Do you ever wake up, gung-ho for the day, but you have to spend it doing something other than what you’re so excited for? Well, I feel this today, but I’m not bothered by it. I don’t think it will leave. Maybe temporarily, but not for good. I’m ready to explode.
Life, for me, now, as in, currently and recently, is about finding a free place to crash temporarily and work before moving on. I don’t know how long this will go on, but I love it right now.
Christmas is over, Papa is buried, New Year’s is in five days or so, which lends me the days between yesterday and next year to make money, money I desperately need, so that I can keep going, doing what is right. Right for me.
My life is: chaotic, random, planned, normal, exotic, exciting, uncertain, dangerous, safe (I’m in the US, things aren’t so bad here), finite, going to end, my own, what I make of it, my experiences translated for my own understanding based on my past experiences that have made who I am, dirty, beautiful, true, a search for purity, outside of resumes, bound within a sinking monetary system yet minimally participating, changing, developing, growing in experience, wonderful, pleasant, unpleasant, mixed-media artwork, continuing…
From life I want purity, honesty, truth, peace of mind and heart and soul, certainty in myself without the assurance of others…
BREATHE – Friday Saturday Sunday Monday Tuesday New Year’s Eve 1January
Work earn money work work drive-party rest -> then, find work, write book, live.
Looks like I’ve only got a few things I gotta do!
I get nervous of telling people what I’m going to do because then they expect me to do that. NONSENSE! on my part. Let them define. It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m going to create. So, I can say, “I’m gonna write a book.” And then get bored with that idea and build a shopping cart out of branches. And they’ll say, “What about the book?” and I’ll say, “I’m building a shopping cart now.” And they may be confused, but that’s not my problem. If they’re confused, they can ask if they truly care. And if they don’t truly care, why should I about their response to me? I want them to care? I shouldn’t care about that. All I want to do is create. Express. I’m going to. And it will be difficult, but that’s exciting. I’m gung-ho, afterall. I’m looking forward to this. I’ve always liked a challenge. Dad’s always called me “extreme.” Whatever that means, I’m looking forward to everything.
Everyone’s caught up in the diminishing economy! The tumultuous political and economic situation we find ourselves. THEY NEED SOMETHING NEW! I’m something new. No I’m not. But I’m pure to myself. People need to be pure to themselves. The world needs purity and honesty. I need purity and honesty. I want to find those others who are seeking purity and honesty and together, we’ll thrive and others can either join us or deny our mission, but it’s not a mission! It’s just living. It’s a decision regarding how we want to live! My friends who are my inspiration. We will do what we want to do and we will make it work for us and disregard what others say we should do because that wouldn’t be our own truth, it’d be someone else's view toward the world and all anyone can have is their own view regarding life and it’s good they have theirs and it’s good for you to have your own but it’s good for us to have ours and you should be excited that we do and I’m excited for you, as long as you come to your mindset by your own avenue. Find truth! Live for truth! Demand truth, but don’t wait for someone else to hand it to you. Demand it from yourself and find it in your own way. I’ll do the same. And I’m excited about it. Let’s do. Let’s grow. Like the seedling buried beneath concrete, let’s press through and thrive despite the heaviness of construction, “progress,” industry. I am a seedling, and I got a root going deep and it’s going to support me as I press through the middle of the street and all those god-forsaking automobiles WILL go around me. I will be watered by torrents of creativity, rainstorms of experience outside society’s normalcy. Watch me grow or don’t, but prepare to swerve.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Growing Tired, Growing Anxious
... and this ain't the half of it......
Driving through the city last night I realized the dull dust of Dallas is so much sadder than the brown and white sands of the desert, NM. Smoke rises from office thermostats and the roads sway back and forth and grab car-tires. At 5 a.m. a wreck headed westbound was being picked up before the heavy flow of rush-hour traffic. The wind was heavy on and the trailer rocked between the narrow lanes, guided by white lines, but I made it through the sad purgatory of highway between city and suburbs, made it home and went to sleep.
