My greatest flaw - discontent - My greatest value

A Few Days of Thought

It took him forty days, forty nights. In hot desert sin, his heart was warm, his body cold - his feet were bare. Dust storms came and midnight freezes and the serpent found many shapes of sinful comforts, but the vagrant's heart kept warm.

Artists try to allude to something with metaphors and analogies that have become so abstract that the point becomes elusive; like trying to pick up oil with bare hands. The greatest writers had the right words to put to life rather than illusions evading understanding. It's as if artists anymore haven't the words to explain a situation in its purist whole, so they create concepts upon concepts that miss the idea and lead to utter confusion.

Last night the Muse beckoned. Reluctant at first, I heeded her call. It came in a dream I decided to write down. As always I missed the details and could only recall generally what happened. Is there a way to recognize a dream, wake to write it, and, while writing, fall back into the dream? (I think they simply call this Creativity.)

I've found, the safest refuge is closed eyes,

next, a beard,

or placing chin in palm and biting the pinky nail.

You can hide behind drama or comedy

or face it all sans facade;

or bury yourself in a veil,

try not to reveal your fears... (so on...) (working on it)

I've come to realize, noone slithers in the desert.

Cars pass, crackling rocks,

elbows knock door jams,

fists pound coffee,

chirps cackle through cellphones,

heels clack pavement;

but the spider trickles,

subtle,

onto your neck,

through your collar,

down your back,

like fingernails.

God

A saved heart is one that goes from dark to dawn, but in what mathematics? Christian, Muslim, Judaism will all be dead. They'll have killed each other, and those who knew God will have survived. No victim of orthodox will perish, but shower in autumn leaves, surf along the mossy floor of forests, count the pebbles stuck in the sand, ignore the footsteps ahead or behind. They will be in what happens to them, and each individual will be the network of strings connecting to capture God, who wants to be captured, but not in doctrine, but a connectedness that supercedes words, physicality, and the material.

This is whateva

Whateva! I'm Brian and I do whateva. I sing and dance and fly on occasion, but mostly, I don't. But I can and you, be jealous. When I dance I sing, but I don't always dance when I sing. Sometimes I like to spread peanut butter on a bagel and put it in a toaster oven, or, put a bagel in a toaster, pop it up, then put peanut butter on it. I don't eat it, just throw it outside. I love wine, and, by love, I mean I adore it. I drink it often and much at a time. I get drunk a lot because of this give and take love-fest. Wine gives me flavor and I take the drunk. I give wine a home and it takes no time at all to get me drunk. I think we should launch hugs across borders. I believe in God. Maybe I believe in your God, but, I don't think God is yours. You are God's. So I should say, instead, I may believe in the God in which you believe. I don't like religion. I enjoy spirituality. I enjoy thought. I write often though this may be no good testament to the frequency I put down words. Whateva. I have an affinity for the road. I have a passion for Portland. I find what so many claim to be "reality" cumbersome. I strive for an existence not as mundane as those in the "real world." You may know what I'm talking about. If not, whateva. (to be continued)

21 September (midnight)

The moon has come up and been risen for roughly 40 minutes. I have tea Amanda left me steeping to my right. My eyes are heavy and drooping like tired breasts. But I don't want to fall asleep. As though awake I have company, asleep I can only dream of it, and my actual guests leave in the morning. The only thing pressing my mind is desire - my heart, desire.

It is, oft times, easiest to laugh.

The coyotes have started howling, yelping, crying - banshees coming with the heavier winds, they roll in like the grim reaper. And vanish. But not gone, they'll wait, they'll gather, they'll weep in my driveway and jerk me from dreams and I'll roll and listen and howl my own heart. They must be cold, lonely, and I, in my cold room, grow lonely.

12 September

My cigarettes; your diet - my meditation; your Sunday worship - my lustful eyes; your national pride - my philanthropy; your tithes - my God; Your God - my God is your God - my dark habits and your sin are equally wrong - my hope is your hope and we both send our wishes to God - and God says thanks to you as God says thanks to me for the thanks we show, the help we give, the sin we reject, the secular we neglect, the hurt into which we interject to calm and comfort and glorify God in. There is but one nation in the sky, accepting of all passports.

Currently Reading (in order of most recent)

* Numeric English New Testament

* Life of Pi

* Ezra Pound - Collected Poems

* Martyrdom and Artifice, Allen Ginsberg's collected journals

31 August

Where are our standards? Yours? Mine? Theirs? Now, then? We could focus on who is magnificent now, but this must be based on our own. We can compare to then, but we'd have to compare to all history. Bob Dylan, Mozart, Beethoven as far as impact on their society and future artists. But what does this matter? Standards, no, are our own. Set by our selves. Based on that which we find important. Could our biggest downfall be thinking we're becoming more like our heroes?

As we recognize this idea, we see a likeness, as if to be becoming her. Or him. Kerouac, Lohan, O'steen, Oprah, Jesus. He who wrote the best "Self-help" book never wrote. He who inspired me most only shared what he did. The best words I can think of are, "... as taught by ..." Rather, in trying to be, we practice. In becoming, we recognize ourselves.