Tag Archives: Writer

Briefly now, on the waning heels of a second wind

Happy 2013 and suck on it Mayans. Or really what I mean is congratulations to all of those who cashed in on writing books about the apocalypse.  I missed that boat.  I’m going to check in on some Aborigine tribes in Australia, see if they have any ancient relics that could land me a literary agent.

I have another show coming up on the 24th and I must edit. It’s hard to parse material into 35 minutes, at least for me and what I realized in looking at all of my pieces is that I did write a good deal last year. As solitary as it was, I did produce.  Right now, I’ve been recovering from a cold as I seem to bring one back with me every time I go back to Pittsburgh to see my family.  So I’ve been watching old movies and more so reading about the stars from the  “day” and what fascinates me is how strongly one would feel towards another artist or their work or an entire way of expressing.  Robert Mitchum and Cary Grant both were not fond of method acting.    Marilyn Monroe solicited opinions from across the spectrum, from deep empathy (Marlon Brando) to light scorn from more than one person.

It fascinates me how artists can peck at each other, despise each other but somehow maintain respect for each other’s work and yet sometimes have completely different opinions on one person or piece of art.  I guess there are people out there who think Hamlet is a shitty play, or overrated.  I wouldn’t want to be paired with them in a hospital room for a week, but it begs what’s relative vs absolute, even in art.  I’m going to quit before I start drifting into a Russian novel.

May everyone have a high end magic ham radio that grants a dream or two for you through the airwaves this 2013.

 

 

 

Endings on days of numerological and cosmic significance

Today on 11.11.11,  I finished my novel Point of Venus.  Like most pieces of art or pieces of something, flow a few strands of wiring mostly based on personal experience. For me, the title comes from when I saw a palm reader a few years ago who told me I had a point of Venus on my hand. It wasn’t great news in the context of the rest of my hand.  Then I had the longing dream seven years ago with the woman in it.  That is also a thread. Fashion and the awakening of deeply latent selves is a thread.  Parents and fluctuating psychic and emotional distances and between them as well as loss is a thread. There are minor spinoffs, NYC, love and sex and the undertones of Christ-healing in sex.  Other potencies I hope. I have to say, finishing this feels like opening a chasm, opening and beginning and once I spell check it and copyright it, I’m going to find the person I dedicated it to, that tall thin blonde in my dream, cause that’s who I wrote it for and live the dream.

Some fun tidbits:
# pages in double spaced  Courier new font 12: 496
# words: 117,502
# times word ‘fuck’ appears or one of its wonderful offspring:  4
# times word ‘orgasm’ appears: 10
# times word ‘love’ appears: 236
# times word ‘purple’ appears: 24
# times word ‘vampire’ appears: 0!

Some days travel faster and light than others and after finishing something like this the day is walking on foot through tundra. restless and a bit heavy and yet on 11.11.11 which in some circles is a day of some portal opening across space and time and my newer pairs of underwear and  spiritual shifts occur. It was a conscious accident I finished this today but I do not believe in accidents or coincidence, only very crafty deep roots that spring it’s tentacles all over space and time. So you have to dig deeply to find the connection. Tonight, I’ll sleep and tomorrow is new and full of its own clan destined joys and aches.

I also celebrated by getting gas for Sheila, my bike, only having to wait 45 minutes in line.  That is not a lot.

Congratulations to Obama. I voted for third party candidate Rocky Anderson. I’m sick of this two party dig three inches below the surface of America shit.  I hope Obama grows out his afro, gets some 70’s button down quasi psych-Afro-punkadelic shirts and takes charge and does all the stuff he was supposed to do in his first term. Speak for yourself, man.  Please.  I also congratulate all the uteruses and ovaries across our great land for escaping the 1790’s policies towards women under a Romney-Ryan administration.

