Tag Archives: Writing

Storm Before the Calm

I believe you can always peel away a layer of a cliche and find another truth lumbering beneath it.  Right now it’s a quiet chaos before seeing clearly which I need very very soon.  As I’ve mentioned before I’ve been in this challenging cycle over the last few years, with the weird tragic center-peice of my birth father and his wife/partner.  Other smaller little little asteroids made of barstool gum loaded with morning coffee and other undesirable types of breath have revolved around this one issue and now for the first time in a long time I feel a sense of final emergence, killing a cycle of familiar habits and old hurts that are too much to bear on a budget at times.  It’s articulating all of this as it’s happening that’s my task in life, and a foot’s been taken off one of my creative veins while tussling with whether to move to LA or stay here and fight the fight.  I’m tired of fighting though.  Healing winds of West seem to call and then disappear.  Swirl around the signal is getting stronger but I’m getting closer to the signal when the winds are strongest.   What’s best for the old rustic soul and what serves the world are where I should live next.  One thing for sure, no Friday night bullets.  No garbage swirling on the streets.  I’ve been closed for renovations but grand reopening is coming soon.  New menu and no more pictures of the food,my soul is going upscale.

I watched Behind the Candelabra, the biopic of Liberace starring Michael Douglas and Matt Damon as his young (20 something???) lover.  It got raves at Cannes and made me wonder if the French have started to eat too many Freedom Fries or  Triple Bypass burgers dipped in Honey BooBoo sauce. The film I saw was disappointing. Michael Douglas did an admirable job as Liberace and kudos to him for coming back from throat cancer.  What was disappointing was casting of Matt Damon, a 42 year old muscle laden kind of macho man type as what was supposed to be a 20 something gay man with what I imagine as a great capacity for softness and deep intimacy with Liberace.  I did not see that. It’s no knock on Matt Damon; he’s not the type. It’s like casting me as Vin Diesel’s muscly nemesis in one of those Vin Diesel type films. I’m totally wrong.  There were lines in the film where Matt Damon’s character said something like ‘Oh, you’re not after that queen (implying another gay man)’ and maybe it’s me but it sure came across as awkward. He didn’t look totally comfortable saying some of the lines. I could feel it. It was a weird vibe overall and to me, what could have been a deeply intimate complex portrayal between two people trying to love each other instead was something of a made for TV movie.  Compare it with Brokeback Mountain, which is a poignant and beautiful film in my opinion.

And one reviewer stated how bold and daring it was to show them having sex, meaning Matt Damon pounding on top of Michael Douglas. I disagree. I think if the emotional connection between the two were more dynamic, you wouldn’t need to show it. It’s a compensation instead of enhancement.

The whole point to me is how important casting becomes. This was an OK film to me but could have been something more. And also how some films seem to generate raves when they’re not much more than the top of the bell curve.  Maybe our standards are dipping.  We’re too ‘bot’, something. The state of American cinema is….loud. Very loud.

The other trend I notice is watching Star Trek: The Dark Night Rises which I enjoyed.  In the film, four characters: Spock, Kirk, Khan and Admiral Pike, all cried one single tear in various touching scenes. It’s on the rise in film. One tear only with no change in facial expression that glides down the cheek. I don;t know how they do it.  When I cry, my face is twisted and ugly and tears come out of all sorts of orifii and in bunches. I wonder if the actors really have mastered muscle control or Visine is making a million dollars off Star Trek.  If it’s the former, my acting career has hit a snag .

Good night and “bullocks to Don Revie!”

 

Blurry American Line between poetry and prose and comedy and the Infinity +C

Yesterday I went to an open mike inside a downtown Brooklyn diner; outside of myself, the age range of the participants was from early fifties to a very lively 92 year old man who sang and soft shoe tap danced his poem/song/dance as it was something he created the night after he lost at the Kentucky Derby in 1942, I think he said, sometime in the forties while I was still a young man in my last life; hell, we probably drank together then;  I read two poems, one a straight on love poem poemy poem and one I just ripped off a couple of weeks ago in response to my internal resistance to Twitter as a form of communication with people that may or may not actually be there; I don’t even like emailing when I have something important to say; they seemed to like this poem, which I consider more a rolling commentary slick than a poem; my old internal Professor Crustaceous with the slight British Accent and horniness for form and rhyming disapproves; It reminds me when I lived in San Francisco and within a week I went to an open mikes for poetry and after the poem someone from the audience yelled ‘do a haiku on the penis’ which sounded painful but I rambled off something and they howled; and then at my standup open mike someone yelled ‘bring the guitar back on stage!’ when they didn’t care for my humours;  I realize genres can be a distraction when pursuing a career;   you just want to breathe out, breathe purely;  you can’t please everyone but pleasing someone is a good start;

