Baggage

We either have baggage, or we do not. There is no in between.

 

I had a recent, irrational infatuation with someone who was trying to carry a metaphorical steamer trunk around with her. She would have been better suited to just fucking check the unwieldy thing in at the metaphorical ticket counter. Instead, she tried to stuff it in to the metaphorical overhead bin, then sit next to me and commence a trip-long chat (in metaphorical first-class, of course.) But every time we hit turbulence, that steamer trunk would tumble out of the overhead bin, crack open, and reveal nothing more significant than her urge to reconceal (reconcile…hmmmmm) it.

 

I told her a hundred times that I did not mind her steamer trunk of baggage. I told her I’d help her carry it to the ends of the earth. Foolishly, she opted to pretend it was never there. Foolishly, I called her not on the denial she felt, but on the defiance she projected. I’m a metaphorical idiot.

Rush of Blood to the Ankle

 

The most humbling part of the past little while is that I haven’t defied gravity as gracefully as I have in the past. I have eaten sand with virtually every Atlantic ride, I cracked open a pair of chinos (as well as my right knee) after losing my balance in the driveway, I almost broke my ankle jogging on Broad Street, I took a digger and killed a bag of freshly bought Elsie’s after getting dizzy on Drummond, and am still wearing a wrap on my ankle after failing to execute a proper landing after one of my famous porch roof somersault leaps. Me suspects it be what the chemist is dispensing me. Or, perhaps, it be my delusionary defiance of the influence the chemist wishes to wield upon me. Either way, I am finally staring this problem in the eye. And if I’m staring, I’m glaring. Best to GTFOOMW*.

 

*Free burger and beer at The Globe for the one who articulates that acronym first. The only catch is that you have to sit next to me while I wear a Red Sox jersey whilst a Yankee game plays on their telly. I will not be responsible for any dry cleaning expenses incurred by ketchup-covered flying French fries lobbed in our direction. (I said “whilst” because I didn’t want to say “while” twice in the same sentence. And, besides; you know, my blog, my rules.)

While we still have a few days left...

April is the cruellest month, breeding                                        

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing                                             

Memory and desire, stirring                                                        

Dull roots with spring rain.                                                          

Winter kept us warm, covering                                                          

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding                                                 

A little life with dried tubers.                                                       

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee       

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,            

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,                            

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.                                 

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.     

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,        

My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,                                     

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,                                         

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.                                  

In the mountains, there you feel free.                                      

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.     

 

(For the full text of T.S. Eliot's masterpiece, The Waste Land, hit the link)

http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html

    

Tastes Like Chicken

I have put myself through a few operational tests, and, disregarding the flippant efforts of this blog, I have not lost the ability to think and write and accomplish the grandiose goals of meeting a haircut appointment, to forgo bargain-priced crap iced tea for the better stuff at retail, and to cradle my cat while he feigns hunger but truly means to gain a hug. (Life’s a bitch, then your cat puts his paw in your mouth just to see if you’re paying attention. Then he looks at me like I’m the weird one.)

 

Things, however, I have forgotten: how to properly operate my digital camera, which week is recycling week, how to install the right driver to make my printer work, the lyrics to “Fake Plastic Trees”, whether my famous chicken recipe requires thyme or parsley, precisely how old I am without counting, which foot I throw my weight on to make a slap shot, and the only thing that I still seem to still be in denial about: the true extent of work I need to do to make my home presentable once again. Some of these things can be resolved with referencing and experimentation, but they never had to in the past. Steer clear of Thorazine at all costs, my friends.

Jewels of the Earth

It is so late and I am so awake and sleep is still not coming, not without the help of mind crippling pharmaceuticals that enable my eyes to close but deprive me the comfort of dreams, that deplete my drive to do, and that decimate my determination to grab the planet by the balls. In short, today was a good day. Today was progress.

 

Progress starts with P, that rhymes with T, and that stands for tool.

Whiners in good standing

For the minority of a dozen or so who dared complain: 

 

I am finally rotating my CD’s. Notice by the inclusion of Eleventh Dream Day. And now, Lit.