 

 

 

Apocalyptic Jujubees and Margarine Heresies

I’m a big fan of conspiracy theories. I think some conspiracies are just truths waiting for the right country to form.  At the very least it’s entertaining to know every time I watch Robot Chicken YouTube that the data is being fed to the Central SuperComputer deep underground where Dick Cheney recharges and run by Sasquatches who have betrayed their peoples for a few extra seats on the 2012 mothership so they can have a chance to hear John Cusack quote lines from Say Anything.  I believe in underbellies and touching a long ignored truth is like grazing a testicle; it jars like hell and sends everything else it’s connected to into a pang of spasm and confusion; trust me ladies; so I have my sites I like to check for my Underbelly News; one of them is Rense.com and today they had a video series on sounds of the apocalypse;  people all over the world recently recording these foreign sounding deep angelic horn blasts that seem to come from nowhere permeate everywhere;  angels at band practice;  I listened to a few and there was a deep urgent sense of Earth making a statement that the world’s about to toss off a shackle or two.  I don’t consider them apocalyptic;   brimming little invisible truth vibrations that are starting to yawn and push us into the future or drag us there;  I”m a new agey type and also an old schooler type;  I haven’t personally heard these fifth dimensional mach waves; I just get a sense that something wonderful, sensual and healing may be coming for all peoples, even Dick Cheney.

I always considered February the hardest month of the year in my life.  In 8th grade I recall making that  statement to myself;  things have happened in that month that defy Hallmark. this is year is personal retreat and training.  before spring or whatever seasons are becoming these days: really hot blast-shit summer, two weeks of fall, winter in Virginia,  spring in San Diego, really hot blast-shit summer. Sponsored by Exxon and the Mayans.

Jesus: ‘Judas, from the sacred to the inane, holiness reigns; and to have so much love to give and merely my inadequate hands to scoop it out to the world hurts worst of all;  that’s why I need her; her hands are like the sun hollowed out and filled with the tenderness of the moon;  she’s a gentle fever, wine of the stars and she can take what’s inside me and through her kiss scoop out what’s  inside and blow it through the air like seeds; she is the magic that dispels the illusion and her lips and her touch and her breath the waves that break back within her hips are colliding masts that somehow guide use safely back to someplace familiar and divine; she is the sex that catapults the memories of stars to shine for her glory. I love her Judas, like a nightlight made of olives and burning heresies.’
–Out of Hell Comes Christ

 

messages from aliens on my eye floaters

Last year for some reason I started noticing eye floaters in my right eye.  Th eye doctor said my pupils were unusually dilated and asked if I were doing drugs; not in this decade.  but they get on my nerves; they flit back and forth and the only way I can humor myself other than look for miracle herbs to soak on my eyelids that theoretically came from prehistoric snakes that once mated with our women and through the generations resulted in Congress, I imagine each floater contains microscopic chunks of the Dead Sea Scrolls and if I focus on each one I can see what kind of hair gel Jesus really did use before a good sermon; every time they swing across my eye my brain soaks another piece of knowledge about history they would dare not put in anything published by King James or Scholastic Update, really very similar editing styles; except in Scholastic Update, when I was a kid, had stories of giant cities floating in space inside of these contraptions shaped like Bugles corn snacks where all of this would be happening in the 21st Century, about fifteen minutes from now. there’s more crossover in King James than you think.

All of this is to keep from letting the holiday blues take command of mood central.  Christmas, my birthday on Thursday (now tomorrow) and New Years on top of being stuffed in a Lonesome Dove type of Crevasse between an old life that wants to hold on in places like HMO’s or some other horrible idea that has outgrown its time and a new life which calls and beckons and flirts and asks to wait then come;  it’s odd, turning 41 and looking around at the suit I’m supposed to wear at this age seems also too small, out of fashion as I don’t care really what I’m supposed to look like or feel; but it’s one of these habitual press ons, like temporary tattoos that at forty I need to start having nightly conversations, maybe in German, with my prostate about when it’s supposed to swell up and why my sex drive is expected to deflate faster than my penis does thinking about plastic surgery breasts; it’s a cell by cell assertion and cleansing to kick back the onslaught of death;  there’s grappling and resting, grappling and resting with habits;  some feel glued onto you since the dawn of time, some a little more recent;  this week is made for steel guitars and lyrics written on a napkin in some bar you never knew existed and you’ll never walk into again but it has a real jukebox and none of the songs have drum machines. We move, burst, slide, swivel until we can sometimes hear our heart has more than one river, of more than one liquid fabric that flows in it and it looks and smells like a melted skyline and maybe one person can tell or two or three but it’s never so easy; the ones that can dip the toe deepest changes the flow of the heart on top of merely uncovering it;  some people have a heart like a turnstile, and in a way I envy that; and then I do not.  I am grateful for the multi layered fabric river that changes when the weather around me is potent enough; I am grateful to have the life I have to this point;  my birthday is sometimes the meat in a holiday blues sub, but I am vegan, so fake meat, fake blues.

