as if to say... I really love those Seattle Mariners... wanna
make something of it?
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Painting and the Art of Happiness
We took on a sum of white walls yesterday... the glowing morning light playing through the windows, music through the french doors and our brushes sticksticking with pastel paint. Blue tape borders and us between in our least favorite rags laying down paint on tiptoe and knee.
For past years i've been tied in thought, torn by the process of decision making, under the small weight of having little to go on. I've been happy yet uninspired, unmotivated, driven by nothing more than my personal want of feeling as such, making my own world and feigning any solid understanding of what exactly i'm doing in it. In part, due to some missteps but moreover simple advents of craziness that i wouldn't pin to any notion of fate or even coincidence. Some downright strange occurrences that i'd like to accept just as are.
It would be hard to claim any discontent, though there has been struggle. Somehow i've stayed up all along and still lingers a sense askance Would i have stayed on my feet much longer? Cos i found something and now with previous direction recoursed it's hard to compare anything, hard to remember what i was doing and to where i was going.
When i first met Cathleen and we were making a telephone plan to get together, i suggested some dumb logistical struggle that might impede our union... and she told me in a matter of words, that we are in control of most everything, and that's the bottom line. That thought really drew me, and i guess in retrospect how could it not? And yet there are times, many of them happy, when i stop and look around wondering, how can i possibly take credit for what my life holds? So many of these things have been beyond my ability and rather occurred of their own. And why would i assume my own control in things and, why would it matter if i weren't?
For past years i've been tied in thought, torn by the process of decision making, under the small weight of having little to go on. I've been happy yet uninspired, unmotivated, driven by nothing more than my personal want of feeling as such, making my own world and feigning any solid understanding of what exactly i'm doing in it. In part, due to some missteps but moreover simple advents of craziness that i wouldn't pin to any notion of fate or even coincidence. Some downright strange occurrences that i'd like to accept just as are.
It would be hard to claim any discontent, though there has been struggle. Somehow i've stayed up all along and still lingers a sense askance Would i have stayed on my feet much longer? Cos i found something and now with previous direction recoursed it's hard to compare anything, hard to remember what i was doing and to where i was going.
When i first met Cathleen and we were making a telephone plan to get together, i suggested some dumb logistical struggle that might impede our union... and she told me in a matter of words, that we are in control of most everything, and that's the bottom line. That thought really drew me, and i guess in retrospect how could it not? And yet there are times, many of them happy, when i stop and look around wondering, how can i possibly take credit for what my life holds? So many of these things have been beyond my ability and rather occurred of their own. And why would i assume my own control in things and, why would it matter if i weren't?
Saturday, July 28, 2007
All i want is love and watermelon.... maybe some old new country on the radio. Montgomery Gentry....
I'm tired of spinning my wheels
I need to find a place where my heart can go to heal
I need to get there pretty quick
Hey mister what you got out on that lot you can sell me in a pinch
Maybe one of them souped up muscle cars
The kind that makes you think you're stronger than you are
Color don't matter no I don't need leather seats
All that really concerns me is
Speed
How fast will it go
Can it get me
Over her quickly
Zero to sixty
Can it outrun her memory
Yeah, what I really need
Is an open road
And a whole lot of speed
i love songs about heartbreak...
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Pool party at your mom's house...
I'm lying back on a leather couch, the shades drawn tight to a 100 degree day beyond the glass. We just flipflopped across town sporting slight sunburns and sunglassed to a near limitless blue above. Fucking Turlock fucking California. A sight for sore eyes, a green gem amidst nothing but flatness and agri-lines of corn and vine. There was nothing to be done but step a few streets over from the backyard pool to the empty weekend grocery... in need of banana split supplies and a sixpack.