So when all genres are soaked up whatever’s left is the unknown;  Infinity + C; in math, because of the  imprecision of finding an area under a curve (known as integration), +C is the amount the formula can’t estimate when going from -infinity to plus infinity, even if you know the formula; looking back I find comfort in it;

Here’s the poem I read, maybe someone else can tell me if they would call it a poem;

Dating the Internet

Hi Internet; they say this is a conversation;
I’m very shy Internet. I didn’t even know what gender I was until I was 13. Imagine my surprise.
I spotted you the moment you walked into the bar with Al Gore.
or in these tip-toey days what they now call a lounge; How often do you meet someone in a joint like this who looks the same the morning after? Outside of unrealistic films, that is…
I love the coolly emotionally detached
house music they’re playing; I have a sudden craving for a Stoli and lime and a pedicure.
I guess I am ‘bot.’
let me buy you drinks
’til I look like taylor lautner’s abs;
I know you’ve probably seen enough of them all around inside you Internet; Can I call you Nettie? Allright, I guess not.
Let’s go to my place; it used to be a Radio Shack;
sometimes I hear the ghosts of crappy remote control cars at 2am.
we can split an Amy’s frozen burrito
and try to find the bad stitching on my slightly damaged Calvin Klein boxer briefs
I got at the discount store for $6;
nice 2 play game with someone else other than my dog! She cheats though I let her.
Midnight hangs around here til 3am some nights;

Are you a vegan, Internet? No I know you’re not; hell you’re probably powered by pink slime; that’s ok. I’ll cook your meat and pretend it’s kale. I can overlook it.

Let’s get the elephant out of the room:
If you steal my kidney when I’m passed out, get a good price;
send me photo of Tony Stark keeping it in a glass case as a Christmas ornament.
so I know it went to good home;
didn’t end up in perfume bottle or vaccine. Tks!

Yes, I thought of joining Occupy
cause I have anger; would use it to get arrested and increase my chances of getting laid when I’m bragging about it like the dude in the juice bar ahead of me the other day, so much the wheatberries in the jar sprouted. Would that turn you on?

Relationships are this gorgeous achy necessity…it’s in one of my scripts; maybe Harvey Weinstein needs a kidney?

I guess I got blind spots; some have gravitational pull of a black hole; stick your hand in someone’s blind spot you might turn into infinity and pull out a bag of love letters at the same time. Have you ever been in love Internet? If you have a thing for the International Space Station I can tell you long distance relationships don’t work unless you don’t like committing;

They call me The Breast Whisperer. I can hear the screams trapped in them created by the men who think they rule the world. Allow me to earn my nickname. In those moments, I am most definitely not ‘bot.

I know you feel a guilty about ruining the art of conversation; It’s not your fault; I know a good therapist; Maybe my little ache and your cluttered little techno-ache can clang together and create more than a cliff bar, a latte, a fake phone number and some nasty tweets the morning after. Please don’t give everything I say to you to the FBI. Must you remember everything? See you on the prowl, Internet. Stay free.

Spiropractic adjustments and the toastmouths

Most of the time things happen in the world and then things happen inside the inner world and they seem like they pop along independently each other, only to drop by and flirt for a few minutes or have a quickie at the least famous motel in town and then you feel in snyc with what you’re saying and doing with the inner world that tumbles around  inside, curling and flaring and crayola-ing like the surface of Jupiter being stirred with the knife of your own conscious whips;  and that’s most of the time, at least for me;

Then some days things happen and then things happen inside and they feel linked together strongly by leftover cable wire used to build the Golden Gate Bridge with a splash of Canadian Orange paint.  Some days things are strong and curious and unquestionable and you feel right and pure and adjusted, something knocked back into place like having an inflatable anvil fall on your head and suddenly remembering where you dropped your keys twenty years ago or what you whispered to your dying wife three lifetimes ago; tonight, after dealing with a weekend of professionally frustrating situations, I met two men at Whole Foods who were fascinating, a little intimidating, and some sort of energy level that jarred something back into place.