 

 

Subatomic Imprints that seep into the night

I’m with the native Americans in that dreams are a map of our true palate, a wild unburdened place where the pieces of our soul that need to unfold and do our laundry can do it and let us watch the dryer tumble if we can remember. Most of my dreams are like dumping memories inside a kaleidoscope and then sticking it in a leaf blower, things of great detail and unrelated characters that I don’t think figuring it out is meant to be done;  some are stress burners and some are sex burners, like dreaming that there’s an assembly line of vaginas and I have to pleasure each one but it gets out of hand like that classic Lucille Ball episode.

Every once in while I wake up with a feeling that sticks around like an aftershock; sometimes the feeling is a few hours, sometimes a day and sometimes for years; last night I dreamt I was holding a baby and it was my daughter, of which, to my and my penis’s knowledge, I do not have, not counting my dog, and the gist of the dream was that i was surrounded by family, society world etc.. and they were taking her away from me.  I guess every parents goes through this and today I walk around feeling like I made a baby. Or more like a baby that’s following me. Maybe that’s more of the beat of the thing.  The dream has left its footprint in my guts and when it sticks, I always wonder what to do with it; I guess nothing.  It reminds me that dreams are more real than parts of the ole rustic matrix we wobble around in while pursuing the gorgeous ache of life. A couple of dreams I’ve had have reminded me of that more than anything that’s happened while upright.

Dreams of Armageddon and being lost in a hospital and terrified I will see mutations and blood are the only repeat downsides I have but they stick around for a bit.  How much is my psyche, how much is foresight and how much is alternate universe #23 hitching a ride on some quarks to lay into my slumber I don’t know. I do know the next step is to control dreams.  Hello Carlos Castenada. Merry Christmas.

Friday Night Lights

One thing I’m grappling with as grappling builds spiritual triceps of plushy diamonds is how much time slopping around in the underbelly of the soul of the world where the demons of the damned play air hockey with people, and how much to spend immersed in the joy of life, and I always feel there’s something a little broken in me, an unbuilt bridge, a flaw when I cannot unite the two neighborhoods; not the classless utopian society so many imagine; an underbelly and a true joy of abundance; when I spend too much scouring the underbelly for lonesome, whistling truths I feel like I’m belying life itself, making a waste of moments full of soil and splendor; when I’m in the mode of complete acceptance of things as they are, I feel mature then incomplete and my heart-mouth begins to get filled like its lips are shrinking and then I feel bloated and drained of courage;  so there’s grappling and it seems to me, somewhere there’s a split in the wood and the deeper I go, we go, the better chance of finding the root of the split and then it’s all good;  sometimes I look around and see dilapidated monuments, spongy rocks slithered with colored chisels;   then I’ll see others like lighthouses, clean and emitting something a wide laser with flags of countries that never formed hanging from them; I just wonder, because I’m a mood machine, if I’m slighted by my own vision or there’s truth in the distinction; of course, probably a fruitcake made up of both; I’m a purist and sometimes I am a Sith and do deal in absolutes;  I believe they exist; burning flesh smells awful ; maybe on Planet Godor it’s like flowers; but any grappling with this Yin and Yang feels a little faded, a faded argument for being human now and yet something eternal;  I don’t want to be a drag but I don’t want to feel like a liar; I feel fresh and angsty tonight, like a loaf of bread with exploding raisins in it.

Tonight I went to a fabric store because I am going to attempt to make a dress, or dye a white dress, in the vision of the character Meghan in Frenemies who likes to mingle strong women in history and what they would have worn in a time warp to now.  And I want Kate, the other character, to wear it when we film our promotional video next month.  I’m a detail hound with very specific ideas on the look and I’m new to dyes and sewing and such;  vision is vision even if it’s cracked so I follow follow follow in bliss or brain swell.

