that being said, after many nights of conversationally pleading through the wall to please vacate the area, I have to call an exterminator. I ask forgiveness from the vermin gods.

So I end with the joy and grind of putting on stage and in writing that which is truly true versus what is merely true.  My jaw seems have a jump on the battle.


Imagination is my favorite form of memory

Tonight I went to  a support session held by the Colts (not the Indianapolis Colts who need Peyton Manning worse than I need skin to hold my organs inside my body) but Robert and MIchelle, coolest couple in town when they’re in town.  It’s good to be reminded of facades and illusions and other such background noise that keeps me held back in my career or a vastly all cell encompassing sex life. Here’s little phrases that came to mind during the seminar:
‘the storm before the calm’
‘genuflecting before the madness’
‘great jellybean mouth of the unknown’
…and this analogy of little habits left inside of me since birth and a little beyond I liken to rolling a grenade around on that rotating swiveling knife battle circle that Flash Gordon and the Baron fought in the 1980 camp masterpiece.  That’s my soul at times, chasing grenades that roll around and whisper lies to my flesh.  Still I am pleased where I am now and yearn for something special, something that requires rare footage on Earth; I’ve never been one much for compromise.    I’ve been offered it more than a few times over the years in love and career and something in me still presses.  At some point I would love to say I reached the peak. I know there will be Space Mountain to climb after reaching the top of Earth Mountain but I need to see a peak and I need to see some results now.  The preparation time is closing over the next three months or so and while it has been lonely and weird in ways, it’s made me stronger,  any horror of facing myself completely getting a little diminished by the day.  And getting larger too. To feel fertile and barren at the same time, to offer that to another person and know that they have their own terrain to handle.

Rocky Balboa put it best when Paulie asked him ‘What do you see in my sister?’
‘I don’t know, gaps.’
‘What’s gaps?’
‘She got gaps, I got gaps, together we fill gaps I don’t know.’  Brilliant.

I am working on a spec for PanAm in which the pilot, I think his name is Dean, is sucked through a popped window in the cockpit and then simultaneously being sucked into the engine #2 and his upper torso eaten by rabid genetically engineered pelicans.   The copilot and engineer are knocked unconscious when they clunk heads getting up at teh same time; EVAN DUQUESNE, a man of unique  and subtle handsome appeal for the true discerning eye (me!), a PanAm pilot and passenger on the flight, and Colette, the charming and naturally dynamically expressive French stewardess, land the plane together and also simultaneously make love and our amazing sexual chemistry actually helps to land the plane itself without landing gear.  After a couple minutes of mourning, I assume command of the 707 and Colette and I begin a long term relationship on the show involving mutual healing of our pasts as our natural multi-colored self awarenesses settle into each other perfectly and illuminate what is dark.  And then we have a three way with the plane itself. Fabulous material.  We also tango in black and white and sing a duet to passengers in first class (I do it over the intercom while she responds).  I can’t wait.


Lou Rawls and tender marinated genre-free notes

I’m listening to Lou Rawls Live and I sang one of the tunes tonight in jazz class called ‘St, James Infirmary.’  I’m trying to find my voice and, trusting my imagination that’s always shoplifting Picasso and electric cowboys, I love to cross genres or defeat genres or stuff them into an empty can of canned peaches and launch them into space. I have a bit of an allergy to genres and it’s year round.  When my screenplay was in development a couple of years ago with an indie film company, the man I was working with, after three drafts an seven months of effort, told me ‘We can’t decide if this (the script) is a romantic comedy or supernatural thriller.’  That’s one of those moments in life where my ego plays it back with me making a real scene when in reality I just nodded.  Today I was talking to my friend about how it’s taken me years to accept that I am a roving genric border buster…tear down those walls!…and I’ve never been totally sated performing in either comedy clubs or strictly theaters; there’s a nightclubtheatermadness neutral zone somewhere with the club buzz and the emotional heft and patience of theater.  In class tonight I keep searching and poking a bit outside the normal bounds to the Bowie Rim, the outer reaches of a supernatural musical galaxy where there is no black market because there is no white market and notes and riffs are swapped and moshed together and form stars with song and anything played backwards may sound even better.  When I sit and listen in those amazing moments when all of Brooklyn dials down and it’s almost cricket quiet I can hear, beyond the urban ringing in my ears, a sound of the stars, planets moving and objects colliding and twisting the blanket of energy they swirl inside.  Somewhere, so close now, are tunes.  I look forward this winter to stepping it up with my guitar Gladys and making sure I finally put a ring on her finger, so to speak and commit.


