Sunny Day...

I guess sunny days really are easier to get up to. Except when you don't want to - which is a lot of days. But that said, I found a piece of last nights pizza crust on the counter and that was a delicious little treat.

Rivulets...

New Year's Eve has been ponderous for me every year now for the past few. I think last year I spent it inside, listening to the din of my neighbor's blasting crackers in the street. I don't think I even went out. Year before, made it down to Hawthorne only to be too stoned to enjoy the craziness of it all. I walked home in the cold rain around 11:45 pm, only hearing the celebratory car horns just as I reached Stark St. Then there was the first year that I'd decided not to go too big, as it were, and spend the evening walking around the city with my love. Nobody else wanted to hear that and the pressure to do something grew until I ran away and spent the evening wandering the streets of the lower Haight for hours, profoundly sad and alone.

Rivulets

the snow caved to the wet deluge pouring from my coat
around me hoards of revelers milled
in dark masses against the silver night snow
like marauding invaders they bellowed
delirious in the New Year
their happiness unbridled
unaware

some ask me to flip the switch off
everybody has problems they say
don't be a drag they mean

motionless in the snow
the rain slapped against my parka
and burned the crystals below me and to my side
the tip of hair next to my ear felt like ice
while the rivulets pooled and froze
somewhere out of sight

Slept for 13 hours last night...

Besides some rather obtuse dreams, I was only awoken once by the pounding syncopated rhythms of fucking above my head. The neighbors are the height of schedulers, consistently engaging in coitus between 11:15 pm and 12:15 am. While it may not be every night, it's certainly enough to classify as a routine. Good for them. Not so much for me who has found the natural curiosity of others in the throngs to have worn thin. So while their penetration takes place upstairs, another takes place below: my fingertips in my ear holes. Though yes, I am a little jealous.

Cash in the pocket...

Bout my tips

little toes of tiddly winks
at counter throes and deft advertisements
cue'd all time lows
and misguided hijinks
once again force me to spend
these little bills
on my little me

There was an eclipse... I slept

Flying into San Jose - Mineta International Airport two nights ago was a cathartic experience. A full moon posted high in the sky as I watched the clouds grow and weave over the city below me, the gridwork of little alien creatures stuck thinking of only what's right in front of them.
I enjoyed the bank of vapors below me rolling forward with the plane, watching how fast they were really moving.
The stewardess served free beer - a vanilla porter from Mactanarnahans.

I left the juice out...

It's cranberry and I'm drinking it though I know it was at room temp for quite a while. Still, I can't tell if it's gone bad or not. Like I said, it's cranberry juice.

Withdrawwwwooollllly Manmyth...

I've come into a social ice age of sorts where I can't smile around others without immediately frowning from insecurity. Not healthy I don't think but perhaps natural. Ice age...

______________________


she says it's higher than average
I say mine's average
I really mean its low

we talk sometimes too fast
my face flushes
but she hasn't left
they never leave
until they're gone
and nothing happens

laying on my floor
could be painting the Sistine Chapel right now
we'd have more in common then
or something to talk about

Billy Corgan could play every part
I think about Glynis
while I walk
the rain feels exceptional
and cold with its big slow drops
I put my hood on but it's just cotton

__________________

Moog synthesizer Peter and the Wolf...

'It's so silly. It's whimsical.'

The Pope of Chopsticks karaoke fame expresses his opinion.

I sit idly by and drink an iced americano. In winter. Though the rain storm is temperate, which is nice.

Aimless sleep while it rains outside...