At the tiny store there were two girls there and I had the feeling they were partners;  the thing is I have very poor gaydar; it’s busted or missing and instead I got an extra thought track so I think twice as many thoughts per second as what’s considered safe for a person but I have no gaydar; there’s someone out there right now with an extra set of gaydar; for some reason I hope it’s Leonard Nimoy;I sense it would be in good hands and he would use his double gaydar powers wisely. I’ve just not been able to tell;  when I was in high school, seventeen, I went to a play with some friends and this man was sitting next me; he was very nice; I was thin and young and polite; I still am; only later did my friend tell me he was hitting on me;  actually, come to think of it, I’m that way with any and all genders hitting on me at points;  animals too, when a dog comes onto me I get a little soft in my vision. Tomorrow I dye my  test fabric and get ready for a new frontier of expression, Meghanwear.

 

 

Bursting with love poop

This is what I tell my dog when I talk to her, asking her if she is bursting with love poop except in a voice that would land me the role of a lifetime as a leader of a castrata army that sings and dances their way to victory of 6,000 computer generated Norse gods.  I have a belief that come December 21, 2012 when Quetzecoatal returns with Jesus in sort of a Supertour sponsored by State Farm Insurance both of them will appear on national TV, maybe co-host SNL and during their opening monologue where Alec Baldwin drops by for a cameo both of them will unzip their bodies and a bunch of wiener dog puppies will  spill out and run around and for twenty four hours control all of our minds and the whole planet will strip naked, eat whatever they can find and sniff and hump and be adorable.  The Mayans knew it; just because they cast shit in stone doesn’t mean it’s true; nothing’s written in stone, especially if it’s written in stone.  This is my vision, as fed to me by Cairn Terrier. The truth is I want to be in a room full of wiener dog puppies. I think it would be very healing.

I am also going to start keeping track of commercials that use couples who take subtle digs at each other to keep divorce lawyer business and handgun sales robust. I was watching another ad for a cell phone and the girlfriend said something to the effect of ‘my hubby/boyfriend/secret enemy never does this right…’ or something horrible. I’m getting a notebook right now and putting it by the TV….ok that’s done.

On another foreign note drifting by the tune, I wish my birthmother a happy holiday.  I wish my birth father a happy holiday. I sent out a personal energetic transdimensional greeting card and hope one day there’s a little crack in the windowless shack and one reaches out. I also wish my birthfather’s wife a big sweeping breath of mental clarity.

Blackbox of my soul

This is my tentative new title of whatever I do next on stage. When I was a teenager I wanted to become an airline pilot; hence the title.  Seems to fit.   I’m looking through my materials and my brain begins, even in the December haze, to activate like playing whack a mole with a tributary.  Not hat I’d whack a mole; I don’t dig on harming animal analogies; our species needs to shake those out I think.  I am amzed, to this point in my life, I am 1) still alive   2) healthy.   1) refers to the drugs I did in California and 2) refers to my three stomach diet I had as a teenager mostly in Philly.   My first year there, the worst year of my life, my USS Puberty attacked by Her Royal Majesty’s Navy when we moved from Indiana, during that year I would microwave two plumper hot dogs for lunch and chase that down with an ice cream block smashed between two brownies. For lunch, due my deep and unmusical case of the blues, I sat alone every day and ate four TastyKake fudge bars at .25 a piece, sometimes pushing it down with milk which I despise.  I needed the sugar to get me through the afternoon of a solitary hell.  I drank a lot of Pathmark generic soda ’cause it was .99 for three liters.  You can’r wreck your kidneys any cheaper or faster if you’re underage.  Ate burgers for breakfast on Saturdays.  I’m lucky I didn’t start drinking or smoking pot; I saved all that for later.  I did get high off bathroom cleaners, casually inadvertently, when cleaning bathrooms.  Pepperoni I ate by the stick.  Life seems for me to be constantly banging back and forth between a secret past and a past built on the naked eye.  Secret soul, secret pains, the neutron slicks I call them, the subtle invisible pulses that define your life and cause the things that happen, like me eating four fudge bars for lunch every day.

The glory of Facebook is that when someone from that past finds me, sometimes they’re shocked by what they see as one friend from high school said about my profile when he saw it; to me, the shock is if I don’t punch through the paper onion I sometimes feel wrapped around.  He and I started a band in high school called The Mammals. I was teased for it, which is like being teased for having a huge penis that organically vibrates.  I managed to get teased about being in a band; now that’s stature.  In the present rapture, I’m becoming a better singer I feel.  Had class tonight and we’re working on songs for our concert. I will hopefully film and post them on Youtube.  I look forward to composing soon.