One of the gentlemen, a musician, stared at me and uttered a rhyme about creating art and living art and rolling in the largeness of life like heaven and earth were mixed together in a mad confusing beautiful compass of expression and change pockets of grandeur; OK, I’ve souped up what he said but the crux of it reminded me of something, I guess to let it rip; Nothing is by coincidence; I was deeply livid, deep in the pond pissed, over my screen partner casually canceling and his words dropped a match;  as Mickey says,
“Kid, you’re gonna eat lightning, and you’re gonna crap thunder! You’re a greasy, 145 pound Italian tank!”

I’ve never crapped thunder but it sounds like I would never need toilet paper so I’m ok with it; one thing is for certain, a good dose of rage relief coupled with a random stranger epiphany adjustment can really hit the spot and open that large jellybean mouth of life.

Another snippet from my patiently waiting novel Point of Venus; I think I’m going to have to hire someone to sketch Lona, the main character, designs in the book. I want to include the sketches as part of this novel, which is written partly inspired by fashion, healing myself, joy of writing, interplanetary fashion, and romantic prophecy as based on a dream I had several years ago and I am since affected and caught with flashes of the future; we’ll see how it pans out, out of a lion’s mouth or in it’s stomach; Happy Dimanche:

She heard heartaches, she heard young lovers who had known each other since grade school fight through years of growth to become what they always wanted – one. One story after another and when she had reached the last whisper, the man’s voice, her strange mirror angel, and she could hear sadness in his voice, like an echo inside a page, and she allowed the scroll of that diamond to melt into her skin, to swim into her bones and settle, thinking that what might be left is an imprint, a map to guide her, to cut her dreams in pieces and glue them together to form a broken bell, a broken bell to ring to create that aching opening that makes one awake like a predator for a moment, to hold that broken bell in the hand of the heart and let it ring for something, feeling the human heart as a pile of broken bells that mesh together to create a song that burned inside Lona. His bells rang inside her bones and made her feel like a skeleton of soil and embers that made her realize what a diamond really was: a fossilized Promise to be Thawed. Her bones felt covered in pieces of lips that history stole and replaced with filler; one whisper led to thousands and Lona slipped out of her trance and her body shook. 

Love, Choice Illusion and the ballast

A while ago a friend and I were having dinner at a health type eatery that had dishes that were very wide and shallow so when the pasta was brought out it looked like I would have three days worth of meals but was actually only one noodle deep; going out to eat after going out to eat happens every so often but we should be eating less as a species anyway;

As we chewed very slowly we talked about love and she claimed that one could choose who they loved and said no;  I guess they’re both right.  In my experience though, I can say I have loved only two women in my love and by love, I mean something within the body and beyond it; I guess it beckons what is Love to someone and that’s when grappling with angels has purpose;  I’ve thought of that discussion every so often because I am a romantic and I also believe to have control of who you choose to love and who you do not love negates the other person in the equation and assumes a sense of control over everything, which to me is the opposite of Love; love puts everything in tatters that’s unreal and like two hydrogens and an oxygen coming together to form water, I don’t think hydrogen can choose to form water with another element. Maybe it can; when someone poses a point of view I hadn’t considered I like to wrestle with it a bit see if I missed something.  The two women I have loved I feel I have no choice how I feel about it; I don’t want to have a choice; it’s how we handle it where the choices live, the choices with the meat of ethics and growth.  I feel lucky to have encountered twice other souls that have illuminated parts of me that I may not have found or if I did, in a much less sexy way, sitting up in a mountain chanting alone.  I’d rather get there with a little nudity beside me.  Maybe I chose to meet these two entities before I was born. That’s another story.  I’m not a frivolous person so perhaps I take it all too seriously and should answer questions on Nerve’s dating site about whether TV is considered a date; these seem like questions for twentysomethings.  I’m two neighborhoods over from that and we don’t hand out copies of The Game at committee meetings unless I missed those.  I guess at the base of it is this gnawing fear that my whole life could end up crushed inside a box of Mac and Cheese, preserved but unreal.  I’m going to stick with my answer I gave my friend; if I could control what I felt it would be like forcing my blood to spontaneously flow in the opposite direction or bottling up a hurricane between my finger and thumb. Choiceless choice, like when mystics have profound experiences in the presence of a great spirit or entity of renown.

We’ll see next go around.