I drove, December 3, to the airport in El Paso and flew to NYC. I arrived, walked across the city to Amanda’s, stayed the week exploring, went back to the airport in Long Island, flew back to El Paso, drove to Cruces w/ Chad and stayed the night. Bed by 2, awake by 7:45, we drove to Alamogordo, packed the car, drove to Denton, arrived. We spent the week in Denton and, on the last day, I drove to Waxahachie to see Papa. He was dieing. I left there, swapped car for truck with Dad, drove back to Denton, gathered Chad, Ryan, Chris, and all our things, and hit the road that night for Alamogordo. We arrived at 7:30 in the morning, slept, woke, coffee, went back and packed, packed the next day, and packed, loaded, and left the last day, last night. Ryan, Chris, and I got back on the road at 4:30 in the early evening and drove all night back to Denton, arrived at 5:00 a.m. I dropped Chris off in Denton, Ryan in Corinth, and drove the last hour and a half to Gun Barrel City, Dad’s place. I napped, then got ready at Dad’s, helped him unload the trailer of Grandma’s things, then drove to Waxahachie for Papa’s viewing. After, we went to Granny’s, then home and bed. The next morning we woke, got ready, and left for the funeral by 7:15, went to the burial, then memorial, lunch, Granny’s, and back to Mom’s.
Papa has died, but Papa has not passed. We can mourn that his life now continues without us, but he’s never gone.
Papa has always been more than his breaths. He is the grandfather who taught me how to use a bow-saw, slow pulling back, quick and heavy pushing through the wood. Have you ever wondered how a horse eats versus how a cow eats? Well, neither have I, but Papa told me one day at the kitchen table while visiting the lake-house. He said a horse bites grass with its top teeth, a cow pulls up with his bottom. In this short lesson I learned where Papa came from. A boy who swam in the swimming-hole when he wasn’t working the farm. He told me his family killed their own meat. He taught me how to tie a square-knot. He showed me how to play Gin Rummy. He taught us all what it means to be loved.
Old Brownie, the truck, 1980 Chevy Silverado. It played eight track tapes and towed the camper if it wasn’t towing the boat. I fished from the boat. We stored our catch in the water-well. Did you catch the first, the biggest, or the most? Who saw the lake first when we went over the last hill, sunup? I learned how to ski behind the boat. Remember the old, dirty-orange life-vests?
Papa was with us with his bright-white hair, his true eyes behind broad-rimmed glasses, his southern-boy ears pointing out, attentively awaiting our next concern, and he’s with us still in his lessons, his love, and the memories we share. What do you remember?
My family’s eyes look so tired, sad, yet warm and inviting.
Soon.
Driving through the city last night I realized the dull dust of Dallas is so much sadder than the brown and white sands of the desert, NM. Smoke rises from office thermostats and the roads sway back and forth and grab car-tires. At 5 a.m. a wreck headed westbound was being picked up before the heavy flow of rush-hour traffic. The wind was heavy on and the trailer rocked between the narrow lanes, guided by white lines, but I made it through the sad purgatory of highway between city and suburbs, made it home and went to sleep.
I drove, December 3, to the airport in El Paso and flew to NYC. I arrived, walked across the city to Amanda’s, stayed the week exploring, went back to the airport in Long Island, flew back to El Paso, drove to Cruces w/ Chad and stayed the night. Bed by 2, awake by 7:45, we drove to Alamogordo, packed the car, drove to Denton, arrived. We spent the week in Denton and, on the last day, I drove to Waxahachie to see Papa. He was dieing. I left there, swapped car for truck with Dad, drove back to Denton, gathered Chad, Ryan, Chris, and all our things, and hit the road that night for Alamogordo. We arrived at 7:30 in the morning, slept, woke, coffee, went back and packed, packed the next day, and packed, loaded, and left the last day, last night. Ryan, Chris, and I got back on the road at 4:30 in the early evening and drove all night back to Denton, arrived at 5:00 a.m. I dropped Chris off in Denton, Ryan in Corinth, and drove the last hour and a half to Gun Barrel City, Dad’s place. I napped, then got ready at Dad’s, helped him unload the trailer of Grandma’s things, then drove to Waxahachie for Papa’s viewing. After, we went to Granny’s, then home and bed. The next morning we woke, got ready, and left for the funeral by 7:15, went to the burial, then memorial, lunch, Granny’s, and back to Mom’s.
