A market of the senses
Dream of the perfect life

This heaven gives me migraine

forward

i tried
too much
with nothing
real
now i'm stuck
and i need to get out
it was fake
my life
i tried

falling down on the job

a mouthful of feathers.

nothing substantial, just bruised knees
and torn back muscles. I have fences to
mend (both literally and figuratively).
weeds to cut and bag. structures to map
out. paint to sling and dirt to sweep.
holes to dig. concrete to shape. lumber
to cut and sand and seal. a private affair.
I seem to crawl around these tasks slowly.
but I want something more substantial than
a mouthful of feathers...work done well so
that I can finally sleep.

What does one do with the unconscious?

I wish I could cough up this illness and be new again...
but today is just another exercise in interior degradation.

this is...

Pop!

sometimes I am a sorry witness

now

thanks...

she is there

Jim Carroll rip

Happy International Harry Nilsson Day!
created in 1971, by my brother, IHND is a day of celebrating all things Harry. Of course you don't have to, but it is highly recomended that you listen to nothing but Harry all day long...and perhaps make a toast toward Brentwood. Goodnight Harry.

"But somehow it isn't only not just the words isn't it?" --Prof. Schmilsson M.E. (me)

Jules and a younger moi

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...Brian,

Ustad Ali Akbar Khan

Thursday, June 18...one of the greatest musicians ever passed...his music has proven to be a very special gift, and has taught me as much as any art I have ever been exposed to.

...life is a test to see if you can remain kind...
...or to see if you can return to kindness if it is seemingly out of reach...

...I fooled myself into thinking that I was Shiva...
...I am but half a dancer, I just...
...I don't know the rest of the dance...
...I can't put the pieces back together...
...I am not what I danced for...

today I turn the same age as my father was when he died...I have five months to outlive him. something I have never allowed myself to imagine over the thirty-five years since his death. funny that this day is filled with mourning...I guess I mourn for him everyday, but today his shade weighs heavier than ever on me. here's to you Lorin. I wish you were here.

2008 and 2009 are proving to be indicators for the "Quiet Sun" phase for sunspots. Very few indeed. The idea of calling the lack of solar storm activity "quiet sun" began in the late 1800's. Also these periods of relative calm happen about every eleven years. So, despite the fact that I find the album by "Quiet Sun" altogether too proggy for my tastes (and lacking in soul)...I am going to give it a spin in honor of Sol...I do remember liking Eno's song "Rongwrong" okay...we'll see. Shine on.
helio

...this is a creation influenced by social forms...
...like everything, it is only a reflection of an aggregate...
...what is created from "time" is bound to "time"...
today I start again, in time over time
and hope to let go

I am a rescue dog.
I have lost the thing I "rescue".
I need to be rescued.
I want to be a rescued dog.
So I can go back to being a rescue dog.
"We" are injured...and I want to see my contract.
Well? There is nothing about "swimming" if I recall.
And stop looking at me like I'm some weird sideshow.
Did I say I bite? Metaphorically...that is.

sometimes the draw to actually get personal with no one is...well...I've done it...it won't happen again if I can control myself...besides there is no one out there anyway...right? I write this in a void...it is alone like my mind. ha.

Easter Bee swarm
A plague? Actually quite cool...but they got to go...
they just swarmed a couple hours ago in a tree in our
backyard...hopefully a bee person can come and
take them off to work elsewhere...hopefully.

Kitty Wells
He has Risen Day
after not eating for 7 days I awoke on Easter morning
to hear Kitty Wells blasting from the upstairs of the
duplex I lived at in San Clemente.

I ate that day...and every Easter morning I listen
to Kitty Wells...the Honky Tonk Angel.

...the truth stated precisely...
...what I have done, I have been compelled to do...

..."I do"...always reaching...

Sideshow...day 2...DC's SPD for TAT...


"...nor could they understand...that every day he felt like his life was on the autopsy table..."

Sideshow...for DC's SPD based on TAT:

"...they can't understand that I stopped believing a long time ago..."


he realized that death was exponential

DC's SPD TAT...


"...that's when I saw the truth spinning down the river..."

