maybe. I mean no, yes okay I guess

I am tired and want to do laundry. I am going reluctantly to dinner. I think it might be a date. I don't give a shit. I am weird and this small county is making my stomach crawl. But, hell, maybe I'll have fun. At least I get to eat and we all know how much I love to eat.

On a side note I am reading 50 shades of the most poorly written book since Harry Potter's Twilight Eclipse of the Heart. Anyhow, I think I can do better.

I believe that a computer is on its way into my life in short order. Serialized erotica is the wave of my future.

Peace I gotta go put pants on and brush my teeth, I'm getting fancy

Je Suis une Terroriste

I am my own weapon. Everything around me becomes a tool for heat, sharp points of metal call me by name. Fighting down this hate in me, I sit, drink coffee, and smoke cigarettes to calm my nerves. I am testy, but play nice on tv. (Secretly I thank the gods I am not on television.)

The bottom line the real bottom line is a movable intangible shadow that larks about and shifts into out of focus. It is in this shape shifting that I recognize myself without form. It is the form I despise.

There it is across wet concrete across rain streaked mirrors along the weathered cedar barn door the forgotten remembrance of manifestation.

My super power ability to see in the dark and all that I can imagine is nothing compared to the ability to feel sound and express it physically.

A Thought on Benelovent Pockets*

*21.9.12 I don't proof read or reread all that often. Benevolent, right, there is no spell check for the titles. Now you know, I spell by memorization of a visual pattern. I am deciding to incorporate benelovent into the lexicon. Definition to follow in future days.

I had an emergency bag (pants, swimsuit, soap, underware, toothbrush, sweater) packed into the back of Sparkey, my once functional 1985 300D Mercedes. As the months since may have rolled by I've been removing the items one at a time.

The blanket helped put out a road fire off Dry Creek; the sweater pulled hastily out one mid-cigarette mid-conversation evening: reception out here is a patchwork of towers and networks lose signal constantly, I've found if I want to talk I have to remain stationary--The sweater kept me in our conversation, I don't know if you remember talking that night, but we did.

The pants and swimsuit though. The sat wrapped in a cotton grocery sack this whole summer, forgotten scraps of fabric that once helped hold memories against my skin. I pulled the bag out of the trunk saturday afternoon looking for the bikini (not that I belong anywhere near a bikini at this point in time, that's neither here nor there) I packed down to san francisco but never wore.

I pulled my purple jeans out of the bag sad at being last chosen they grumbled over my ankles and wept over my thighs. On they fit right, which means I must be a healthy weight, somewhere that makes people think I look okay but makes me feel stuffed, thick, heavy limbed. The scale says 115. I call bullshit on it and use the dumbbells to double check it for accuracy. Forty pounds of dumbbells registers as forty pounds on the scale. I remain incredulous and portly.

The purple pants know and they don't lie.

I slid into them and buttoned my shirt, the mirror glances back at me and my reflection seems presentable. First inspection passed. My eye lingers on my reflection's right hip. The key pocket has a bulge. The small vial of Russian Caravan Tea perfume that is my favorite perfume of all time presents itself. A gift from Chaya of the past to Chaya today: here is one of your favorite things, I love you. From, Chaya Lovingly. That's what the note would read, if I'd written one.

Now today I don't know so much about anything, but I know that this bottle of perfume was considered long gone and I'd gone as far as to forget the pants ever belonged to me. Somehow in all of this I feel a mild sense of redemption and maybe even a little spark for a more hopeful tomorrow.

catch where catch can

Hmmm back to the toshiba, that means wretched spelling and a moderate use of commas.

The farm. I've lived on this farm now minutes and days away from a year. Amazed that I've been able to weather the storms of emotion, exhaustion, and, that intangible forgotten reason that I came here in the first place, education. I suppose of all of the things I've done in my short life figuring out how to live here and exist between the cracks is teaching me more than anything else I've ever done.

This week: say no to dates that don't sound like fun from the get-go. I don't have to do anything with anyone I don't want to. Take that money bags your fancy car and sweet smelling cigars can keep on rolling, I am just not willing to be pinned down and told how a first dates is gonna be.

I fall in love with my friends all over again. The ones who've stuck through it, seen the upside down reflection of our faces hovering over mirrors in dark rooms before dawn and are back now clean and tight with no secret agendas but an agenda nonetheless. Secret agenda man, I love you guys. There is something to be said about the pact of time and the ability to overcome ourselves as we know eachother we find ourselves. Something like that. Not quite. What I am saying is that I have the most rotten friends. They show up when needed, support me, call me out on my bullshit, and the big one, I have emotional trust with them. I love you.

Emotional trust is the challenge of my life. Since I didn't learn trust in my family as a child, I am learning it now. Hard knocks and tough spills. But I am starting to learn about the magic word" No, sir, and thank you very much." Those magic words keep me safe, though they're not nearly as much fun as "Fuck yea, I'm all in!"