Regifting a planet

My birthday’s coming on the 29th and that means my Solar Return; when I moved to New York nine years ago from San Francisco as a platter of plasma with ID, one of the first things I did was to find an astrology teacher so that I could not only figure out what the hell happened to me out in California but master the art of measuring the skies inside my soul so that senseless tragedies like what I endured need never occur again.

I studied two years intensely and over the years intermittently; I’m a triple Capricorn (sun moon and rising) with a gum wad of Scorpio planets; between the two I’m picked dry (or wet).  Every year I feel a little less Saturn (Capricorn’s ruling planet – the planet of anxiety, wisdom and late bloomers) and a little more Mars (Scorpio’s ruling planet –the planet of energy, war, competition, SEX, massive intensity): every year I can hear louder and louder pacing of symphonies waiting to be written; large engulfing projects that boil and then explode in spontaneous exotic and sexual floral arrangements; but you don’t fuck with these flowers; I have a saying with Scorpios that you don’t cross one; if you do, carry a basket around so you have somewhere to put your head when it gets lopped off;

We all have the same planets and same houses; it’s soul DNA, is astrology; it reminds me we all share the same ingredients;  and my chart is run by Saturn and Mars like two mob bosses fighting with each other and stalking other planets; Mars is starting to win the turf war; that’s why when I go to bed at times it’s just sort of a gesture, not really something that  leads to sleep;  in short, I am a fanatic (in the words of my teacher);

So every year I look at my Solar Return, an annual forecast we all have base don our Sun’s position; and this year is going to be one to burn holes in  The Secret, at least that’s the intent. Tonight where i take singing class (@BQCM) I saw a pianist and violist play several selections of modern composers, a couple I knew and a couple I didn’t. the violist, during one, snapped a string in an intense moment which I loved;  he was in fervor and during all of their pieces my mind turns on and I asked myself what I felt the greatest piece of American music ever written was and immediately I came back with George Gershwin’s  Rhapsody in Blue. Nothing else dropped by to claim the stake and I stick with that.  Of course Katy Perry’s Extraterrestrial is a close second;  something about being love addicted to an emotionally unresponsive alien makes me wonder if the feeder tube from American Soul to American Psyche needs a good cleaning;  I would not know the song if I wasn’t fond of conspiracy theories and watched the video for signs of Illuminati symbolism which one can turn into a drinking game or for me a chocolate game;  and every time I go into a thrift shop the song played;  I don’t know what’s going on with popular music;  I just think if I ever have a daughter and she came home singing lyrics about a love addicted girl who wants to be turned into a liquid drug so she could be shot into the veins of her boyfriend so he could shoot himself and bleed her all over his penis and then get orally pleasured by rabid sex starved aline monkeys or cause him to rectally bleed so she would know what it’s like to be eliminated while he’s having sex with her best friend whatever shit  I see hints of in some of these lyrics; I know I exaggerate but addiction is not something you want to peddle on teenage girls; that’s the sad flavor I get with some of these tunes when I energy scan;  black is black; 

I’m rambling with intent, on creating an exotic garden that reminds me what home smells like;  walls made of crushed petals, clay and shattered mirrors attached to certain reflections;

——–

‘Marry the emotional movement, Horatio, into the madness with the silliness and all the other spokes of the magic pinwheel; spokes of the magic pinwheel, dicing and slicing pieces of life into something such a mess it’s like sitting in a big pile of confusing confetti; a party that is life and every little piece matters and nothing is random; to the naked eye it looks like a piece of confetti; to the naked soul it’s Picasso.’

 

Caffeine

Yesterday in the morning I had a latte, which is the one of the few words you can’t Alpha-maleitize (try it;; yo, get me a fricking lattt–tayyyy!) because the last syllable takes you to that special cool whip beta place some men have visited, some have seasonal passes, some live there and some are afraid to go; last night I went to bed at 12:30 and to sleep at about 4:45 I am guessing; I realized I was high on caffeine about 2am when I started thinking about TV shows I watched two weeks ago;  I had completely rummaged through every thought I’ve had since then; my brain operates on a trans-synthetic multi scalar type of chip; I don’t know what it means but if it’s in a computer you’d pay extra for it. Needless to say today I felt like I slept three hours; Now I try again, though I am feeling better meaning the usual power plant surge is heating up;