My cave, my wonderful apartment of mildew and warmth, kept me cozy for hours upon hours this morning and it was only with great reluctance did I venture from the warmth of bed. Of course there was also someone tapping on what I thought was my window but actually was the window of my neighbor.
I watched Liverpool lose to Newcastle and was about to turn the television off when I came across the CGI cartoon Garfield, which I watched for a minute or two and discovered was an episode about Egyptology.
Still I turned it off and dove into the web for some trivial information, racking my brain to recall what of interest had been requiring query. Ah ha! Why does swiping a credit card wrapped in a plastic bag effectively allow it to work whereas before it did not? I searched and discovered an answer: namely that many card reading devices are too sensitive and little incongruities in the surface throw off the sequence reading of magnetic pegs imprinted in the strip. When the plastic bag covers the card surface, it essentially desensitizes the reader by blocking its direct contact with the surface.
Anyway, not the best explanation but the story isn't quite complete there. In the response thread posted by interested members, someone made available a PDF with the specific technical information about the magnetic strip on credit cards. The creator of the PDF? Anadigm Inc., a company from Cupertino, CA, situated on Stevens Creek BLVD. Where on Stevens Creek BLVD? Right next to highway 85, in a building that shares a parking lot with my old work and mainstay bar Paul and Eddie's. Oh, but Anadigm isn't located there any longer. Instead a family chiropractor's office is there. Their name? Garfield.
Odd.

Things fall apart... such as my memory of where certain quotes come from...

I first encountered these lines as the title to the great break-out album by The Roots. "You Got Me", originally written about Jill Scott but sung by Erykah Badu, even contains the lines, about a relationship, 'things fall apart'. We used to sing this song in my freshman dorm room...
But I new it was from somewhere: the Nigerian author Chinua Achebe's English-language novel from the fifties of the same title. But it goes back further - William Butler Yeats, in a poem entitled The Second Coming.
So they're Yeats' lines. Only the thread then lead me back to another great whom I cannot escape, Percy Bysshe Shelley. From his Prometheus Unbound:
The good want power, but to weep barren tears.
The powerful goodness want: worse need for them.
The wise want love, and those who love want wisdom;
And all best things are thus confused to ill.
We, human creatures, always want what we don't have. Knowing this, I continue wanting.

War

My brother-in-law, Davenport Danube, has a business trip planned to Singapore. Never mind that I'd thoroughly relish an experience in such a pulsing metropolis, the question has arisen, is it safe for him to travel to Asia in light of the recent skirmishes between the Koreas and the mobilization of allies in the region?
No, Davenport shouldn't travel to Singapore. Never mind that it's over 2880 miles (4640 km) from South Korea. It's still in Asia.
No, never mind Davenport. You have a wife and child. I could - nay - I MUST go in your stead.
Singapore, sweet. Did you know that Singapore is the capital of Singapore, it's own political entity? Nor did I.
Anyway, war. Never the answer right? But always the eventuality. Cynical I know, but our nature as humans is one of power and greed. I believe in small, tribal communities that coexist with others in a shared prairie of our minds. Only there's still fighting and there's still death. A utopia of perpetual peace, now that's a inhuman.

To what ends, pray tell...

This morning began quite early, with the dark still heavy and the moon massive like a silver dollar on the floor of an indigo fountain. I couldn't sleep at 4. Nor at 4:30. And by then it was too late.

The car was caked in ice and I headed for a steam bath at the gym, where I was the youngest of the three swimmers present.

Now I electronically cast the yarrow and come upon another pensive hexagram: Tung Jen (13) - Union of People.

The upper trigram is heaven (ch'ien) while the lower is fire (li). Both are rising and harmonize with each other. The yielding nature of one among the strength of others...

The other day a skeptic at the coffeeshop noticed my IChing and shared his skepticism in any electronic involvement, i.e., the software casting of the yarrow was bullshit. Myself, I'm not so sure. What does the IChing do except catalyze self-reflection? What does it matter where the initial prompt comes from?

That said, I've noticed generally positive results from my castings, whereas when my friend Mo cast, very deliberate and somewhat unsettling premonitions arose. Mo, I should mention, currently occupies harrowing personal space, lost as to what to do with his life next and continually moving without true objective.

I've been there. And I'd like to think I've got more of a positive thing going at the moment. Then again, I didn't sleep very well.