Not loving this

Is there a qualifier for the absolute mayhem I inhale? I no longer touch reality with kid gloves. With searing rage I looked at the electric element on the kitchen stove. Glowing red, hot as the old piece of shit can get, my instinct is to press my arm against it against the coil as they cool.

Gulping air and choked on tears, I grab the coffee the pouch of rolling tobacco the phone and blast out into the midday heat.

Pushed out of my body I suffer the agony of separation. It is the ability to see but not feel the body. My tools to get back are limited; the older I become the less I seem to consider the implications.

Mad as fuck I suck down nicotine. I am a survivor. Of what remains to be seen. I need help in the form of a computer that functions, a home o my own, and a fall and winter to write.

Hi hello howdy and goodmorning

I Update now from my touch and will ask forgiveness in advance for my no good lack of grammar. But hey now an improvement the I before E department is not a bad thing. He'lllll yea auto correct, I'll take it.

Life is okay weird interesting. I have no real updates save I smoked a delicious cigar last night because I walked by a stranger and stopped to say hello. Loss of talking to strangers leads up new faces in my mind and numbers I'm my phone. Ladies and gentlemen may I step away from my preconceived ides and please begin to have fantastic fancy friends.

Anyhow on wretchedly broke. The computer remains on the fritz and all in all I should probably say fml but I kinda like the rough hewn edge.

Happy as a Kite

Morning happens cracking eyes like eggs in a hot pan eyes open and the soul returns from its nighttime holiday. I reach functional caffeine and nicotine levels quickly. One, two, three coffees hot and black consumed in rapid succession.

(I realize now there is no spell check on this toshiba, for which I appologize.)

I have everything in life: Absolutely nothing is mine. I let go and the edge of existance pushes back against me, bouying me up against the backdrop of reality, against the storm of my mind I am happy as a kite.

Alone together this spoken aloud agreement to be honest with my words that take form in actions, I undo the past today, start fresh with hot coffee and watch my body heal.

It is not the body which must heal but the mind which tortures the body. Hidden in plain sight these wounds, these scars, these memories on flesh truimph against anguish, a survivor of life I chase myself. A fox, a wild boar, a rattlesnake I hunt the hunted and rip flesh from bone chewing slowly on the meat suck marrow from bone. Not so alone when one is a carnivore.



Wildfire Feral Child

There is grass in my hair, oil under my nails, I sleep with a switchblade, if possible I live on redbull and redvines.

More than anything right now I feel more lost, alone, unsure, free, captured, loosed upon the world a force of nature.

salt wind death

Riding north across the golden gate bridge it is evening, the notorious bay fog thick against my face sheild, I pull my lips into my mouth and count seconds in minutes as I pray to an unknowable god. Pusing north passed the bridge the fog thickens and the wind grabs me and pushes me into the next lane. I can't manuever my motorcycle. I slow to a crawl and pray that the concrete is not too wet and that the slide across the lanes will be limited. I count my breaths inhale, exhale, inhale. Crouched low over my tank to limit the impact and reduce my size I aim for the rainbow tunnel. Dinner is in my throat as I enter the tunnel. I hear my riding companion's harley behind me which is good because I can't sit up to check my mirrors and make sure that he's upright and alive. The fog and wind double leaving the tunnel and I know that I am alive and my heart and my throat and my hands tighten into being.

Easy to Forget

How a year ago I lived in a big town in oregon and was busy losing jobs and shoveling eggs into people's throats, until I lost that job and did nothing but bum around feeding my horse babyruths and praying.

It's not that it has been simple or easy to let go of everything I've ever known just to step out and decide one day that living my life for the care and comfort of those around me lost flavor. Succor I believe is the word, but I am far away from my dictionary and no one else is awake and I don't feel like moving for anything beside more coffee.

Now here I am. Single for the first time ever, learning how to answer to myself, to take responsibility for my actions, words, deeds, responses. Mostly sober for personal reasons, I can assure you that has never happened. Any historic sobriety was forced upon me by my natural inclination to do what those around me did.

But in this here and I now, I do what I want. And I get lonely, tired, hungry, exhausted; my body aches from sore muscles, pulled ribs, not enough food, water, sleep; I go out far across the horizon in search of new smells, thicker air, mottled light; I sleep against trees and eat what I can find, borrow, steal.

Long very short: I chose this life. Broken fingernails, hay between my freshly laundered sheets, the ups and downs in living in a dormitory, all of it. I wanted all of this, it is so easy to forget how much I want because of how much I have.

I am quick on the draw

and quick to the line in the sand that I drew and stepped across

I quit boozing and killed a rattlesnake this week. There is more to that story than that handful of words.

And the pushing walls that come in and the faces that circle my horizon and the quiet secret place of stroke stroke breathe as I swim down the river I know it is time to quit smoking too as my lungs turn to cinder and my skin evaporates.

Not too much of a safety net these days.