To polish off the night I’ve been watching old SNL shows from the 80’s on Netflix. I’m a child of the 80’s; I grew up watching the show and my favorite cast is still the last 80’s with Dana Carvey, Phil Hartman, Jan Hooks, Nora Dunn, Victoria Jackson, Jon Lovitz and Dennis Miller with the news, who is also still my favorite; maybe I’m biased;  there was a naturalistic style especially among the women that made it easy to watch;  but I will say this about the forgettable very early 80 years; they did not like Ronald Reagan and took every chance to let America know how they felt about his policies; my personal feeling is that he was one of the worst presidents we’ve ever had. My teenage soul, already dealing with  acnes with names and extreme shyness strangling a barely conscious sexual tantra-nanza getting it’s first shots in, and the slow realization that a yoga body does not belong on a football field unless used as a windsock, on top of this knew that in the river of life inside the heart where the miracles hang out and chat, that river felt bent, if water could feel bent,  with Reagan; not only did it seem like he let the bankers run wild but his policies toward those who were suffering (the mentally incapacitated, small farmers, and the sticky gooey poor people) seemed almost determined to break and destroy them. Intent to kill; I measure intent;  I smell it like clove cigarettes on a Congressional bill or a person’s words; with Reagan it just seemed like American was anally raped by aliens: laid out on a cold hard clinical table and clinically probed and then pieced back together theoretically in a better state while the psyche was bent and twisted.  Thank god for Rubik’s Cubes, Mr. T, Jessica Lange, Weird Al, Michael Jackson and A-Ha and Glittery Bowie;

When I buy a new piece of clothing I always make sure its maiden voyage has purpose; everything is sacred and we’re built on ritual; my new shirt got a good run tonight in Manhattan because I showered today;  I’m getting European about that;

“I read minds; yes, I read them. It’s a lot more fun to write them.”

Bonnuit.

 

The last normal person on Earth

lives in Urbandale, IA; he is always thirty four years old and goes to Supercuts to get a side parted trim every six weeks.  HIs girlfriend comes over three times a week and they eat pasta and a plate of cheese while discussing what they each did at work and then watch Two Weeks Notice  or some reasonable imitation. Neither knows what a macaroon is though will not admit it to the other; everything else, other than the macaroon, is normal.

I lived in Urbandale, IA for a year out of the two I lived in Des Moines. This was right after two years of grad school followed by a nervous breakdown, the worst two years of my life outside of ninth grade. Des Moines was very brown and beige; if a pair of Diehard pleated khakis went to school for architecture this is the city it would create.  The airport and the buildings were coated in every shade of brown rejected by autumn;   the two years in Des Moines got me back into theater and saved me from a self-apolcalyptic implosion of a plastic life built over a supernova.   Ferreting out tiny invisible fractures in the soul is hard when you have a life of subtle infractions; a palm reader once told me I was exhausted by the age of two and she really had nothing else to sell me so her motives were pure;  it rang true;  and the invisible fracture finally broke through like renegade  quarks in Iowa. I also lost my virginity in Iowa; virginity proper, proper Christian wholesome definition; this whole piece of my life is going on stage; it just popped in my noggin and I’ve been in my apartment all weekend recovering from an intestinal cleanse, a sexy romp with the bathroom and I am depleted this evening. I can’t hear colors. If I can’t hear colors, I’m out of it.

I did see Hugo this evening and my favorite parts were clips of ingenuity from the French filmmaker on whose works the film revolves. What a genius and what excitement that his wife was and actress and his muse and they went into business together and bought a glass house that became their studio.  When I have more energy I’m sure I’ll have latent gushings of longing and love for a life like that; I am a romantic; I am a realist; I am a filmmaker with a vision of creating a similar life; it reminds me that every project, for me, must be large and sense-engulfing and viscerally intelligent; I have begun my first novel, titled Point of Venus and I have picked it up and put it down which I’m finding very challenging with this medium because I forget what details have been revealed and I don’t want to repeat to contradict myself. I wish to honor my characters, especially Lona, the main ‘protagonist’ if you’re into storytelling jargon. I may start posting bits of it here.

Good night.  My left eye is already closing.

The words beat the music by a blinding headwind

I’ve always known I would write. In 4th grade and 6th grade I was chosen to go to Young Author’s Conference while living in Indiana; both stories were about orphan boys looking for homes; I’m adopted;  psych majors can ring me up for a last minute term paper on that one;  I have them printed already  $49.95 and I’ll commit typos so it looks authentic.

