12:35

Melodramatic whine.

waves on rocks on the beach

Time elapsed, time behooves me to write once again, so I write, but not with form or content in mind; writing for writings sake is the compulsion. This isn’t a block, but thought flowing freely from my finger tips; this isn’t a meditation on the craft, but a masturbatory release. Coherence and structure are lost in this moment. What is written here is comparable to stretching one’s muscles or a platter of appetizers. The mood is not set. I’ll set the mood when I start, this is just a warm-up. It’s all down hill from here. I have nothing but this short distance, a brief spasm of misunderstanding to show for twenty years of breathing.

I feel like my mind is constipated, like there’s something in there, but I can’t push it out. Or maybe I’m just empty inside – empty and longing. Sometimes I worry I don’t have a personality and other times I worry that I do, but he’s just negative and cynical with out many redeeming qualities. I take that back, I don’t worry. Sometimes I dread, but not about things like my recent concerns. What it comes down to, I guess, is that I’ve never asked myself what I would do, or even thought of an answer; sometimes I just do, while others I do nothing. For the most part this has kept me content, but with the distinct flavor of burnt toast (and sour hemp).

There’s nothing quite like the flick of lighter, rumble bubbles, wheeze of intake. And the attitudes that go with it, reverence to nihilence to giggly to detached. The seekers and the searchers join those with the settled in one chill, but revolutionary act. Sometimes released, sometimes grounded, but always the same. Oh how vivid.

How do you drive around _in_ circles?

Ouch

There was a hole in the hose, or if there wasn’t we made one. The lesson here is to follow directions. The price you pay may be a hand. Presently, I’m sitting here thinking of something to do while my dad is at the hospital, possibly getting his hand amputated.

I could keep working on the house, but one side is too sunny and the other has some wetness from the washing. I could work out (perhaps should is a better word). Or go to Hempfest. Or wait – better yet I should try to make something happen.

It seems that every time my mom tries to get the family to go to Chelan, someone has to go to the hospital or get hurts pretty severely. While that’s terrible, I don’t want to go. The parallels are uncanny. UNCANNY.

Edit: Surgery is still a possibility but there will be no amputation.

Kushion

Why is it that I accomplish more when I bake in the mornings, even if that leads to a later start in my days? Caulking has dragged by, but in just a few hours I killed the bees and banged out most of the priming in just a few hours. If I wake up early tomorrow I can finish the prep on all the reachable stuff before Andy comes to town, or I can work out (which is an attractive option because I haven’t been doing shit in that department since I ate the asphalt).

I’ll be done by the end of next week easily and once again, I’ll be doing nothing. That’s O.K. because I’m a huge narcissist. If only you knew. I drink myself in for breakfast.


Not much to report. My bad. ! Holy shit, I just heard an explosion!

I'm not a strict vegetarian anymore. I still choose not to eat meat, but if I were to sit down to a meal and my hosts served me some meat, I'd eat some (not that I'd be happy about it). Seafood is still too scary to eat, even if fish grow locally.

There was a meteor shower last night and now I feel realignment in the cosmos. Things shift toward equilibrium.

Tomorrow brings a new piece.

you were so young

I Embrace My Nuts

I think I’ll start off with a rant to the person who made a three point turn in the middle of the road not even ten feet away from a cul-de-sac they could have turned down: You’re stupid.

Now I’ll rant about painting my parent’s house: the thing is fucking huge, why the hell did I decide to give it a full prep? My caulking fingers are getting torn up and I still have more than a side to go. Next I have to prime with A-100. Fuck that shit. How the hell am I going to get the can up to the knotholes when it doesn’t have anything to hold it with? Way to design your can assholes. Also I need a taller ladder to hit the peaks and there’s a ton of shit in my way making finishing the prep work impossible. With just my thoughts and music to keep me company progress has been incredibly slow. And I have to get rid of the bees, but they have just as much a right to live there as I do to paint it. I will paint no more houses forever.

Withdrawals are a bitch. And it hasn’t even been three days? HAHAHAHAHAHA sick.

Now that that’s out of the way, I’m going up to Bham tomorrow to finally sign the lease. And I’m going to clean Noname and The Mini. There’s something therapeutic about that. I like the smell of the formula.

Yesterday Alexandra and I saw a movie (Orson Welles take on Shakespeare’s Henry the IV, Falstaff Chimes at Midnight. The cinematography was epic; there were no frames that could not have been stand alone pictures. But I don’t like all the cuts to the dialogue he had to make). It had been over a month (I think) since we last saw each other. That’s way too long – especially since I don’t really do anything and my attempts to change that have failed. And there was a rainbow over Capital Hill!

Follow the music.

This Will Enrich Your Life

I don’t know what to write on this lamp lit evening. I’m sitting on a couch with ma kitteh. I haven’t been doing much of anything to be proud of – not much of anything to be more precise. I started prepping my parent’s house to be painted. Doing this job alone with out a sprayer is going to be crushing.

My cat fell asleep by me, but now she’s smacking her lips. What gives cat? What gives?

Writer’s block is seldom cured by reading. I’m going to try to write something everyday from now on, although I know this isn’t the first time writing everyday has been resolved.

This is pointless. I don’t even know why I’m going to point it. Blogging is stupid. No one cares what I think or what I write. America is a land of lonely people all narrowly focused on their own little lives – so self absorbed we Americans are that we think our opinions matter so we voice them. This volume falls on the un-wanting.

Unfulfilling.

The End of the Universe?

Did Bri Wi just bring up the military-industrial complex? NBC's evening news anchor? Holy Shit.