Its been a busy few days here reconvening with my partner's past, her loving hometown openarms wide and not yearning for detail. Docile and sleepy and hotter than most. Lounging in quiet AC wonderlands, cafe stoops beneath umbrellas and kicking about on airmattresses in delicious blue pools. But beating all aimlessness was last night's drive-in witness of Harry Potter: Order of the Pheonix. If it wasn't enough that Harry is the man and gets some kind action with a young sweet thing at Hogwarts... better yet was our perch from the back of a minivan, seats forward, hatch open and us couched out in blankets and pillows, barefeet in warm night air staring up at the drive-in screen. A balanced diet of queer tasting popcorn, chocolate, beer and dazzling privy to Harry Potter's mad skills in sorcery. And us dialing in the magic via FM radio.
There is a certain lethargy that goes along with this life beneath a baking sun, the Valley of California. No wonder now to the inviting concept of siesta... and better still these long stretching siestas that last the whole of the day. I didn't expect the lush greenery of sycamores and locusts spanning the neighborhood streets, all the lawns freshly mowed but no one around to sit upon them or lounge beneath umbrellas or giant sombreros. Nearly nothing higher than a story stretching out for fifty-thousand souls and their abodes. I think a normal reaction for myself would be that of distrust, perhaps worthy of a yawn or two... some underground disdain or lassitude for the whole grid. But somehow no... i've got love for Turlock.
The shark sequence...
Its been a busy few days here reconvening with my partner's past, her loving hometown openarms wide and not yearning for detail. Docile and sleepy and hotter than most. Lounging in quiet AC wonderlands, cafe stoops beneath umbrellas and kicking about on airmattresses in delicious blue pools. But beating all aimlessness was last night's drive-in witness of Harry Potter: Order of the Pheonix. If it wasn't enough that Harry is the man and gets some kind action with a young sweet thing at Hogwarts... better yet was our perch from the back of a minivan, seats forward, hatch open and us couched out in blankets and pillows, barefeet in warm night air staring up at the drive-in screen. A balanced diet of queer tasting popcorn, chocolate, beer and dazzling privy to Harry Potter's mad skills in sorcery. And us dialing in the magic via FM radio.
There is a certain lethargy that goes along with this life beneath a baking sun, the Valley of California. No wonder now to the inviting concept of siesta... and better still these long stretching siestas that last the whole of the day. I didn't expect the lush greenery of sycamores and locusts spanning the neighborhood streets, all the lawns freshly mowed but no one around to sit upon them or lounge beneath umbrellas or giant sombreros. Nearly nothing higher than a story stretching out for fifty-thousand souls and their abodes. I think a normal reaction for myself would be that of distrust, perhaps worthy of a yawn or two... some underground disdain or lassitude for the whole grid. But somehow no... i've got love for Turlock.
The shark sequence...
Monday, July 16, 2007
Willy's Barbershop
This morning my baby took a left on Mission, heading for the station... train bound for East Bay. And i took a right toward my favorite barbershop, a small old-fashioned feel with straight edges and men waiting with magazines and tophats. Took a seat while a fellow got finished up on the chair, thumbing through the funnies and crossword. Then he called me up for a seat and wrapped a scarlet curtain around my neck. I started pointing at different pictures strung about the place saying "kinda like that... except shorter on the sides" and he's going "Uh-huh sure thing."
I sat back and watched myself through three mirrors and thought of the pleasant morning with a few birds singing on the apple tree in the yard. Lying stretched out with the bright morning light pouring beneath the raised blind and this new, yet familiar body beside me. A slow uncalculated morning with crossword and american breakfast of potatoes and eggs and toast and peach on the side. And i'm sitting back in this chair, my sleepy eyes perhaps looking upward to the "visual memory" we speak of in elementary school (i guess we must look up, maybe even open our mouths a bit, to contact memory).
Willy the barber finishes me up with shaving cream across my neck and sides with a blade and then this amazingly quick massage, my neck going pop pop pop and leaving me completely relaxed and meanwhile he's done the final style on my hair. All i could say was "woh" and "thanks kindly... it looks great!" Stepped back out into the morning light and took a slow beeline trip through the neighborhood. The sounds and smells of the Mission have grown on me... Something about feeling present and nostalgic in the same moment. And thinking a little of a fond farewell as we ready to move across the bay. To make a home together in the near bright lights of Oakland.
