Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Sing an Excusatory Note.

"I just don't like fighting," he said. "Or drama. I don't like wasting my energy on so many details of life that grab at me like thorns until my flesh is pulled down by the enormous weight of the earth."

She looked at him and he was encouraged to continue.

"I prefer learning to bear the lightness of being. I find my salvation in big, silent spaces and unspoken relationships. I want wind that pulls my breath away on a mountain vista. I live for transitions, where the sky and earth invade each other. Then the weight becomes my roots, holding me upright, nourishing me.

"I need to be engaged in the production of my own values. I strive to understand myself and my universe, with insatiable curiosity I am always trying to make things better. These are the terms on which I understand my world. This is how I make sense out of so much life. I live to serve.

"So I'm sorry it didn't work out. I'm so sorry, because to me this was as beautiful as any other thing, but it has become tedious, and encrusted, and I can't bear it any longer. I need...

a clean break."

She nodded, and slumped imperceptibly. He quivered. He took this as a signal of her love, and smiled. He knew she understood, but was occasionally terrified when faced by his own lack of understanding. He hoped they could still be friends.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Parl'r Majik

My life is primarily an art, and not a parlor trick, and any woman who does not see that, who is enamored by what she considers magic, is instantly debased to me. I require a woman who sees straight through me, who understands my method and motivations, and only then deems me a worthy companion.


The psychological detoxification of my so-called life.

Sitting in the Ft. Myers airport reflecting through the window on the past couple weeks. Pretty wild. Hectic, wearing, but uplifting, successful, empowering. I wonder what kind of pace I can maintain if I come off the coffee and eat well again on my return home. If I get a truck, stay fit and active, do pullups religiously and choke down protien like it's my job, wich it will be, because the only point of life is to live it under whatever terms you so choose beyond what your situation chooses for you.

My life has been filled with challenges and beauty, the flexing of old, dormant muscles and attitudes. I battled the DMV, exposed myself to failure for the first time in months with the needle tester and the pickup truck, and battled to the point of exhaustion. was good. I tasted victory. I succeeded in my pursuits. I felt like a better person.

I am still full of fear, I suppose, a nagging weight of fear that I do not shed for I no longer recognize the burden. But I challenge my fears anyway. The next giant to slaughter is the second try with the Fire Department. I must swallow my pride and return there, to give it a fair trial. I am waiting until I begin to trust my truick, however. I figure I deserve at least that respite and change of plan.

I think I can make a go of this lifestyle, but I need to reassess my awareness, and get some sort of framework for me and my friends to snap each other from complacency in order to live a life of full-on catastrophe.

I have had many thoughts on the pursuit of women, like the girl in town, the girl from Beacon, or the girl from up north. I need to dedicate myself, and realign myself with such pursuits, andplan out my success and failure. I need to accept I am a control freak who likes situations too complicated to control.

I have thought about my job, and how I need to make more of a concerted effort to remember names, pasttimes, to be warm and gracious and strong. I need to buy better clothes, get to work on time, impose rigor in my outlook and self-expectation.

And I need creative expression. If I have to, I will sever my Beacon life to fund a New York City one. I need a pool of people I can associate with, who will take the time to learn my language, and whose language is beautiful enough to learn myself.

The primer has been on the back-burner too long, as has pursuit of my own health through careful notation. I need to think about how to best record my life for health. I think designing my own software for this, or finding whatever might already exist, woud be a good first step toward many complimentary goals. I should research smartphone programming.

So, I could see a renaissance of self, if I live aware of all these small choices I make, concsiously or not, without metaanalysis. Without the view from 10,000 feet these are just words, they will fail as pieces of a challenging and beautiful puzzle of life. So where to begin? Songlines. Always making the best choice and weighing outcomes. Trusting intuition and challenging myself toward intuitive discovery. Record the changes so as to know how to repeat or avoid history.


I am still looking for the enchanted stone fox from which to pull my sword.

Sunday, November 6, 2011


"Sleeps and dreams of gardens
Gardens and trees and ladies at tea
Ladies at tea, they're wearing
... Wearing great tufted beasts upon their heads"

Ybor bedroom->coffee>nipples cut glass>shedding towel>dreamer>Cake>oatmeal>Staples>Walmart>copy center>wallet enlargement>business cards>convention>Dan the charmer>shut down>guiness>Ybor>Centro>sushi>waitress>street kids>heaters, tequila, and Brad's long island iced tea>main street>bars>girls>pickpocket>Colombia>irish coffee, with whipped cream from the surly bartender with the torn dirty shirt, the spanish moustache and the awesome sense of humor>bread pudding>the jazz drummer from
Terrytown who used to fix copiers and now sells auto parts>halloween>gay bar>clubs>hipster bar>PBR>hipster girls>Brad's Dance>yboring>cigarette moth friend>evil angels>communist hairstylist party>moth friend flies away>Polish pre-med girl and mean friend get their bench stolen> Jeep> club girls>Halloween 2, Busch Gardens>Leelo multipass>Abe Lincoln was the dead lovechild of Christian Bale and Ryan Gosling> tankgirl really got to sit in a tank, but she's underage so you can't buy her a drink>dubtrucks in the street>club girl looks like a singer, but her sister more so>I can't touch english language so I can't touch the ceiling and I don't get $20, but I can touch the sign>drunk enough to trip on the median>two cops and no white guys make the best clubs, but the white girls don't know and I can't dance>$8 parking and free restrooms>Ybor house> saved by a one-hour time change.See More