 

 

 

Aphrodisiac

Besides everything. what really puts me in the mood is organizing my stuff. I’m a hoarder, especially of memories, which every so often I have what I call a ‘memory dumping’,  garbage day for my neurotransmitters; they leave old memories by the curb and the blood of life washes them to the recycling center on Plaxar V or whatever planet they handle those sort of energetic redistributions;     When cleaning out my boxes I counted seven highlighters; I haven’t used a highlighter in years but they come to me, deep in the night harboring wishes to be with their kind in an IKEA box; I oblige.  But, as CEO and janitor of my production company I need to keep a skyline of papers from forming and different projects crossing paths where they shouldn’t.  I just spent two hours getting hot and bothered with getting on top of my projects and now I’m hot and bothered or warm and slightly itchy.  Making lists is also an aphrodisiac; I love lists.  Ones with numbers are like pleasure cream.

It makes me think of another turn on and that’s riding my motorcycle when I had one in San Francisco years ago. I had a 1987 Honda Magna 700, a gorgeous and perfect bike and anyone who knows the city knows, living out at Ocean Beach, the fog was a staple about 80% of the time, this damp mist that I found soothing, like a winter sauna;  and when on my bike heading home I would sometimes wind through Gold Gate Park and even though I had a full helmet the wind would whistle and the moisture would tap my neck in some kind of mystical Morse and by the time I got home I sometimes forgot whatever problem I’m sure I had and I had plenty the last couple of years there.  I miss having that bike and have toyed with getting one out here in New York but the energy driving is like the difference between tantric sex and a one off in an alley somewhere drunk with a maiden of your liquor’s choice and some trash can lids; I don’t trust myself on a bike here as I tend to get drifty; that’s why, as much as I wanted to fly planes when I was a teenager, knew that one out of every three flights I’d forget to lower the landing gear because I was thinking about mint green cadillacs and if God got the idea for humans while driving around in one.  BUt looking back, being on a motorcycle is like sex; you can’t replicate the feeling.  Too many unused orgasms floating in the air; like highlighters I gather them in and let them loiter and hum around until they find someone to land.

One more turn on is wandering around Staples;  buying office supplies makes me moon crazy.  I must be part werewolf;  but not the part that Taylor Lautner is;

12:30am, damn.  Later than I’d like.

“The slowness of life thrilled Lona more than thrills. That’s when a touch became sacred, when moments toured her body like argyle, leaving a perfect exhaust of pleasure and joy falling on her flesh and fogging her bones until she felt warm, perfect and lit into the sky, tumbled to the earth, pulled back upward and then dumped into the soil, every thrust an awareness that promised that somewhere in flesh was the universe in a thimble.:

Yoda Penetrated

I bought an artificial Christmas tree, something I said I would never do.   Last year a friend of mine fed me grief pellets through my shame cage for buying real trees, dressing their corpse in decorations for a couple of weeks and then tossing it in the trash with old cabbage.  Now I have a fake tree, an AI tree if you will; RU bot or not?

On the phone with me friend who gave me a Yoda puppet as a gift, I was playing with the little green zen machine when I placed him at the top of my machine tree where the angel or star usually goes and with about six inches of plastic covered tree wire inside him, I swear there’s a smile crept across his face;   who better to inaugurate the yuletide season that an anally penetrated Yoda feeling young again?  I say no better way.

I have been detoxing all day, as I have been under the weather after eating ‘food’ like pizza and french fries while home last week. Usually I call this the ‘mystical flu’; I don’t have congestion or cough or a fever; I just have a cryptic disequilibrium that causes me to feel chronically ill;  this is a mild case; it used to knock me out for weeks; as my stomach and being have become more sensitive, going back to french fries can take a toll, and right now I am sort of awake, waiting for a revelation or two as happens when the mystical flu grabs me;  I see something, have a single clarity that could only bee seen surrounded by fog;  I’d rather wake up tomorrow and feel completely renewed and to hell with revelation. I’ll do that next week. I want to sleep but right underneath I can feel myself wrestling with wants and their authenticity and place in my life and body and invisible body;

getting dizzy…good night London.