I sat back and watched myself through three mirrors and thought of the pleasant morning with a few birds singing on the apple tree in the yard. Lying stretched out with the bright morning light pouring beneath the raised blind and this new, yet familiar body beside me. A slow uncalculated morning with crossword and american breakfast of potatoes and eggs and toast and peach on the side. And i'm sitting back in this chair, my sleepy eyes perhaps looking upward to the "visual memory" we speak of in elementary school (i guess we must look up, maybe even open our mouths a bit, to contact memory).
Willy the barber finishes me up with shaving cream across my neck and sides with a blade and then this amazingly quick massage, my neck going pop pop pop and leaving me completely relaxed and meanwhile he's done the final style on my hair. All i could say was "woh" and "thanks kindly... it looks great!" Stepped back out into the morning light and took a slow beeline trip through the neighborhood. The sounds and smells of the Mission have grown on me... Something about feeling present and nostalgic in the same moment. And thinking a little of a fond farewell as we ready to move across the bay. To make a home together in the near bright lights of Oakland.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Friday, July 06, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
this is the ease of american life...
I'm on a coffee shop hop in and between the intermittent Seattle showers. My friend M. pedaled off grudgingly toward work after snoozing her alarm twice this a.m. fore finally slumbering upward and out. I tossed any number of things upon my back and set off into Mallard. Beelined for M.'s poor car, which we left last night on a no-name street near the video store. Took half an hour to find it again... sadly abandoned against the crumbling curb looking downhill toward the Ballard locks.
We'd spent an afternoon/evening scrambling some ivy trails at Careek Park on the Sound and had mused a movie night to follow. But returning to the little red sportscar, we found a likely soul given up. M. had miraculously been driving a dipstickless car for a few months, somehow shying a prior engine collapse. And now... the poor thing coughed and whirred, pistons likely locked and dry. Some darling leather-coated, pop-top Saab driver found us home in his shiny five-speed, flirting preciously with M. in the frontseat. I lay back in the body fitting backseat reminding me of a soft version of a police cruiser.
I found M.'s car in a similar state, sadly rooted to the street with mawkish purrs on ignition, clawing for a little life. And it being a Mercury, i thought of the ominous retrograde situation up in the heavens and wondered if any bearing were made on this little four-wheeled motor.
Pressing on i ducked inside a small cafe rocking Neil Diamond and later some delicious electronica full of beeps and flurries reminiscent of Aphex and Atari. And there i am perched still blinking my way through vocational postings and the more enticing chum network. Coffee kindly altering my senses and shining a little light despite the current gray beyond the glass.
We'd spent an afternoon/evening scrambling some ivy trails at Careek Park on the Sound and had mused a movie night to follow. But returning to the little red sportscar, we found a likely soul given up. M. had miraculously been driving a dipstickless car for a few months, somehow shying a prior engine collapse. And now... the poor thing coughed and whirred, pistons likely locked and dry. Some darling leather-coated, pop-top Saab driver found us home in his shiny five-speed, flirting preciously with M. in the frontseat. I lay back in the body fitting backseat reminding me of a soft version of a police cruiser.
I found M.'s car in a similar state, sadly rooted to the street with mawkish purrs on ignition, clawing for a little life. And it being a Mercury, i thought of the ominous retrograde situation up in the heavens and wondered if any bearing were made on this little four-wheeled motor.
Pressing on i ducked inside a small cafe rocking Neil Diamond and later some delicious electronica full of beeps and flurries reminiscent of Aphex and Atari. And there i am perched still blinking my way through vocational postings and the more enticing chum network. Coffee kindly altering my senses and shining a little light despite the current gray beyond the glass.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A brief prayer.
I'm cracked out by exhaustion and severely need a beverage in my hand and a Mariner win this evening. First of all I'd like to thank the tickets that have been procured for this clear evening... seats well situated for such a momentous drinking occasion. The lights of Seattle, its gridwork silhouette skyline will stretch up... and below us our poor five-game skidding Mariners, G-D bless them, will take the field against the even poorer Pittsburgh Pirates. I'd also like to thank accompanying Andrew for his more recent conversion to the fanclub and subsequent recovery as a stalwart Bucs swain. Andrew it was wholly necessary... you are finally a true resident and worthy Olympian.
