Mom, I love you so much I could cry.

...

oh, eleven.

I have a very positive outlook for the New Year.

but let me end the current year by saying this...

FUCK YOU "Commonwealth" of Pennsylvania and your heartless bullshit criminal tax double-dipping Dept. of Transportation.

(the above statement has been abridged. there was a much longer statement but frankly there's no point whining about any of the things mentioned in it any more than this.)

chain link fence. viking helmet.

fancy dove.

Indian cobras have two penises. this is a true fact.

here's a joke I wrote in my dreams last night...

Q: what is a table's favorite flavor?

A: chairy!!!

I also dreamed I was in a band called Octopus Gemini.

the fine art of time travel, part 1

I do not know anything about science anymore, or much for that matter. way back in high school physics was the only class I ever failed. but by that late point in time I was very distracted and had basically given up on going to school anyway and could not wrap my brain around anything anymore. prior to that when I was very focused and enjoyed exercising my brain and participating in class education, I found I truly truly had a knack for chemistry. I could perform and solve elaborate chemical equations in my head; they just made perfect sense to me. I could look at a long string of chemical equations and certain numbers and characters would literally sort of jump off the page and my brain would just lock into answers. my teacher never fawned about it, but I knew he knew I really got it. he tested me once in front of the class. we walked in and the chalkboard was completely covered with equations. he asked me what it "said." it was a series of names and words formed by addition from the table of elements (i.e., "barium" "gold" "water") I knew every word before I even sat down (the rest of the class didn't even know who Barry M. Goldwater was). it was one of the RARE moments in high school when despite the crushing awkwardness I felt, there was a glimmer of hope and pride in there somewhere. I have often thought if I hadn't become so distracted and confused and sad during that period of my life I could have pursued further higher education in the fields of chemistry. but that is all a story for another time, and for those who know me of course I did not involve myself in chemical science.

it's no secret I have vivid dreams. crazy, scary, epic, hilarious, disjointed, focused, imagination altering dreams.

but every once in a while, something is different.

on rare occasions, I will wake with a different perspective on what was going on behind my peepers. a recent case in point:

I was sitting in a diner, what would NOW be described as a very old diner, but to me was totally familiar. it must have been the late 20s/early 30s. I had the sense I was in a large metropolitan area. it was a long room with glass windows at the front and counter service to my right side, with a short wooden wall dividing small wooden tables and booths parallel to it. it was quite crowded, not exceptionally noisy. I sat near the front at a crowded table yet knowing I was solo, facing the window. I turned around a time or two and could easily describe the people I saw sitting, eating, reading a paper, what they were wearing, the appearance of their clothes and hair. this was not an expensive restaurant (there was one man who stood up to unbutton his shirt to reveal his a large belly stretching a tank undershirt and suspenders to breaking point). I was waiting to eat, or had nothing to eat, and stood once to walk over to a glass fronted and topped candy counter near the front of the place in front of the window.

that's it. NOTHING happened. no strange events or meaning. no bizarro moment. in fact, it wasn't like a dream at all. it was like a memory. but not mine. I could feel the atmosphere around me, gauge my location and surroundings, hear more clearly than my own tinnitus-ed ears can, saw clearer than my vision affords, could describe the yellowish incandescence of the lighting, feel the quality of the material of the jacket I was wearing, feel the smooth sturdy thickness of the glass from eras long gone, could smell the type of wood of the booths mixed with food cooking and cigarette smoke, could describe the packaging of candies I have never heard of or no longer in existence in that case, could describe the city sounds muted just beyond.

it was a vivid recollection of a moment that happened to someone, or could have. I don't know perhaps it is just my vivid imagination. but I didn't wake with a feeling of "quite a dream" but more of a feeling like it was purely something remembered. a memory of something I never experienced but somehow did not seem foreign to me at all.

is there a theory into things like this? does it stand to reason that seeing as the brain runs or generates so much electricity that perhaps this is possible? in that, just as the brain is capable of "recording" stimulus we experience that perhaps the memory of others is broadcast beyond their mortal coil? or is released into the atmosphere at passing and picked up by others like signals from a radio? are certain brains tuned to the same frequencies and more apt to dial into this? is there a collective unconscious that is tapped by brains that are receptive to signals more strongly than others?

who the hell really knows? apparently there are large areas of the brain that are mostly unused or not understood, so maybe it's not so far fetched. our brains remember so many things that are broadcast to us from across the airwaves or through a signal in a cable or from a tower of power somewhere. people have been around a lot longer than this sort of man-made technology, and that is an incalculable number of firing synapses. so...?

breaking the fourth wall, part 5

"you know when you get really drunk and the only thing that makes you feel better is to throw up? it's kind of like that."