In 6th grade I wrote a story in class called ‘A Future Christmas’.  In this modern upgrade, Santa in the future, around 2030 I think, was stressed because his elves were on strike, Mrs. Claus had died the prior year from a stroke, he was a sugar junkie  drowning in pancakes and I think Rudolph was having some health issues.  Looking back, if my kid wrote that, I’d send him to Tommy’s Holiday Camp immediately or at least have a good cry and seek Buddhist intervention;  the story is laying around somewhere; I’ll transcribe it as it as profound and prophetic as the book of Exodus.

Over the years as I have cracked open again and again writing has always been there but over the last few years music has gained some turf in the inner life real estate of my soul.  I wish I was a lot better of a musician but we are where we are. I seem to want to do everything, like many artists;  I do know the first four titles of my my albums once I can get the music out of me without driving up sales of ear plugs in my building;  this is exciting and flips me back to the times of LP when album art covers were part of the music experience.  Itunes has put a big petrified poop on that. So now, on the pre dawn dusk before filming the promotional trailer for Frenemies, I want to compose the music.  And this is where I get amazed at how naive I can be in life; when I look around sometimes I feel the world is ten years ahead of me, like going through the excitement of recording a song; of making a living at acting; of expressing the wonderment of being in love like a five year old at Disney World; I like that as a person and artist because it keeps life fresh; keeps expression in its own flavor.  So with music I feel like a three year old who has just seen a puppy for the first time; I want to pull its tail and poke its butt; that’s me and music;  I am amusing combination of naivete and wisdom that when they grind, I end up running naked outside my apartment or similar such tremor.

I am a lousy patient; I don’t like being under the weather;  I’m already moody as the surface of Mars dipped in the Atlantic Ocean so making me sick stretches my moods like taffy and everything gets exaggerated or shrunk according to where the virus sits in my blood stream; I have energy and yet I am forced to be idle. I watch TV. There’s a religious channel on my cable and every once in a while when flipping I see ‘Defending Life’ (which is about strategies for pro-lifers to push their agenda and bug the shit out of unsuspecting uteruses) and I get excited and switch to it because I mistake it for ‘Defending Your Life’, the Albert Brooks comedy from the 1990’s which I love. I fall for it every time; I may call Cablevision and have them block the channel. That and all news channels.  I have not been paying attention to the 2012 election cycle, which began in 2006 it seems, or 1914, depending on your point of view.  It seems, from quotes I read from some of the (Republican) candidates, we’re dealing with complete sociopaths and/or morons. Harrowing. Starting to feel sick again…

 

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…..

 

Breath of French air

When I play piano I smell Paris.  It motivates me.  November reminds me of Paris because I was last there in November.  I want to roam the halls of Versailles and look for a secret entrance to underground tunnels where there will be a river made of broken promises. Somewhere in Paris I believe I will master the piano and uncoil the language and write my novel in French about Morin, the French astrologer from the Renaissance.  I love this cool weather and it is the best time ot be in Paris because the tourism is light and the air is cracker crisp.  This is the best thing I can say about my day, is the imagery of future memories; padlocks with an identity crisis.

And that I dreamt that Henry Winkler visited a house that I was in and turned into a man I knew in San Francisco only slightly older looking; given that I haven’t seen him in nine years my brain was painting as it could; like, as any drug user can attest, when I dream of smoking a joint or other substance, in the dream my mind tries to recreate the sensation but it’s like watching someone do it on TV.  Thankfully I’ve flushed those out for the most part.  Last night I dreamt I saw my friend naked but she was nude also in front of another woman and a blond haired man and it seemed normal;

As for this day, all I can say is that there are times when you work through something, when you sustains it because it sustains you in a way or there’s something there worth keeping; and then there are times when it’s beyond rationality, beyond hanging healing stones around my neck, meditating it to a manageable nub, or going to the gym four times a day so your breasts are so overdeveloped from anger weight lifting men can’t look you in the eye and you know how it feels to be a woman; well, after today, I am beyond all of it with this particular issue.  It does nothing but produce hatred thought swirls and make my middle finger sore.  I’ll stay cryptic until it’s out of my life then I’ll get full on specific, if need be.  Let’s say I’m a magnet at times for the secretly sullen; it just happens;  I feel for the person but it’s like urinating in my blood stream;  that’s part of the reason I’m grinding my teeth into brownie mix.

I look forward to sleeping and seeing what the great Henry Winkler wants to do next with my spirit guides, hopefully not let them appear in an Adam Sandler movie.