I'd also like to thank the morning for being over. Its been five days on the rooftop laboring slave-like and i ache such as an ailing gerry might... grumbling, groaning and the like. Roofing is a bear and a bitch quite frankly. My gratitude to Lali Puna (*link through blog title) for rousing some energy and groove this morning, combatting prodigious doubts and motivation. I was not happy about life and needed something in my veins other than blood. It was either music to uplift or some Lewis County product derived from lithium, which i lacked.
Also a thanks to Cat for similar encouragement on the scale of élan... some sweet thing to come. And to Erin Kramer who will likely try my levels of consumption, no surprise there. To M. Holtrop for gracious invitations and a pacific voice for the radio. And of course a big one for the Almighty, who despite my stead disbelief still manages great things.
I'd also like to thank the morning for being over. Its been five days on the rooftop laboring slave-like and i ache such as an ailing gerry might... grumbling, groaning and the like. Roofing is a bear and a bitch quite frankly. My gratitude to Lali Puna (*link through blog title) for rousing some energy and groove this morning, combatting prodigious doubts and motivation. I was not happy about life and needed something in my veins other than blood. It was either music to uplift or some Lewis County product derived from lithium, which i lacked.
Also a thanks to Cat for similar encouragement on the scale of élan... some sweet thing to come. And to Erin Kramer who will likely try my levels of consumption, no surprise there. To M. Holtrop for gracious invitations and a pacific voice for the radio. And of course a big one for the Almighty, who despite my stead disbelief still manages great things.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Contrails. You left one too...
Above the patchwork of hued farmland and stricken cuts along the hillsides, veins scratched from logs dollied upwards. Metal jaws clamping and cinches loosed, the waiting trucks along the yellow-clay roadways. And my lorax northwest analogies... looking downward.
So far below and San Francisco a mile per second further behind. I'm leaving home and going home all the same, the same time. And poor Frank who i left nights back at that social/networking/drinking scene downtown amongst the lofts and industrial hangouts. I think of him and our philosophical discussion, bordering metaphysics and that whole pitfall of sugarcoatedness (which we miraculously sidestepped); his selfless confidence ringing. I always heard the confident tone; it sounds louder on my ears, i always could listen harder. You seem like somebody concerned with the idea of home, he said. I'd known him for only a few minutes. I was on a second glass of overpriced sauvignon blanc, my thirty-sixth hour of wakefulness, thirtieth hour of over-stimulation, fifteenth hour of pollyannaist ga-ga for the world and its inhabitants. The comfort of strangers... a few to mention.
Nearing Seattle, the lowering hum of engines aside me and the left wing stretching out toward the Pacific. I can see the mighty Columbia reaching the coast, its flat slow waters tamed with a shot of soma and hydroelectricity. Let's not save the world, I'm thinking. I'm done with anything even feigning that resolution. Maybe saving yourself... unlikely by abstraction alone, but feasible i guess... and at least acceptable.
Let's not worry that timing is everything. I still wanna hope that it was the right time, you know i do. And despite any leaning theory of governance and guidance, i don't wanna resign myself but rather push it in the direction of my hoped outcome. I'm not worried anymore if I'm lost or found. I'd like to be found, but it's out of my hands. And oh those Olympic Mountains... still white and starked with dark rocks and shadow. Enough to make me forget wholly any point i may have had. The only thing resounding is a sweet contentment...
So far below and San Francisco a mile per second further behind. I'm leaving home and going home all the same, the same time. And poor Frank who i left nights back at that social/networking/drinking scene downtown amongst the lofts and industrial hangouts. I think of him and our philosophical discussion, bordering metaphysics and that whole pitfall of sugarcoatedness (which we miraculously sidestepped); his selfless confidence ringing. I always heard the confident tone; it sounds louder on my ears, i always could listen harder. You seem like somebody concerned with the idea of home, he said. I'd known him for only a few minutes. I was on a second glass of overpriced sauvignon blanc, my thirty-sixth hour of wakefulness, thirtieth hour of over-stimulation, fifteenth hour of pollyannaist ga-ga for the world and its inhabitants. The comfort of strangers... a few to mention.