The earth’s getting stoned

As we enter our galactic phase of effervescent planetary alignment and epidemic super-awareness it reminds me of my days with the drink and the drug years ago and how the highs were pure and distilled but there followed a romp in Death Valley except it was filled with my childhood memories as depicted by Charles Manson in illustration with crayons and human blood; those come downs were brutal; and as the energy shifts it’s pretty common to bounce up and down so for a few hours I feel something like I can speak the New French while jumping dimensions and then for three days I want to sleep or something similar. The body gets dragged along for the ride like it’s tied to a bumper. Or a rodeo which I’ve never done.  My testicles forbid it.  I rode a horse once years ago in San Francisco and could see why cowboy country has a lot more men than women;  you’re sterile and non excitable from getting your balls twisted and numbed from ten minutes on horseback, let alone hours.  Then it’s off to Brokeback Mountain.

I am very tired and going to enter into a week of necessary sleep while I listen to the urges of Reverend 66 Peachnuts, my higher self personae, or Rev 66 for short. Rev 66 and I are going to chat it out this week about a good deal of things.

In closing for this sleep evening, I look forward to my heating pipes playing Bach’s Well Tempered Clavier which sounds like a bunch of monkeys with the rage virus hitting a heating duct with hammers.


When you dream of your ex, time to get a colonic

I’ve not had a colonic even though I’m getting more thorough with my health but now might be a good time.  I had a dream with my ex last night and she was upset with me and when I woke up I carried that Upper Reality dribble down we’ll call it, carried it throughout the day like some dreams do; they make it seem more real than floating around the city trying not to feel something for a few moments.  My ex was there in Upper Reality and it makes me wonder if it’s myself I’m angry at or some part of her is letting me have it. Freud would call it an obsession with my mother; of course, this diagnosis would come while he was taking a bathroom break with some coke and a mirror and his mother floating in the room screaming at him to tell all of his patients their mothers were out to get them and have sex with them. I have Jung’s dream book by my bed as well as Castenada’s collection of dream essays.  I’ve had more than one dream of flying, with my body, over very large cities or cities with exaggerated features like mammoth bridges, and wake up and feel I’m still there and I feel my contents have shifted.  The little nubber lasts for weeks sometimes. Either way, I should get a colonic as when one of these reels I sent in hopefully lands on the desk of someone maybe at NBC and they realize that being dead last in the ratings and dropping a ton of money on big stars, as is their strategy from what I’ve read, may not be the best thing.   I love NBC; I’m partial to them; I rooted for them during Battle of the Network Stars growing up because they had the best looking women and that’s important.  Cosby Show, Family Ties, Cheers, Night Court, best lineup on TV in the 80’s. Now they’re in the toilet bowl that toilets use to poop in. It breaks my heart a bit. My advice, other than to hire me, is to admit where you are, take a Zen approach and go, we’re in last, that’s ok; it’s liberating! there’s nothing to lose; then go, we can take some chances here and stop trying to do what everyone else is doing with this reality TV fungus that’s overtaken us like body snatchers; Some shows are ok but when I see wife swapping, you get what you karmically deserve; even on Planet Glukon, where they eat their young as ritual, do they look at Wife Swapping and go, what the hell is wrong with these people?  Ditch that reality fad and drift away from Law and Order thing; CSI runs that genre now.  Do something new;  I don’t know what that us, I have an idea or two which I’ll probably reserve for my company Internet TV channel which I envision launching in three years or so. Or if NBC gets me an audition I can give it for a quarter and some smoked almonds.    Dumping Conan is also karma I believe. I believe in negative energy swirls encompassing an entire company, or building or family or planet; I’ve seen it, casting shadows longer than a lifespan and leaving eyes that squint from starlight.  Don’t do that NBC.  Audition me!