Consume these songs, Philistines

I note lyrics not for amusement or for pervese profit, but to invite exploration. This is not music for people who are lured by the obvious, but for people who adore the ever blooming, ever hidden corners of humanity. This song accelerates with a punk vibe that has since been recognized in the New Pornographers. It is anger and joy at once packaged in a capsule that might have once contained benedryl and coffee. From this disc, I would also recommend "After This Time is Gone" and "Motherland." "Honeyslide" is beautiful, BTW.

 

That's the Point

She threw the bottle againt the wall
motivated by alcohol
You really wanted to make me twitch
But I don't move an inch
Sooner or later, that's the point

Didn't expect to see me so soon
You and him howling at the moon
Guess it's time to re-write the rules
You got me off the hook
Sooner or later, that's the point

We don't have to say we're sorry
Read the map but just get lost
Just get lost

You can believe what you want to believe
Either way no one's gonna grieve
No use putting things up your sleeve
Just re-write the book
Sooner or later, that's the point

We don't have to say we're sorry
Ah, that's the point
That's the point.

Better yet.

What means more? Nancy is my friend. Linda is my friend.

Accelerating emotion

 

Nancy might be the best writer I have ever met. Including me. I’m good, but she is so evocative while I am glistening in the literal dream of stalling my IQ to speak with a mere equal.

Shopping Cart

I move the day, I tilt the earth, I influence the galaxy. I change destinies while destinies shop for groceries. I eat Skittles. I make your life different. I have forever altered the world. You are different because of me.

 

Pointless

 

Will someone please tell me why I smegged myself with the illeratti in that chat room? Besides the obvious reason.

Pepsi

Institutionalized

Sometimes I try to do things and it just doesn't work out the way I wanted
to.
I get real frustrated and I try hard to do it and I take my time and it
doesn't work out the way I wanted to.
It's like I concentrate real hard and it doesn't work out
Everything I do and everything I try never turns out
It's like I need time to figure these things out
But there's always someone there going

Hey Mike:
You know we've been noticing you've been having a lot of problems lately.You
know, maybe you should get away and maybe you should talk about it, maybe
you'll feel a lot better

And I go:
No it's okay, you know I'll figure it out, just leave me alone I'll figure
it out. You know I'll just work by myself.

And they go:
Well you know if you want to talk about it I'll be here you know and you'll
probably feel a lot better if you talk about it.

And I go:
No I don't want to I'm okay, I'll figure it out myself and they just keep
bugging me and they just keep bugging me and it builds up inside and it
builds up inside.

So you're gonna be institutionalized
You'll come out brainwashed with bloodshot eyes
You won't have any say
They'll brainwash you until you see their way.

I'm not crazy - institutionalized
You're the one who's crazy - institutionalized
You're driving me crazy - institutionalized

They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
to give me the needed professional help
to protect me from the enemy, myself

 
I go:I was in my room and I was just like staring at the wall thinking about
everything but then again I was thinking about nothing
And then my mom came in and I didn't even know she was there she called my
name and I didn't even hear it, and then she started screaming MIKE! MIKE!
And I go:
What, what's the matter
And she goes:
What's the matter with you?
I go:
There's nothing-wrong mom.
And she goes:
Don't tell me that, you're on drugs!
And I go:
No mom I'm not on drugs I'm okay, I was just thinking you know, why don't
Mom just give me a Pepsi please
All I want is a Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me
All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me.
Just a Pepsi.

They give you a white shirt with long sleeves
Tied around you're back, you're treated like thieves
Drug you up because they're lazy
It's too much work to help a crazy

I'm not crazy - institutionalized
You're the one who's crazy - institutionalized
You're driving me crazy - institutionalized

They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy, myself

I was sitting in my room and my mom and my dad came in and they pulled up
achair and they sat down, they go:
Mike, we need to talk to you
And I go:
Okay what's the matter
They go:
Me and your mom have been noticing lately that you've been having a lot of
problems, you've been going off for no reason and we're afraid you're gonna
hurt somebody, we're afraid you're gonna hurt yourself.
So we decided that it would be in your interest if we put you somewhere
where you could get the help that you need.
And I go:
Wait, what do you mean, what are you talking about, we decided!? My best
interest?! How can you know what's my best interest is? How can you say what
my best interest is? What are you trying to say, I'm crazy? When I went to
your schools, I went to your churches, I went to your institutional learning
facilities?! So how can you say I'm crazy.