Nearing Seattle, the lowering hum of engines aside me and the left wing stretching out toward the Pacific. I can see the mighty Columbia reaching the coast, its flat slow waters tamed with a shot of soma and hydroelectricity. Let's not save the world, I'm thinking. I'm done with anything even feigning that resolution. Maybe saving yourself... unlikely by abstraction alone, but feasible i guess... and at least acceptable.
Let's not worry that timing is everything. I still wanna hope that it was the right time, you know i do. And despite any leaning theory of governance and guidance, i don't wanna resign myself but rather push it in the direction of my hoped outcome. I'm not worried anymore if I'm lost or found. I'd like to be found, but it's out of my hands. And oh those Olympic Mountains... still white and starked with dark rocks and shadow. Enough to make me forget wholly any point i may have had. The only thing resounding is a sweet contentment...
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
I'll get funny again...
I like the damp streets in the morning and my feet trying to find a new way through the city grid. A plus: that tired eyes can still see so well; the cup of bittersweet coffee in my hand; a goodbye kiss for the day. Makes me think that to question how we spend our time beyond the sense of feeling alright, is just a waste of time. I've done that far too much.
I like this new record playing in my ears, playing every moment i have the time to unwind and rewind. To have music inside your ears (or head) that no one else can hear is a guiltless pleasure. It's rhythm and motion and perhaps that is everything. There's this song by The National...
We expected something, something better than before. We expected something more
Do you really think you can just put it in a safe behind a painting, lock it up and leave
Walk away now and you're gonna start a war
Whatever went away I'll get it over now. I'll get money, I'll get funny again
Whatever went away I'll get it over now. I'll get money, I'll get funny again
Walk away now and you're gonna start a war
I'm still working on one it means exactly. The feeling is there, and it seems to fit the feeling i have for this ragged job search, the monies run up chutes and down ladders, whether it's worth it. My balancing act always seems to involve songs and stories listened.
A dear friend's father is coming up on retirement and he ponders this coming time, its bountiful aptitude following a life of due diligence to vocation. He thinks of model airplanes and books to be read. I wonder about that aim and its nearing freedoms, and wonder if it ever really leaves us to begin with. I have those plans too and can only hope that a free spirit is lasting in a world of labor and dollars. I'd like to capture my freedom all along the way and never lose sight despite the early mornings that pull me from a warm bed, and inside a glowing caffeine office. Most of all i want to be good and no matter the blocks, i think that can be done.
*there's a link to that song up on the title...
I like this new record playing in my ears, playing every moment i have the time to unwind and rewind. To have music inside your ears (or head) that no one else can hear is a guiltless pleasure. It's rhythm and motion and perhaps that is everything. There's this song by The National...
We expected something, something better than before. We expected something more
Do you really think you can just put it in a safe behind a painting, lock it up and leave
Walk away now and you're gonna start a war
Whatever went away I'll get it over now. I'll get money, I'll get funny again
Whatever went away I'll get it over now. I'll get money, I'll get funny again
Walk away now and you're gonna start a war
I'm still working on one it means exactly. The feeling is there, and it seems to fit the feeling i have for this ragged job search, the monies run up chutes and down ladders, whether it's worth it. My balancing act always seems to involve songs and stories listened.
A dear friend's father is coming up on retirement and he ponders this coming time, its bountiful aptitude following a life of due diligence to vocation. He thinks of model airplanes and books to be read. I wonder about that aim and its nearing freedoms, and wonder if it ever really leaves us to begin with. I have those plans too and can only hope that a free spirit is lasting in a world of labor and dollars. I'd like to capture my freedom all along the way and never lose sight despite the early mornings that pull me from a warm bed, and inside a glowing caffeine office. Most of all i want to be good and no matter the blocks, i think that can be done.