I had been working for a few months on assembling my writings together and getting some layout help in anticipation of releasing a collection of my previous works/stories/poems plus a few new pieces all in one volume. I decided it's not going to happen.

me and a few of the good fighters have this thing we do when certain circumstances happen and the moment calls for it that we just laugh as we shake our heads rather than cry and say "no one cares" and it if you say it with just the right tone it sums up everything pathetic and hilarious and all that at once. but it's true! no one cares! ha! and really, that's okay. it's all in how you handle the truths anyway.

this month I received some interesting home schooling on the subject of the art world. and according to source materials, true artists "fail in public." well HOLY SHIT. in the company of wolves! enough said.

of course I have never considered myself an "artist"- minus the usual outsider angst-title every dick with a guitar or a pen or a camera impresses upon themselves when they are 20 years old. I am much better suited as an entertainer. or at least the title of entertainer. try, try, try.

I used to paint! I used to do like one painting a year and give it away as a gift. to people who were very special to me. the funny thing is, aside from my brother and one lifelong friend, everyone else I ever gave one of my paintings to has vanished from my life! I wonder what ever happened to those paintings? although after a very long lapse in the series I did make a very small painting a couple years ago for a friend. I didn't have any paintbrushes so I used a steak knife. I haven't attempted anything since. to this day, I still laugh when I think about the painting I gave my brother. oh it came out of a very "serious heavy time" for me then, but at the very moment I handed it to him it hit me all at once how hilarious it was and I laughed out loud and still do. THAT was more of a turning point in my life than any heavy handed brushstrokes could deliver. my god that painting. the most serious, SERIOUS thing I ever attempted at capturing. fucking hilarious. I won't describe, but to the privileged few. still laughing.

the music though, that's another story. another ridiculous story. oh Good Lords in the Heavens.

...

(new phone. I am very, very upset about getting one.)

anchors & apron strings

last night I had another one of the dreams where I'm on stage in a fully realized band performing. I've had these so many times before and dreamed entire songs, set lists, members, stage and gear set ups, look and sound and vibe of the band. usually the people I tell about these dreams laugh and shake their head in disbelief.

anyway last night's group was called the Black River Witches and it was an amped up rootsy rock group. the faces of the members weren't as clear this time but we were in the throes of a raging twang and crunch of a number called "Anchors & Apron Strings" that was very epic and heartfelt. Obviously it was about things that hold you back, hold you down, and in the end - escape by any means necessary. I vaguely recall the melody but not so much the lyrics. I remember the feeling in my soul though as we performed it. it was pretty triumphant.

breaking the fourth wall

this is the point in the movie when I turn to the camera and start talking to the audience. or something like that.

it truly, truly hurts to not be doing the things you love.

years ago one of my best friends and I developed a new philosophy called The Brilliant Fire. in my 20's and born of this philosophy one of my personal mantras became "have a good time all the time." nearly double the years down the line a mantra is now "there is work to be done."

when year-end approaches it is human nature to review the past 365. I would say I personally accomplished (to my satisfaction) about 50 percent of the things I said I would. I was talking to Josh about this the other night and had understandably mixed feelings about this. the worst part was I realized I had set no goals (I'm not talking about "resolutions" here) for the coming new year at the time. I think that has changed.

the things I love to be doing, especially the thing I want to be doing most, are not impossible by any means. there are just too many ways I make it harder on myself than necessary. some changes need to be made for the better of it, independent of sensitivities and identities. once the viking helmet goes on and I devote my time to action and progress I am sure it will be at the top of next year's list of accomplishments.

the good fight, part 9.