They say they're gonna fix my brain
Alleviate my suffering and my pain
But by the time they fix my head
Mentally I'll be dead

I'm not crazy - institutionalized
You're the one who's crazy - institutionalized
You're driving me crazy - institutionalized

They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy, myself

What does it matter i'll probably get hit by a car anyway

Scab

I had the wound. She picked the scab. I bled. I needed a band-aid. Not 5 days in MMC.

Fort Apache

 

I walk the world in torn jeans and a tight t-shirt. I stalk the world lightly on the rare day I venture out into the ocean. I get my groove on looking at the land from the top of a mountain of water, then coming down to earth, salt and finally sand. Sometimes I find a cool seashell. Usually I get a lung full of Atlantic.

 

This feels weird

I’m actually in a good mood. wow.

Horrid

Horrid, sanctifying and strangely illuminating. But horrid, nonetheless. FU Becky. Thanks for ruining whatever threat was left. I hate the C word, but how apt would it be at this moment? Brag about EP? Well then is it Ellen or not? Be brave. Be as brave as you think you are. Publish a birthday as well as your fantasy death day? You will lose. I will see to it. I have the world by the nuts, baby. Love it. Hate it. Live it.

High Tide

Reports of my death have been greatly exagerrated

Mr PK rising.

(RR)

 

Fishing with Fuzzy

 

I don’t need a closed coffin.

 

I surfed today and today

 

And I refuse to acknowledge any bullshit the c--- says. (RR)

 

I rode the tide in several times.

 

Christine was right. I have to stop the chemical imbalance. The regimen is slowly killing me.

 

I thought she was Rebecca banging at my door until I listened.

 

I have to wait until she is asleep before I go online. This is messing me up more.

Prep for the Hospital (I wasn't able to)

Preparing for a Hospital Stay (thanks to The Onion)

 

While a trip to the hospital is rarely pleasant, here are some tips to help you prepare for the experience:

• Before entering a hospital for treatment, weigh your holistic health-care options against your wish to actually get better.
• If you have a wok at home, it's a good idea to get some bedpan practice before the pressure is on.
• Some drugs react violently with alcohol; some don't. Ask around.
• If you are going to the hospital for treatment of a severed limb, remember to bring the limb.
• Bring your regular medications with you to the hospital. God only knows where the hospital finds theirs.
• Read a couple of Newsweek articles about your condition. This information will allow you to second-guess your doctor's every move.
• Be forewarned: Hospitals apply a vast mark-up to the items in the in-room minibars.
• Wear clothing that is loose-fitting and comfortable, yet appropriate to bleed in.
• If you behave like a brave little soldier, you may be offered ice cream.
• Whatever you do, don't check into any facility called "General Hospital." That place is full of back-stabbing, narcissistic lunatics.
• Pack several extra pairs of slippers. Slippers in the hospital are like cigarettes in prison.
• Before knocking out an intern and stealing his uniform, make sure he's your size.
• Many patients complain that hospitals cut their stay short. Don't be coerced into signing out until you're dilated to 10 cm and the baby's head can be seen.
• Bring $500 in fives to "grease the wheels," if you get my meaning. The good mashed potatoes.
• If bruised, find a hospital known to have a good bruise ward.
• Keep in mind that, today, many procedures can be performed on an outpatient basis. Some can even be done outside.
• When you arrive at your hospital room, decide which item you'd be willing to accept as the final thing you see on this earth.

Sniff

Is it me? Or is it the rest of the world? That answer can probably be solved by aroma.

Rebecca Reagan

She's a NUT CASE who I met in January, and she tracked me down this week with the help of god knows what.

Bunny Hop

The Easter Bunny went to friggin 7-11 for me yesterday and got me the mother lode of Skittles and Starburst and the finest chocolates a convenience store is allowed to sell. Funny, he remembered the Newport Lights, too. I ate most of the candy for dessert last night. I think that’s why I woke up so easily after the 4 am phone call.

 

Lefty

Lefty just won the masters. He had to claw his way to the top. Ha, ha, ha, ha...

(for those of you who didn't get that: Phil Mickelson, who's nickname is "Lefty", won the Masters. My cat's name is "Lefty". There will be headlines on most sports pages tomorrow saying "Lefty wins Masters". When you have to explain it, it just isn't as funny. Sigh.)