*there's a link to that song up on the title...
Saturday, May 19, 2007
You really got a hold on me
I decided to stay a while longer in the Bay... my current plans unraveling. The man was saying sign here, here and here... and oh so barely did i escape. Some love for Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.
I'd like to send this shoutout to improbability, because without it... life wouldn't impress me nearly as much. I want to take you back in time to the year 2005 and the microcosmo of my life at that pivotal moment. On Fridays we drove into town, either to McCall via the Lick Creek Summit Road which was a veritable nightmare and graveyard for vehicle undercarriages; or, to Cascade via a neverending serpentine road begging the driver or passenger at some point to not become an astronaut.
On this much anticipated Friday venture provisions would be bought in the denominations of half-racks and cases, often in can form. On return, refrigerators would be stocked, lawnchairs assembled and the evening commenced with a cylinder of Red Seal and maybe a rock-throwing contest down toward the South Fork(*link above on the title).
I'd like to send this shoutout to improbability, because without it... life wouldn't impress me nearly as much. I want to take you back in time to the year 2005 and the microcosmo of my life at that pivotal moment. On Fridays we drove into town, either to McCall via the Lick Creek Summit Road which was a veritable nightmare and graveyard for vehicle undercarriages; or, to Cascade via a neverending serpentine road begging the driver or passenger at some point to not become an astronaut.
On this much anticipated Friday venture provisions would be bought in the denominations of half-racks and cases, often in can form. On return, refrigerators would be stocked, lawnchairs assembled and the evening commenced with a cylinder of Red Seal and maybe a rock-throwing contest down toward the South Fork(*link above on the title).
Friday, May 18, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Today in my eyes.
I put my feet up on the furnace and watched the kids playing in the schoolyard. My lunchbreak looking out on a cool, gray day... the quick drift above Twin Peaks bringing a welcome hood upon Noe Valley. Still working on a ginormous cup of coffee from the early morning and awaiting some state of wakefulness that never comes. I'm taking notes on child behavior and thinking about my own. Studying the dark circles beneath my eyes and the tired smile i've been wearing all morning. I couldn't be happier... and with it some confidence resounding. And the kids don't fuck with me when i'm like this. I give them this look, like Hey, don't waste my fucking time okay? It seems to work really well, and then we can sit down and do our work. This peace as i find my own. There is some art in not trying too hard, wouldn't you say?
Down in the Mission the kids are trying too hard. I see them already cool at seven a.m. talking into cellphones at their chins, like walkie-talkies. They're leaning against the wall waiting for the Laidlaw to take em away. It's seven in the bloody morning, does anybody without a job or meth problem talk at this time? Me? Don't call me at seven and certainly don't put me on speaker phone at the corner of 24th and Capp. I'm not having it.
Further on a homeless mans been run down. Two enormous black women are looking down at his snow-angel form near the corner drain. His Safeway cart is a few feet away; he starts to lift his head. An LA Looks-gelled up Latino cop talks into his shoulder, spitting out codes instead of just saying poor bastard down. He's gonna be fine... his feet are moving. Maybe a concussion and a two-month looming hangover fought off but destined for him and his hospital bed. The smell of fresh conchas from the Mexican bakery and the fried tomatos on the corner, these things don't wait.
And as the hour grows later, little ones emerge in rows like ducklings on the sidewalk. The rabbit reproduction of the American immigrant, shocking... like the giant billboard of Savage Nation overlooking the Castro. Or the ad right next to it~ Want hot sex without crystal? Hell Yes!!! And a bunch of flaming pecs and abs in a row supporting the statement. Reminding me of the recent film 300, just gayer (if that's possible).
I like San Francisco most when i'm on my feet. I walk a lot and my gait follows me through, choosing the less traveled streets of my own memory toward the day's destinations. It feels good to walk by and watch the life living here; these close quarters allowing anonymity or palaver in the same breath.
Fabulous Castro sailor boys compliments of Julia
from the passenger seat at 15mph...
