Breathing in smoke curls that fill the air precariously like so many tired tangents and faded intensity for causes lost before realized,
…. and breathing in the tired air.

Leaving my second hand lungs, like my second hand language, to the mercy of another’s atmosphere, dense in a borrowed sophistication that is more a curse in this environment plagued by self-denial and cities full of funhouse aspirations,
…. and leaving absence to philosophy.

Watching these clowns wear their large red intentions that shout for substance, while holding a fistful of brightly colored, rubber-encased helium dreams,
…. and watching it all burst.

Clothing my intentions in art because it is just easier that way and for christ’s sake, there’s so little aestheticism left in this gelid sphere past sex and designed/controlled communication that I cannot turn away from,
…. and clothing myself in comfort.

Apologizing for cynicism when it’s the only defense I have left against the perfect pulses that mutate my imperfect impulses as I walk into a warehouse of horror and fear -they- named Walmart and Best Buy and the local supermarket,
…. and apologizing to myself for all I can never see.

…. and breathing in …

/ -they- are working for
/ a conglomerate of retina pixellations
/ a colliding event horizon, reported from the
/ collective implosion: unconscious humanity
/ but it is stasis, -you- riddle
/ configuring for a
/ stagnant generic neorosis
/ “no” and a little twitch
/ (i must think conscious thoughts)
/ and build off tv knowledge
/ to the open system
/ “you have a beautiful nervous …”
/ central-isis
/ you mean not linear
/ i mean co-linear and associative and free

so, I have rethought many things and am now out of fucking wausau … enough should be gleaned from that very statement … i needed a refresh i suppose, and this journal to be be less accessible … i realized how selective and half-hazard my journal’s entries are, and how much perception can be tilted because of this, but it can have beautiful possibilities as well … i can learn here … this should be a warning for others as well as myself … what you see is not all there is, just what is spilled onto some outpost, what is revealed, what is not … ha! the confused, chaotic spillage of expression and interpretation … anyway, on with the refresh air …

this internet space is so fascinating and so dangerous at once … i am turning the tubes off and facing south … this will be the last of me for awhile … those who wish to stay in touch can email me because this air is too thin … kayte i totally understand your post of months ago … i am going to write letters and photograph REAL things around me … that’s the only inverted perception i will allow myself now … this is an end to introspection … my website will be a bus station of sorts … but all this, i am wiping this slate clean … it has been needed for a long time now … i am turning this into a friends only place for history and then letting it delete itself when the account expires … because some things should be kept in dusty boxes and private corners … far away from this assuming realm of thought and skewed, single-point, flat-screen perception …and this is no longer who i am …

Jezebel, you make me curious of your actions, but I leave you to your world with this:
at this stage in our separate states, you require cutting, instead of developing … i now realize in destruction: mine is inward, yours outward … thank you for the brief encounter with an opposite … it made me think many things …

I will be your inspired application / journey(wo)man

If you be my home to throw it all away

i am missing music making at present … my fingers itch to create … i WILL pick up the note lines and chords and let my intuition take me to these places … i will pick up the guitar again … this time with reverence instead of desperation …

last night when i sat, wide-eyed with wonder, at my friends’ house and their group dynamic was nothing more than purely open, evolving, and fascinating, i was stunned and inspired and wearily realizing how much i miss real interaction with people on this level … these hard, sharp lines of reality … when i reach out to touch their clothes and faces and breathe in their scents, i can feel them … i don’t need to desribe every detail to make it seem as if it was real … it is real … i picked up some drum sticks and Falla helped me play the drums for the first time in my life and i could feel these rhythms dance within me, getting the sense of it as if it had been waiting there for me to realize in myself for so long, and we played together and i watched others play together … the melodies changed as the beats progressed and morphed into lines of music that did not need to be structured or broken down. no one had to quick write down the chords to make it concrete, to keep it in a jar and pet as if it would be lost someday, any day, tomorrow… because there is always more to create, always more as one continues to develop, one learns from the other, compliments the other, listens intently to each other … it just makes me want to give more and obtain more so that this can be a never-ending cycle of give and receive for us all … to just be for once, living, breathing, changing humans without fear of each other …

My subconscious unravels itself when this equation seems falsified to reiterate old wisdom and renew the taste of fresh conscious air. I must dig, I must hide, I must destroy, I must reconfigure data fucking storage, but I DO NOT forget … This is all so inexplicably necessary. It is beyond explanation, only poets could hope to give a road, weather-beaten, overgrown, and grass forked at best. This is all nature to me, human and earth. And when this catalyst touches my forehead, when brain becomes a fluttering eye, when I bathe here to wash the bloody crust away, I know it is only temporary and hesitant and fleeting. I write to remember “it” I realize. To understand the point of origin and continue. Many things are becoming clear and dear to me now. This glass is being wiped clean and pieced slowly back together in patterns my scarred hands can only just do. I know this path is killing me, but what most do not see or understand are the cycles I am intricately tied to forever. I must be a solid and solitary moon or planet or star. I must be alone in this sky and searching, meant to be watched, painted, reminisced, and pointed at from afar. This is who I am.

A psychic hermaphrodite, penetrating the world as it penetrates me …

I had the urge yesterday to run out in front of a busy street and stand in the middle to let death and life play with my hair and flirt with my intentions … this is not suicide, it is testing how far i will go, and i assure whoever has the redundant inaccuracy to doubt me as much as i doubt myself, i am fucking going all the way …

I have a strange sense of home around you that is hard to come by, especially for me. Although, a long ago history whispers fears of guilt, I can already see us building as I do with many people. As you must know the stars and molecules align only briefly and powerfully and you are a consistent reminder mystique can be fertile if housed in accurate perceptions, or at least we would like to think its too-green-for-reality vines and pastures are fantasy dreams we can wake up from without scars. I have them and I think you do, too. We both ran away, as these mental asphyxiations were closing in, for damn good reasons. There is so much experience and life I’d wish to share with you, not for fantasy so much as for a mutual understanding, a core need for freedom and destruction.

You never will know the instance I had of giving “it” all up to be available to you. Of fucking it all, but I have already done this and I would have been regressing, not developing I realize. Life is full of splits and so far I have been able to jump miraculously over them with only a few scars to my monikers. I cannot say I’v never fallen because I have, so deep, several times. I am always able to dig myself back out of my own self-dug graves. Mine is a dotted landscape of such extremeties and I can see you desiring such territories as well. I do want to show you, but know experience is the only way and I cannot do that for you, not do I think you’d want me to.

You flirt with intellectual intimacy, pull my flickering intentions down around my ankles as if I were merely an another mental suitor for you. Then I remember your necessary promiscuity of such things, pull my skirts back up and flutter back to reality. A taste, only a taste.

I think we could live a life of fluttering and flying and north to south migrations, there is a possibility of satiation of this burning desire, to know and grasp the phallic power of knowledge. You want to dance with me? I wonder who will try to deny the other first or who will give in. We both want to conquer the world, I wonder if we could or should conquer the other. And I wonder if that is the point of it, flirting with the disaster of our own personalities (feminine chaotic state) and somehow finding a way to downplay it all. Yeah, like hang out, whatever.

My motto as of late: Working to give meaning back to the life we all forgot we had.