Tornado Bomb

I’ve put 50,000 miles on my body over the past month. I need an oil change. And a lube job. And my tires rotated, if you know what I mean. My hair is long, I have a beard, and I smell like the ocean. My place looks like a tornado bomb blew up here. I have wine and I can be quite entertaining. I have a rather large cat with a predisposition to attack. (Usually me.) I have references. I know more than most in Red Bank. I get comps at most bars in town. I get better tables at restaurants just from being around so much. I need new furniture. I want a sleigh bed and a couch and an HDTV. And a house of my own. I need a woman with good taste, otherwise I pick out whatever has the most orange in it. I need a visit from Merry Maids. I went body boarding on Monday and lived to tell about it, for a change. I still have salt water in my lungs and I love the periodic shortness of breath it gives me. Few even come close to the amount of time I have spent in the ocean, let alone on its edge. I have rich history, a dynamic cache of experience. I have stories that will make your shoes spontaneously fly off. (“Wait, this isn’t our bus.”) (“Ohmygod! Patrick was hit by a car!”) (“Trifecta!”) (“Let’s get out of here before the locksmith gets here, OK?”) (“There’s nobody in that closet. Who could hide in that grody pit?”) (“There's a flood in my tent. I don’t like rain.”) All perfectly innocent situations, but all with stories behind them. That y’all will soon read. 50,000 miles, and I’m just getting started.

Bondi Beach

My next trip will be to BondiBeach in Austrailia. Home of the 100-year wave, as seen at the climactic scene in "Point Break".

Great Friday

I guess I have tomorrow off. Or it least a half day...That's cool. I need a bit of a break. Just a day to sit and chill and contemplate. And to call Merry Maids.

Nevermind

Spring is here again, tender age in bloom, he knows not what it means, sell the kids for food, we can have some more. The water is so yellow, I'm a healthy student, you're my vitamins. Take your time, hurry up, the choice is yours, don't be late. And just maybe I'm to blame for all I've heard but I'm not sure, I'm so excited I can't wait I can't wait to meet you there but I don't care. I don't care if it's old, I don't mind if I don't have a mind, get away from your home. Have to poison skin, give an inch take a smile. Never met a wise man, if so it's a woman, gotta find a way, I had a better wait. One more special message to go, as a defense I'm neutered and spayed, what the hell am I trying to say? I got so high that I scratched till I bled. The second coming came in last and out of the closet. At the end of the rainbow and your rope. Don't hurt yourself, I want some help, to help myself, she's just as bored as me. I've got this friend you see, who makes me feel, I don't regret a thing. And the animals I've trapped have all became my pets. Our little group has always been and always will until the end, with the lights out it's less dangerous, here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious, here we are now entertain us, a mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido, yay, yay, a denial, I'm worse at what I do best and for this gift I feel blessed, I found it hard, it was hard to find, oh well, whatever, nevermind.

 

(Nevermind liner notes)

Playing the Pre-CBS Strat

 A rush of energy surges through me. A melody repetitive of happiness and resolution. A verse of angst and growling. And a doubletime chorus of glory. Another verse asking, “why?” And another chorus of glory, only more humble – almost a whisper. Classic 3-4-5-4 progression?

This is my idea of suave today:

I am wearing a red wool knit touque right now. I look smashing. Especially with my unshaven face and dirty old Ocean Hut Surf Shop t-shirt. Not to mention the ear phone wire coming out from under the hat. I feel like Fred Durst, but without the gut, a better jaw (thanks Krissy(?)), and longer hair.

Sangre

Sangre is a letting. Sangre is a ritual. Sangre is escape. Sangre is a pool of peace. Sangre is evidence of pain. Sangre is a stain. Sangre is clotted on my knee. Sangre is sacrifice. Sangre is evidence. Sangre is the 28 day moon. Sangre is when I bit my lip just to sleep.