Papa has died, but Papa has not passed. We can mourn that his life now continues without us, but he’s never gone.
Papa has always been more than his breaths. He is the grandfather who taught me how to use a bow-saw, slow pulling back, quick and heavy pushing through the wood. Have you ever wondered how a horse eats versus how a cow eats? Well, neither have I, but Papa told me one day at the kitchen table while visiting the lake-house. He said a horse bites grass with its top teeth, a cow pulls up with his bottom. In this short lesson I learned where Papa came from. A boy who swam in the swimming-hole when he wasn’t working the farm. He told me his family killed their own meat. He taught me how to tie a square-knot. He showed me how to play Gin Rummy. He taught us all what it means to be loved.
Old Brownie, the truck, 1980 Chevy Silverado. It played eight track tapes and towed the camper if it wasn’t towing the boat. I fished from the boat. We stored our catch in the water-well. Did you catch the first, the biggest, or the most? Who saw the lake first when we went over the last hill, sunup? I learned how to ski behind the boat. Remember the old, dirty-orange life-vests?
Papa was with us with his bright-white hair, his true eyes behind broad-rimmed glasses, his southern-boy ears pointing out, attentively awaiting our next concern, and he’s with us still in his lessons, his love, and the memories we share. What do you remember?
My family’s eyes look so tired, sad, yet warm and inviting.
Soon.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
NYC
My God, why are they drilling at night?! It pierces my ears with the squeeky wheels of the constant passing buses, squeeling trash trucks. Honks. Honks! Beeps. Pwap. Twap. Mrr of the radiator, drip drip of its leaks, tap – dop – bat of it’s straining parts, but at least it’s steady fan softens the occasional calm outside, but then the fridge resides inside the bedroom and snores like my dad from his congested nostrils of allergies to dust and dogs and here, the fridge deals with street-grime and roars on to interrupt the city that never sleeps.
Amanda laid asleep, as much as she could sleep, which isn’t a habit she really has anyway, across the desk from me in bed. I sat near the window and looked outside across the cold-steel fire escape that led five floors down – we’d be the last to go in the event we needed to, which would make jumping the next-best option, or trudging through the flames, which may offer more hope because sitting there seems inactive, although, such calm. To find yourself trapped, or, to see yourself set-free, but that’s not to say enjoy death, but accept it. Let the warm arms of mother wrap you in her breast forever. Go there sobbing away Life, but never bitter. Father’s gruff streets and 5-oclock shadow, whether we accept it or not, is become us, but only so much as we let him. Someone power-washes the sidewalks outside as passers-by talk loud and traffic pulls up and something else whines.
I don’t want to see the landfills out here. The difference between Portland and NYC, which, I believe is a key characteristic that drapes - like soft Portland clouds or the City’s fog - both cities remarkably well, is recycling bins. The streets aren’t gritty, they’re blue with reducing; instead of harsh walls dense with smog and hefty black trashbags collected along the curb in lines like people waiting for the bus, except there’s more bags than people, not the only difference, obviously, waiting for 24-hour trash pickup. Happy colonial Atlantic seas or brooding and pleasant Pacific. New York commerce or West-coast cliff-sides. Either way, I’m in New York.
But I don’t want to see the Statue of Liberty either. “When will you take off you’re clothes?” Allen Ginsberg rings through my brain like the liberty bell - broken, understood, profound. Vespas resound between the city’s brick walls, reach high notes in the hollow-steel fire escapes. I think the wind howls, but it could be the radiator; no, it’s outside noise seeping through the window-frame seams. Truly.