There comes a time. Absolute. Unquestionable. Darkly permeated by every breath that you have taken. All things lead up to this day. This moment. This thought. However fractured and seemingly crystalline. There comes a moment. And it is irreversible. Your heartbeat is more tangible than usual. Your body is plunged into a backstreet filled with shots of tired adrenaline. Tired shame. Tired. This breath. That reaching. Those words. The ones that fly out of your mouth like vandals sacking a city. The irretrievable mistaken thoughts formed between firing synapses jumping to your tongue before you can call them back. Atomic bombs unleashed without consideration.

Yes, inconsiderate. Like a child confused and pushed to a breaking point. No. That is too easy. Like an adult fucked up and not thinking. Years of anger and sadness and loneliness pummeling what little you might cherish to pieces. It is a grand delusion constructed to make things “fit” just so within the horror show. Your horror show. Externalizing the internal like a shotgun shell expelling its pellets. I shot you. Because it was time. Absolute. I see nothing but disease. Because I am diseased.

My failings are legion. Your patience is sanctified. I play out my days like a revolving door. Better (today). Fucked (tomorrow). Ruined regardless. I started out with a different desire. Simplistic and unadorned. Now the complex crown that I carry is covered with broken pieces of misunderstood flotsam. Perverted into a way of life so far removed from any idea of potential “being” that they are impossible to not recognize as malformed unrecognizable once-upon-a-times. Anger. Pain. Anger at the pain. Pain due to anger. A feedback loop that can never be disguised.

I am disingenuous. I am a mistake. My mistakes have made me carnate. Like some fallen god that once was held in esteem. By myself? All by myself. I tore my playhouse alter down. I pissed on my “good” nature. I become death. Slow and putrefied, all that I once possibly could have been is rotting. Has rotted. There is no redemption. I am not special. There is no magic. I am not gifted. There is no way out. Because I am diseased. That’s the only thing that makes sense now.

So I became a shadow. A post-Atomic puppet. Deep in this moment I know that there is nothing of any worth. That is freedom. To act and know that you are worthless. To be free of all illusions of meaning. But I have you. That is irreconcilable. Juxtapositions work though. Pretence is reality. I…am…not…here. Not anymore. I am a counterfeit. Yes, I feel. And I feel deeply. But I know that what I feel, what pains me so, what angers me, is indeed meaningless. So I bite you. I hurt you. I destroy myself. If I were a teen-age head this would still be acceptable. But I am almost the same age as my father when he died. And I will never wear his vestments. And I love you. How can that exist?

I have no one. “I’m your kind, and I know.” Lie. So true. Pick up the papers. Walk across the park. Step into the traffic. Tempt fate. But I always live to come back and hurt you. I love you. The curb looks mountainous. The street a long valley between monoliths. You had stood on the bridge and contemplated something before going home. I watched from below and then followed you. You. To our home. You. To our door. Our door an altarpiece. You, the ever-present lamb. I crawl into my Butcher’s coat—white and pressed—and call to you.

It is just a small cut in your happiness, I promise. But I say it differently this time. I worry that you remember all the cuts I have stolen from you. Over a life. Do you believe in that? That? Swift and sharp like a shot given quickly, you won’t feel a thing until it’s over. A life that is passing by. I’m your kind. And I know. So kiss me and give me a tender spot that I can encase in pain. Ah. Now it’s my turn. I don’t need to show a tender place. I am a raw piece of meat walking on awkward stilts up to your lips. Any place will do. Should I speak? Something that I believe is true or important? A gift. This is the place to slice me. Yes. There. You are my family. Existing. Feel my wick of a tongue kill that hoped for happiness. That is what you were hoping for isn’t it? To be with me? I-am-not-here. Cease.

...the chance, blown by the fact,
in such humiliating circumstances...

...and I am in paradise...

...staggering as if these words died on their way to you...

...like a casualty

...or a penalty

watched a red-tailed hawk catch "something".
watched a red-tailed hawk being attacked by crows.
watched a red-tailed hawk eat "something".
watched a red-tailed hawk bleed.
Buteos jamaicensis...the bullied bird

MS--Death Valley

MS--Death Valley

...whose hands were unafraid until then...

...hoping it never happened...

Behind nothing, before nothing.
This is the country of vertical time.
I will leave you to add the zeroes.
--Loren Eiseley

rock horse Titus Canyon

welp here we are...the brothers and me.
Top:My brothers with me in SC
Middle: Kirk and me in SC
Bottom: Me...Death Valley with my '70 Nova

tonight, I am a bullet, and I am alone...

Once, I always apologized...now I am an apology...

once I was a burnished feather...