Down in the Mission the kids are trying too hard. I see them already cool at seven a.m. talking into cellphones at their chins, like walkie-talkies. They're leaning against the wall waiting for the Laidlaw to take em away. It's seven in the bloody morning, does anybody without a job or meth problem talk at this time? Me? Don't call me at seven and certainly don't put me on speaker phone at the corner of 24th and Capp. I'm not having it.
Further on a homeless mans been run down. Two enormous black women are looking down at his snow-angel form near the corner drain. His Safeway cart is a few feet away; he starts to lift his head. An LA Looks-gelled up Latino cop talks into his shoulder, spitting out codes instead of just saying poor bastard down. He's gonna be fine... his feet are moving. Maybe a concussion and a two-month looming hangover fought off but destined for him and his hospital bed. The smell of fresh conchas from the Mexican bakery and the fried tomatos on the corner, these things don't wait.
And as the hour grows later, little ones emerge in rows like ducklings on the sidewalk. The rabbit reproduction of the American immigrant, shocking... like the giant billboard of Savage Nation overlooking the Castro. Or the ad right next to it~ Want hot sex without crystal? Hell Yes!!! And a bunch of flaming pecs and abs in a row supporting the statement. Reminding me of the recent film 300, just gayer (if that's possible).
I like San Francisco most when i'm on my feet. I walk a lot and my gait follows me through, choosing the less traveled streets of my own memory toward the day's destinations. It feels good to walk by and watch the life living here; these close quarters allowing anonymity or palaver in the same breath.
Fabulous Castro sailor boys compliments of Julia
from the passenger seat at 15mph...
Friday, May 11, 2007
The moment that brought me here.
You were there seated in a field trampled with many feet. The red plastic cup in your hands, legs criss cross, eyes watching me. I was on a stage in those days and i performed quietly for you. There was forever a private joke playing between our eyes and it was this humor that i loved most. That was outside Helena, Montana... we were talking about how to spend your grandmother's money. The money she'd left for you in her exit. It was a piece of land we wished to buy, loose knit pine turning to field and the Dearborn River below.
A few weeks before, you'd said 'i love you' in a Santa Fe city park. Cicadas were rattling overhead in odd ornamentals and my fingers began to shake as i rolled a cigarette. I'd told you many times before never expecting you to answer me. It's difficult to put so much forward without the expectation of reciprocity. I wonder sometimes if i could ever attain that level again.
This first ballast of communcation haunted and delighted me. To feel myself and another simultaneous in thought and step, i never truly believed a possibility. And it sent me somewhere beyond the granted love of a good childhood. In some regards it was another beginning. There was my birth, and language; there was memory, and coming upright to stand on two feet. Beginnings like these... And then, there was this new thing forming inside me and further, moving beyond my body.
However one's belief could place me on this planet, whether a product of supernal hand, or fated otherwise... whatever the case. To be here and have an innate nature of doing and living, is a motherfucker in itself. And in the moments i realize the power of understanding certain things, carried by trembing hands or hairs raised above the skin... i can feel what it is, most important to me. And it seems to all stem from this first shudder of vulnerability.
A few weeks before, you'd said 'i love you' in a Santa Fe city park. Cicadas were rattling overhead in odd ornamentals and my fingers began to shake as i rolled a cigarette. I'd told you many times before never expecting you to answer me. It's difficult to put so much forward without the expectation of reciprocity. I wonder sometimes if i could ever attain that level again.
This first ballast of communcation haunted and delighted me. To feel myself and another simultaneous in thought and step, i never truly believed a possibility. And it sent me somewhere beyond the granted love of a good childhood. In some regards it was another beginning. There was my birth, and language; there was memory, and coming upright to stand on two feet. Beginnings like these... And then, there was this new thing forming inside me and further, moving beyond my body.
However one's belief could place me on this planet, whether a product of supernal hand, or fated otherwise... whatever the case. To be here and have an innate nature of doing and living, is a motherfucker in itself. And in the moments i realize the power of understanding certain things, carried by trembing hands or hairs raised above the skin... i can feel what it is, most important to me. And it seems to all stem from this first shudder of vulnerability.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
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