It’s miserably romantic with all the noise, New York’s first snow last night, Rockefeller plaza and its Christmas tree, the windows dressed for Berghdorf Goodman’s holidays, white and crystal blue, pearls, dresses with lace and snow-white animals, the walk to Second on Second for karaoke, too crowded, leave soon after arriving, head for the next bar, decide to head back to the apartment and seek refuge from the cold. On the walk, the cigarette between my lips, the snow on Amanda’s cheeks, the smoke I breathe out and the breath that follows and there is no segue between where the smoke ends and my breath begins, it all looks the same in New York’s frigid cold. Damp, soggy, noisy, smeared street-lights and echoing horns, drunk karaoke, careless stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, frustrated nudges with elbows, Brooklyn accents, Italians, lovers under umbrellas in sheik, black pea-coats, earmuffs, scarves, leather gloves, women in fur, pimps in fur, hookers in heels and hose and miniskirts and big, open coats and cigarettes between their long-red-fingernails fingers.
Amanda laid asleep, as much as she could sleep, which isn’t a habit she really has anyway, across the desk from me in bed. I sat near the window and looked outside across the cold-steel fire escape that led five floors down – we’d be the last to go in the event we needed to, which would make jumping the next-best option, or trudging through the flames, which may offer more hope because sitting there seems inactive, although, such calm. To find yourself trapped, or, to see yourself set-free, but that’s not to say enjoy death, but accept it. Let the warm arms of mother wrap you in her breast forever. Go there sobbing away Life, but never bitter. Father’s gruff streets and 5-oclock shadow, whether we accept it or not, is become us, but only so much as we let him. Someone power-washes the sidewalks outside as passers-by talk loud and traffic pulls up and something else whines.
I don’t want to see the landfills out here. The difference between Portland and NYC, which, I believe is a key characteristic that drapes - like soft Portland clouds or the City’s fog - both cities remarkably well, is recycling bins. The streets aren’t gritty, they’re blue with reducing; instead of harsh walls dense with smog and hefty black trashbags collected along the curb in lines like people waiting for the bus, except there’s more bags than people, not the only difference, obviously, waiting for 24-hour trash pickup. Happy colonial Atlantic seas or brooding and pleasant Pacific. New York commerce or West-coast cliff-sides. Either way, I’m in New York.
But I don’t want to see the Statue of Liberty either. “When will you take off you’re clothes?” Allen Ginsberg rings through my brain like the liberty bell - broken, understood, profound. Vespas resound between the city’s brick walls, reach high notes in the hollow-steel fire escapes. I think the wind howls, but it could be the radiator; no, it’s outside noise seeping through the window-frame seams. Truly.
It’s miserably romantic with all the noise, New York’s first snow last night, Rockefeller plaza and its Christmas tree, the windows dressed for Berghdorf Goodman’s holidays, white and crystal blue, pearls, dresses with lace and snow-white animals, the walk to Second on Second for karaoke, too crowded, leave soon after arriving, head for the next bar, decide to head back to the apartment and seek refuge from the cold. On the walk, the cigarette between my lips, the snow on Amanda’s cheeks, the smoke I breathe out and the breath that follows and there is no segue between where the smoke ends and my breath begins, it all looks the same in New York’s frigid cold. Damp, soggy, noisy, smeared street-lights and echoing horns, drunk karaoke, careless stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, frustrated nudges with elbows, Brooklyn accents, Italians, lovers under umbrellas in sheik, black pea-coats, earmuffs, scarves, leather gloves, women in fur, pimps in fur, hookers in heels and hose and miniskirts and big, open coats and cigarettes between their long-red-fingernails fingers.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Haunted Mountain Road
The sounds at night aren't as haunting as the thoughts that ask where you're headed. Home or alone or without a job?
When you get to the top of the hill, throw it in neutral and drift.
Then, follow the engine or the bumps in the road,
Either way, the engine breaks down and the bumps become craters.
Go blind and lose the distractions; lose sight and you won't know your way.
Arrive when you're time comes, but watch your own watch.
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