I was talking to Ryan a few days ago about the price a person pays when they decide they aren't going to work for the man no more. there is a distinct possibility the price of freedom is a trip to debtor's prison. sure, I have some money socked away and every day I think of cashing in every last dime I have to go all in. but just to get back to zero? so I guess the price a person pays for sanity is their life's savings.

there are evil shadows cast by whisper knives born of glances toward the fields of green grass yonder, on the other side. you got to find a light to burn them out.

there is a good fight that goes on against the easy impulse to be bitter and caustic and jealous and all those things that topple saints. you taste blood in your mouth every day from biting your tongue and wish you could wash it down with a really good cup of coffee for a change.

you do find ways to be thankful, and the blessings are abundant in the grand scheme, but that doesn't take the pain out of your hands and back and stomach. you have to find a way to laugh about it. and not let the songs in your head and heart die, and keep moving because you know if you stop for a moment it will probably kill you.

you've got to make every day a good one somehow.

hold fast.

hold fast. hold fast, man. hold fast.

...

the Cathedral

it was a castle, a fortress of solitude, a crossover station for a meager few of the waylaid, a portal to creativity. it was a tower at the top of a hill in a shittown city. it was massive. I lived on the 2nd floor near the back. I only lived there a couple years under some strange circumstances and coincidences but some amazing things happened there. only a few people ever came to visit me there. the Modern Bohemians Club was born there one afternoon. I dreamed (?) up acoustic songs there in a way that never happened before that I still don't fully understand. this place was my recording studio. those songs were never finished or released. a lot of other things happened there too, and some other interesting people lived in the other parts of it. Poppy jokes with me all the time about missing my quiet times there...sometimes I do sometimes not. but I reminisce in my head about it all the time. here is a peak, for old time's sake.

lord of the dunce, part 2.

there are only 2 things in this world I am actually really any good at. TWO. the first one is playing the washtub bass. the second one is tearing apart buildings. I give everything else hell, I give everything else I try my johndamndest best effort for johndamn sure, with mixed results and/or failure in terms of success or accomplishment to my personal satisfaction.

I have explanations of this realization and how I feel about it and why I chose to document it but I am too brain tired to bleh out the words.

lord of the dunce

I'll just keep swinging the hammer. I will keep my mouth shut and keep swinging the hammer. the "way things work in the real world" apparently are something dictated by people much smarter and wealthier than me, so I'll just keep swinging the hammer and keep my mouth shut.

and here's why...

because my breath is too precious to me.

...

the good fight (con't.)

in letters home, don't mention running low on ammo. wouldn't want them to worry.

the fine art of dreaming, part eleven

I hiked for endless miles following these abandoned railroad tracks across a beautiful sun drenched Scandanavian (?) countryside surrounded by peaks and valleys and spring-like blossoming life. the landscape rolled on and on but finally I came across what I was searching for...a lake that was home to a rare fish that would jump out of the water and flop itself across the grass, leaping up to eat the berries fruiting from this tiny rare bush found only in this one spot then flopping itself back to the waters. thrilled at the prospect of my discovery, I crested a hillside only to find hundreds and hundreds of people sunning themselves and enjoying a leisurely time, as a small parade of fish made their way to the bush situated in the middle of everyone's delightful time. no one paid any attention to this wonder of nature, nor paid notice or care of my discovery.

...

apologies to saints

please listen, Saint Anthony. I could really use some help.

...

...

the saturday morning lottery

troubled slumber breaks apart as the sun slashes the steel slivers sneaking through the sky. a chance of rain cooled off the night at late hours, but not before the neighborhood frenzy of young people wild in the streets threatened chances of an early morning rise. but the fatigue a sledgehammer brings is not easily conquered, and also there has been a funeral. I served respectfully as I have many times before with hands on the box; not my own kin but close to one who is closest to my heart. during the weekdays it is a new kind of peace, this routine. it tames the day into less of a shock; it is moments of meditation and rivers of coffee. but saturdays are different. sometimes there is other work to be done. sometimes there is thunder and love, sometimes there is smoke sneaking out of the basement from the lips of tired-eyed flower waiting to bloom. she struggles against the day and the heat...the smothering sweating heat I love. oh let it last just a little longer, please.

...