Oxygen is so boring

As is short-term memory. And typing and word processors and blogs and all my CDs and candles and lava lamps and furniture and drums and books and Burger King and Home Depot and Sony and Rolling Stone and laundry and beer and pot and drugs and cigarettes and no time and work and work people who look like the monster from phantom of the opera and have no time for hobbies or interests and are only going to age disgustingly and DVDs and South Park and porno and blank canvases and pastels and oils and writing and birth control and rubbers and abortions and nose rings and belly button rings and Doc Martens and moshers and pogo-ing and Bruce Springsteen and ripped t-shirts and stuffed animals and the newsstand and the diner and yin yang and go-go dancers and missing screws and theaters and divas and red lights and slow people and radio reception and cell phone antennas and car washes and birthdays and greeting cards and out-of-season fruit and telemarketers and nitrogen and the edge of the continent and bottles filled with sand and tides of high and low. Serve the servant. Oh, no.

Pogo stick

I’m listening to “Bleach” era Nirvana. So much more punk. Their cover of the Vasoline’s classic “Son of a Gun” is, well, classic. If you’ve never heard it, you’ve never jumped and down with joy to a song. Weird how he talks about guns so much.

 

Up up up and down
Turn turn turnaround
Round round roundabout
And over again
Gun gun son of a gun
You are the only one
Makes any difference what I say

(x2)
The sun shines in the bedroom
When we play
The raining always starts
When you go away

Up up up and down
Turn turn turnaround
Round round roundabout
And over again
Gun gun son of a gun
You are the only one
Makes any difference what I say

(x2)
The sun shines in the bedroom
When we play
The raining always starts
When you go away

(Bridge)

Up up up and down
Turn turn turnaround
Round round roundabout
And over again
Gun gun son of a gun
You are the only one
Makes any difference what I say

(x4)
The sun shines in the bedroom
When we play
The raining always starts
When you go away

 

Ides of April

I dwell in possibility

Till the fear in me subsides

I resolve myself to higher dreams

Till the fear in me abides

Old Voice Mail

I should have listened to my voice mail more. I just heard 15 messages from her that I hadn’t heard before. How would it have changed my perspective had I heard them? How would it have changed hers had I responded? Would history be different now? (“I can’t believe you’re still sleeping. Call me as soon as you get this. I want to hear your voice.”)

No wonder my voice mail was full. How ironic.

Trigger

It wasn’t about me. There was something else already there. Already happening. She was waiting to pull the trigger. If so, then why did she put me there five days after the fact? Why that degree of cruelty?

Tom Davis

Belated kudos to Tom Davis for the excellent article from last Tuesday’s Bergen Record. Some people actually found my site as a result of it, and emailed some nice comments. Even after a brief and embarrassing scare (on my part) regarding the inclusion of an entry, his words came through unscathed and eloquent. The man can flat out write.

Paranoia

Showered and went out to do errands today. Ended up at the Foodtown to get catfood. I always get stared at there. Usually it’s after I pay and am walking down the line of people checking out. I swear, their necks snap when I walk by. Do I look that freaky and disheveled? Or do I just need to take more pills so that I stop noticing things like this?

It was 10 years ago today

It was about 10 years ago to the minute when it was announced that Cobain was dead. Like him or not, relate to it or not, it was a huge deal. That day was like the 9/11 of Gen X rock. MTV played nothing but Nirvana for days. Radio stations did the same. I did the same. I was dating go-go Trish at the time. She called to cheer me up, asking in her broken English, Brazillian accent if I wanted to go roller blading from Long Branch to Sandy Hook. I should have said yes, but I stayed home and mourned. That night I went to see the Afghan Whigs, Nirvana's old SubPop labelmates, at City Gardens in Trenton and lost the hearing in my right ear for a week.

Have and Have Not

I got a razor thin line between love and hate

I don’t know which side I belong on

 

I got pills comin out my gills

 

I got vitamins, vegetables, fruits and candies

I got the office that used to be Sandy’s

 

I got a new wet suit that I christened already

Stay away from me, listened the jetty

 

I got a million books

I got good looks

I got a pit of sorrow and sadness

I got a history

I got concussions, broken ribs, broken arms, elbows and dislocated shoulders

I got a skinned knee today

 

I got a lotta little kid in me

Not that I’m lacking maturity

 

I got love

I got hate

I got potential

I got ambition

I got fortune cookies

I got chocolate

I gotta sea change

I got Sunday sun

 

I got a full voice mail and answering machine

I got way more friends than it used to seem

 

Blog Matrix

I fixed my broken blog. I am Neo.