Heaven (Ch'ien) over Fire (Li)

The clock said 7:37, with the little dot illuminated...

That meant 7:37 pm and I was in bed with my cat. The cat was confused. Apparently he'd slept enough already today and didn't feel too inclined to take to his pillow next to my head just yet. I just lay there and thought about how shitty things are.

So there's a pot of tea on. I think a mix of a light green with a peppermint to clear the mind and body. Someday I'll make it to the soul part...

Little arroyos...

My head is heavy...

A tough morning to get up
a tough morning to leave and
a dry head with little arroyos
pour rivulets
they're not tears though I feel them
this alone fatigue

the cat hid at the door
but came running when I opened
and the cool pillow to my side
now hums through claws and tongues

recycle me this morning
and head to a horizon
body stiff and frozen
warming as would grass
at the bottom of the valley floor

I've left cities before
this time a friend takes his
leave still looking
beyond the week
and the weak
and the sleepy
in Plato's cave
chained to a flat screen
451 minutes ago

agone
then go
into the vanishing point
again and again
the point
again and again

_________________________

It's 6:30 am. OPB is just too cheery for me at the moment...
Cappuccino you're the one.

Walking slowly with a paper grocery bag in hand...

The store front was quiet, empty, dark. A few hidden red lights glazed the old wood surfaces and I remembered just how old the building was. Still I walked in,having to open m friends' humble coffeehouse or them while they took a much needed break from their heartfelt project. And somehow I'd become a shopkeeper. So many jobs over time...

Mover, waiter, bartender, innkeeper, antique salesperson, industrial part dealer, copy writer, painter, and now shop-keeper. What is it that I do anyway?

Piano Forte... Fortepiano

The invention of the pianoforte - an instrument with dynamic capabilities - changed the world of music forever. Finally to be able to emit soft tones into a build up and crescendo of force must have had a sublime effect on all those who listened at the time. Pianoforte...
I'm obsessed with binaries in that I've spent a great portion of my life viewing the world as the interplay between light and dark. The waxing and the waning of the moon as a symbol for each moment.
At the coffee shop. Sebastian the Longer coaxes out sweet sonorous Chopin melodies before chiming into the chattering clips and spurts of the Polish composer's more staccato-laden pieces.
The I-Ching virtual yarrow stalks threw the hexagram 'chin' my way. Progress.

An orange cat named Samson...

...lives in the apartment above mine. Samson's fur splays outward like spilt marmalade and now, as i watch him saunter across the tree-laden street, he seems in his odd, cartoonish element. He dives headlong into a Juniper bush flushing out a black streak of a cat who darts towards a yard further down the street.
Samson ambles back to the apartment buildings, slow and at ease.

My god, the feeling of death...

I vomited out my brains last night. I vomited them out this morning as well. A thick green, stringy fluid billowed about in the pool as every pore on my body constricted and then sweat. My head pulsed and I felt that I could die.


My time with the zombies...

my time with the zombies
flew by with stiff arms and the rich
intoxicating aroma of putrefication
my body eroded to soft tissue of uncaring
and the streets were vacant everywhere I went
never was I to see the sun
nor was there a sun to be seen
in the coarse asphalt bed I lay
wondering how the trees hadn't given up yet
I ate little things,
little things without eyes
at least that's how I remember them
there was no air there
and without air
no time
and that's how I remember
my time with the zombies

I have a third desk...

If I was in Barbados, it might be pronounced as my 'turd' desk. Considering the ankle deep mud my vehicle slopped and sunk into in order to retrieve said desk, it's somewhat appropriate.
But now it has settled into a cramped position an arm's length from my bed and I find it regal in its 60's gold-speckled sheen. I also discovered it was crafted in Tacoma, Washington. Consume local. Does that apply to hoarding as well?

Waking at 5 two mornings in a row...