A couple of closing thoughts before I drift towards the mattress:
– these days, if I were in a bar in Vegas alone and a beautiful woman came up to me and starting chatting me and making moves, my first thought would be ‘are you going to at least leave me with one kidney when I regain consciousness?’  I’ve been traumatized by the movie Hostel and today’s FDA approved sociopathy sponsored by Pfizer or Merck or etc.
-when I’m about to touch my guitar I treat it like sex; I better be gentle but strong and mean every stroke or we’ll both come out of it empty and weeping.
– I don’t watch or listen to Presidential speeches anymore, dating back to Lincoln, maybe. I get what I call ‘teleprompter radiation sickness’, in which empty babble is shot in concentrated form into my mitochondria and I suddenly I have the urge to ask my doctor about Romagloxipin.

I always intend these to be a couple of lines, these blogs. This is why tweeting is squeezing my body inside a grapefruit.




My dog vs the city of New York

My soon to be seventeen year old Cairn Terrier Moose, who has earned her right to waddle outside and sniff the earth except in NYC where occasionally her naturally rebellious energy causes the envy and wrath of men around her who merely wish to possess her.  Yesterday a strange and angry man working for sanitation gargled to me”YOUHFLGfdjfdsaljkfa dog piss on bags,,dfjdfjds;lfjdsjfhhfghafgh.” Tonight I was gently accosted by a cop where we have three per capita who explained to me that, amongst the liquor bottles, snicker wrappers and over the top garbage from bins that float around the sidewalk creating a charming post apocalyptic ambiance that if I were half Swamp Thing I might dig, this officer tells me I need to curb my dog because kids slip and fall on the urine. My dog is not an elephant; last year the Crankiest Woman on Lincoln Award Winner for the 80th straight year spat her alien acid at Moose when she was sniffing near her flower bed surrounded by a white picket fence.  She had two daughters like rotten crayons scowling next to her or maybe they were trainees. Now I’d hate to have my dog’s rapid drying trickle of urine get in the way of the circular flow of ice cream wrappers and cheetoh bags.  She can’t go near trees, on the sidewalk or on those precious black ground odious garbage splatters that would be what scratch and sniff wallpaper Willy Wonka would have created if he were a serial killer running a crack house.

I have trouble with authority; or really goddamned dumb authority; for what I pay in taxes to live here I’d like to have the pleasure of not having my dog accosted by city workers because her artistic choice or where to piss doesn’t match their ideal;  I don’t know why I get restless around authority figures other than the odds they have no idea what the hell they’re doing.  I was born to control things, I think. I’m a control freak…no a Control Superfreak, I got tentacles that come out and run governments for obscure Pacific Islands and also produce films. I’m also very very sleepy; I’ve been in some accelerating energy shift since Saturday night and I seem to have a psychic switch that someone snuck in and activated and now I can the minds of squirrels, which can be more of a steamboat journey than certain people.  There’s a color spectrum to everyone and some people are dicey rainbows and I told my friend tonight it’s keeping that energy out of my atmosphere.  Years ago I walked into a doctor’s office or something like that and I was late and complaining and she said ‘You seem to carry the rain with you’ or something like that which I found the most hurtful thing a stranger could say to me; this dude years ago I met through a friend when we all went out kept calling me ‘Dark Cloud.’  I can’t imagine in any sector of the galaxy where calling someone that in public repeatedly would come off as playful or endearing.  I should have asked him if he had some heroin I could borrow for a few minutes or if he enjoyed drinking orange kool-aid out of his victims eye sockets like did mine.   After these brushes with social death I vowed to make myself something better and fill my days with joy before a deathbed full of cranky whispers finds itself parked under my ass.

I am going to sleep.  This new madness, autumn droppage of kinetic leaves into my brain space has been living in my jaw for the last few months and I have been grinding my teeth. saturday night it began drifting down more into the 3rd dimension into my chest and now I’m spiritual heat of some sort. we’ll see….