 

I have a back log of blog entries to get caught up on.

Brick Giants, circa 1990

The baseball team I played for in the early 90’s was the Brick Giants. We played in the Garden State League. We had the exact same uniforms as the San Francisco Giants, so we thought we were hot shit. Whenever I watch the San Francisco Giants play today, I think of my teammates back then.

 

I broke my arm early in the season after being hit by a pitch. I was shot for the year. They went on to win the Garden State Championship.

 

The dude on our team most like Barry Bonds hit 12 homeruns in 25 games. He even played left field. I hit 4 and played third base. They expected more from me, but, again, I broke my arm. My best took out a few light bulbs on the scoreboard. His best took out our manager’s windshield. Now that I think of it, his one was better than all mine combined.

 

They made me drive to the 7-11 to get ice for my elbow, and coffee for the rest of the team. I watched the rest of the game with my elbow buried in a bag of ice.

 I went to work the next day with purple imprints of a baseball seam upon black and blue welt on the back of my right elbow. Dona, my baseball fan boss, showed me off for a few minutes, then kinda told me I needed an X-ray. I went for an X-ray, and my arm was broken. My heart was broken even more.

Stoked

Traded in my ¾ wetsuit today for a full one. Followed the tide from Sandy Hook to Monmouth Beach to Long Branch, then Deal with the bodyboard. I feel like a new man.

 

My eyes are still stinging from the salt water and my legs are a little tight from kicking and walking. But my lungs are renewed, my chest is worked, and my spirit is afire. Five hours in and out of a cold ocean—an ocean generating great April tides and rides – will do that to you.

 

I still can’t tell whether the goose bumps are from the chill of the day or from the emotion of the day. I feel a bit closer to the me that most people know. The me that chills, idles, projects inner peace, and profound confidence. The me that winks at adversity. I took on a 5-footer today and steered around a Deal jetty like I was driving the wave. Whitecaps were nipping at my flippers and curling over my head. I bent hard right and took it in on the high beach. Three surfers, a man walking his dog, and a couple walking on the beach greeted me warmly as I stumbled ashore. The coolest, and hottest, I’ve felt in six months.

 

It was a long, contemplative (and cold) walk back. The wind kept catching the bodyboard pack slung over my back. The wind seemed to urge me away from the water. It was mega zen. I made more progress today than six weeks of bullshit and stupid, mind-numbing drugs.

Dave's here

Dave’s here. Not Vegas Dave. Fishing Dave.

 

Hit the town again.

That means steak and beer and tacos and stuff for all. He got here early, though. So now he’s sleeping on the couch, pretending to be watching “Mr. Deeds” on HBO. Ha Ha. I’m still up.

 

“You’re not going to sleep, you’re going to your computer. You don’t know when you’re going to sleep. Hours…..days…” – Dave’s final words before he crashed. He might be right.

My weather

An aggressive awareness sets in, conscious of consequence. Incapable of changing some things. Quite capable of changing others. One day I hope to control the weather. Until then, I must make do with myself.

Fuse

There’s a switch that has to go off somewhere between experience and expression that allows me to write. To express myself in a focused medium using pen and pad. There is a short circuit now. Burning out. I will flash to life to dish out an odd spark or two. Words like soaring particles of fire arcing in the darkness. Brilliant orange vs. navy blue. Pixels burning in the mind’s eye. Blown fuse giving a brief bright glow to a growing darkness.

Friend

Be born, reborn, brothers of a different poem.

Dig

One thing I have going for me is that I’m engaging. For better or worse. I enjoy compelling people to dig deeper, to explore beyond the obvious.

Sly

Why do I write sly things on the slow, and slow things on the sly?

Sticking point

Sometimes it takes a good jagged flesh rip to restore the shock of consciousness, to resume a state of alertness, to acknowledge a wrinkle in the ripple of potential.

 

Anyone can admit anyone into a hospital. I bled intensely for a half-an-hour, and then it was better. I could have gone for stitches that they would have gladly given. But I had faith in my body to heal.

 

Say you’re walking by a restaurant and you look skinny, can they make you eat, then charge you for the meal?

 

Say you’re driving by a car dealership with a shitty car, and someone complains. Must you buy a new car?

 

Say you never threatened anything other than a pile of paper, but someone casually decides that things would be different if they reshaped your words against you?