The early morning has a lucidity I lose quite quickly. In contrast, even a few minutes after I begin my daily routine, a cumbersome weight of experience settles like a fine ash upon my person and I trudge around defeated.
Not everyday, but some days, in particular when I awake early and have the moments outside of Pompeii's blast radius, upwind from its legacy.
It's dark now but early in the evening.

Test-taking, test-taking take me a mindgasm...

No no, actually the GREat was anything but orgasmic. Where do they find the words? Where?

Moving on as I have a pleasant bottle of Argyle 2006 sparkling wine awaiting the chance to ephervesce... (not a word)

For Mora, who built a stained glass cannon and is working on a pump action shot gun to match:

http://www.thisblogrules.com/2010/03/fashionable-weapons-made-for-artistic-purposes.html


Does that guy know how to blog or what?

A test today, a test tomorrow...

I'm only too aware of the shakes and jitters of new situations. The bold dive, the courageous step into white space I try and find some freedom but also a trepidation which manifests in paralysis. The slowing of motor functions, the auditory diminution, and the inevitable oscillation of extremities - mainly my hands - I've all felt before.
In college I took an extracurricular course on piano. I was more committed to 'jamming' during my pate-night, solo practice sessions than I was the book, and therefore my recital at the end of the term, my simple one song performance, daunted me to no end. Come time, I bounced my feet up and down off the ground in with excited nerves to the point where my friends in the audience wondered what I was doing.
Early bar-tending gigs have done this to me as well. Hopefully when I pour some coffee down at the shop for the first time, I keep a steady hand.

The other test is one I've taken before, and really is, by name and definition, a test. The GRE, an ignoble scholastic hoop built for money-thirsty educational institutions as a means of differentiation and deterrence - never mind the money ETS receives. Anyway, busy day busy day little fish...

In dreams loneliness can dissipate...

A strange thing last night while I slept - a past lover of mine smiled, laughed then kissed me on the lips in a friendly way, saying that I'd only ceased to be a gentleman once in recent months. It was an airport and she continually walked on, just a little ahead of me as I followed, thinking her close enough to grasp finally. It never happened but the kiss was worth it.
These two fish glide back and forth. Who knows if they see each other. I suppose if you want them to, they do. If you want them to.

The triumphant zeal of the nothing...

To hear the phone as the line simply stops can be amazing. Text messages allow the user so much freedom - the words are concrete, simple, and predetermined. But a conversation over a telephone has ultimate potential for good and bad.
Even the act of calling truncated by another - without any words spoken - have massive impact. It is not the message in the bottle that is a text or a tweet or a facebook post. It's the very direct hey, you, I have something to say to you. Rejection in the form of disregard or disdain to another's phone call constitutes a new experience, knowing that we all have phones within an arm's reach, if not already in our ears.
The hurt is deliciously savage and I try to remain empirical.

Unwind the mind...

There's a modern acid jazz piece with this title, can't recall the exact performer, but the title has always stuck in my mind as a perfect suggestion. I find myself to be coiled so tight as to be unable to function in a free sense. Writing words can exacerbate this feeling, or, if properly coaxed, can yield to the creative will and let spill the pent up emotion pushing so tight against one's heart that it draws the skin tight as a drum. I can thank Norah Jones for that simile - she mentions feeling as 'empty as a drum'. From further back in time, a similar idea is found in Chuang-Tzu, defining a room not so much as the four walls that encapsulate it, but the space that exists within. Indeed, is a room merely the space that we immerse ourselves within the walls? The interconnectivity of all things...

unwind unwind
as the coffee tightens the strings
Bach leaves little tidings
between compelling motifs
people mill but I cannot escape
rain kills my lover's embrace
break the till
in small business despair
this weekend of wills
this weekend to care
small brushes I shave
to get beyond the cave
with minute nervous teeth
chattering in glee
tearing into me
piranha to shreds
prana to beds
loud screams muffled
by pillows
the dreams distant like willow trees