 

Do you think that will go away?

 

What garbage can did the flowers go into?

 

Who created a hole for them self?

Sin

How come if you call the sin line at $3.95 a minute you don’t get reimbursed by the redemption line? Just a thought.

Holes

Paralyzed and raging all at once. Angry questions remain unanswered, an impedance to inner peace. An inner dialogue about no escape. Sensitivities flaring. There’s a hole in my tongue from fierce bites, there’s a bloody knee and hole in my jeans from stepping on a crack in the sidewalk.

 

Sometimes it takes a good jagged flesh rip to restore the shock of consciousness, to resume a state of alertness, to acknowledge a wrinkle in the ripple of potential.

 

Consciousness = Electricity

Consciousness is electricity. Trust me. The all-empowering, irresistible, unforgiving, deadly honest, all accessible power of perception is electric. Live wires, conductivity, brown outs, black outs, surges – there are dozens of parallels in consciousness.

 

The advent of electricity, you’ll notice, helped herald in the most profound alterations in society. (Not that I would do without it, mind you.) After electricity, we accelerated destruction of the earth, ruined our circadian rhythms, stopped being able so see the night, and grew numb to light.

Struck by lightening in 2002, kinda

I’ve literally harnessed lightening. My car was hit on the parkway back in June of 2002. It was in the middle of a blinding rainstorm. I saw a blue flash, an aura, heard a deafening cracking boom, and my car stalled. Right in the middle of traffic. I sat there a second, tingling and dazed. Awareness kicked back in and I restarted my car.

 

It’s like I was temporarily hijacked by electricity. It was an act of God that only bills you once.

 

Where did that electricity go? It obviously travels through things. Like it’s on its way to a better purpose. Indeed, it does disperse. But to where, ultimately? Electricity must travel a circuitous path to survive. Or do we absorb and store, saving it for another rainy day?

Shudder

A profoundly morose, sullen, mournful wail welling within. Fatigue. Still, I see the supreme sky above weeping willows and wandering waters. Yellow wild flowers and tall, tall grass. My heaven is a blue sky, a picture perfect picnic with a cherished lover. I must alter my internal structure to soar aloft into an accelerating cloud.

 

Too depressing to hope. To depressed to reach. Angst appears like water flooding long dry land. I shudder as the rudder cuts against the wake. Yet another boat born ceaselessly into the past. (Points for knowing that reference.) How, God, am I interpreted by others?

Impulse

Only I can tell you how my electricity feels. Inner electricity spawns emotion, feeling, impulse, decision, acceleration. Ultimately, intention.

 

I have an uncompelling impulse to leave well enough alone.

Tick, tock, tick, tock

 Don’t ever be afraid to deal with the microns of time – but not at the expense of the macrons.

Tock, tock tock

...still waiting.

Tick, tick, tick

I’m waiting for experience to turn into one genuine emotion.

No Legacy

Oh gallant me. The buzz demurs, the fuzz endures.

I emerge from the dark to shed light.

Leave it to me to insert the numbness, leave it to me to neutralize the chemistry.

Acid and base collide.

Leave it to me to ice the ice.

I am walking static—white noise personified.

I slink back into the dark.

Minor legacies left behind.

Absent from the former wide wake wave of potential,

still cutting through a choppy tide.

 

Cafe

 NancyG [10:31 AM]:  PK, WHAT is going ON? I'm sorry I wasn't around last night....had some serious muscle spasms to work out...I just read what you wrote yesterday. How much worse will it get for you? How much more will rise to the top before you get to the bottom of all this.....How can I help?

Man over

Man over, lost forever

Man over, I think he’s dying.

No need to throw the life preserver,

He’s already drowned himself inside.

 

It started when he found the bottle,

And he he held it in his hand

 

And he poured the liquor in his body

And he thought he was a man.

Man over

That hot breeze was blowing steady

That day he went in from the side

 

And I guess his heart was warm and heavy

From the drinking and the pride,

 

Did he leap into the water?

Or did the wind just blow him down?

 

Well I guess it doesn’t matter,

Cause he was already drowned

Man over

 

Man over, lost forever

Man over, I think he’s dying.

 

No need to throw the life preserver,

He’s already drowned himself inside.

 

--Robinella