be nice to my notes

“The Zen way of calligraphy is to write in the most straightforward, simple way as if you were a beginner, not trying to make something skillful or beautiful, but simply writing with full attention as if you were discovering what you were writing for the first time; then your full nature will be in your writing. This is the way of practice moment after moment.” -Richard Baker from the Introduction of Shunryu Suzuki’s Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind.

“I’m not here, this isn’t happening.” this is a line from of one of Radiohead’s recent songs. I don’t try to build a review or commentary, I just mention, move on, don’t try to assume any particular role.

I just have to be honest
maybe this means admitting that I can’t
and I should just put myself to bed
in this case push on and admit
I hide and cannot be completely honest

why the hell not?

fear of
discomfort
and so on

getting in a lot of writing with personal Q&A sessions. that can really get the writing flowing.

unlike now.

so the soundtrack is
Cave In, TSOL (from Suburbia), Aphex Twin

overworked is
playing like a broken record
have tomorrow left, Friday, Saturday
the bastards require that
I bust my ass when I go in there
I constantly ask for stuff to do
and write every single thing down
they better appreciate it
of course they won’t
ultimately it’s more for myself
knowing without question
I’ve put everything into it

reading and writing a little
on the train
thinking of my friends
Matthew and Amanda
my pen pals
how I miss them
even though we’ve never
met in person

other friends who are gone
I’m still upset

upset about a lot of things
worried about money
confused about a
spiritual path

trying to be calm, patient
not throw anything around
last time I threw something was two
summer’s ago – a glass from across
the room into the sink
and two unwashed plates
out the back door
grass grew tall over them
and it made me laugh
Casey didn’t

in a good mood right now
lonely but not too bad of a mood

you like Radiohead why?
they sing the saddest, deepest songs
in the galaxy
wait til you hear this Pyramid Song
you’ll be psyched.

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something forms

it’s another late night puncture wound, blood loss, clot, whatever. as much as I feel like writing, I don’t feel up to writing all that much I don’t think. I’ve no idea. I miss a lot of friends, some who I think have abandoned me completely. they play such an important role in all of this. and how lonely it is on the train sitting next to strangers and reading stupid magazines. I am always reading something though, if only a couple pages a day. like Kafka for instance, how healthy for me! I’ve concluded his notes were all about this hell that we’re living on earth. there was nothing ever cheerful in his tone. I assume he was even lonelier. I can read his stuff, and well, all kinds of stuff, and it helps me get through knowing I’m not the only one suffering the same kind of thoughts. I probably do most of my writing in good old fashioned ink, though I do like the speed of the keys, and from time to time I get on a role and write for a good hour or so. it’s rare. saturday night I put myself through a question and answer session that went on for a good bit, putting me in a very “talkative” mood. the next morning was not so easy, and I was not successful. writing at night has its charm.

now I’m just thirsty. I have to be honest. I have to say that too. he asked me a question and I just said no. I didn’t waste any energy coming up with an excuse. I’m going home to stare at the wall. my nights and days are filled with horror, if you really want to know. I’m terrified every other moment, and I’m being forced to look at something. pretty much nothing. which is the problem. life is becoming nothing. and if I were to hang out, I’d be staring off into some other wall. please know, however, I like you like a small animal. take that as a compliment, because I look on them fondly, yes, even though I’m depressed and isolated. this is the Red Cavern, my new book carnage, entrails across the hood and steaming. it’s not place for me even. especially for us both. but it’s all right, I can’t explain it, but it’s all right. I’d rather it be like this, for now, alone, riding the train keeping to myself, chaste to the quiet closed mouth and thoughtful brain. something forms.

the sore eyed chronicles

eyes sore like a bastard, like my shoulders, like the music watered over me. I rest in these blankets this strange winter. I could die, a train car could smash me open, slide over me, they’d curse me for jamming up rush hour, for being . . . selfish. hmmm. eyes sore, like I said, from color correcting photos all day at work. this one needs a little more red. this one has too much yellow. wish I could actually help people though. wish I had some damn courage to tell someone, hey man, you should cut that out. you’ve got too much hate, you’re too scared, why don’t you cut back on that. it’s not that easy, or I just think it’s not.

well, I should write you a letter, but I don’t know what to say. I’m just going through a lot of trouble and lonely times for the most part, reading Salinger on the train, and some shorts by Kafka. my hair is growing long and scruffy. every time I think of my mother I think of how she has something negative or discouraging to say every single time, and it stops me from picking up that phone. the days are too long, and life is too short. race car drivers are dying. I couldn’t believe that, how on the news, she announced this tragedy, then brought up the weather, said we’ll be right back, and faded to a commercial. no, I could actually. it didn’t shock me. what shocks me any more? at work this is brought up, and it’s painful. because they make light of everything. hell, I don’t know the guy myself, but I’d do better probably not to say a thing. I wish you well, wherever, whoever, you are.

bathtub water sounds
batches of files/folders
soft batch cookies
childhood fire engines
they put the fear of God in me
the thoughts I carried around
and still do

not easy
uneasy
dis-ease
diseased

why the talk of phobias? agra-phobia. acrophobia. claustrophobia,. the mouth wants to run along like a pen.

I throw things. I throw my water bottle, my pen, up over the shelf into the isle. break a whole through being bored to tears. no excitement.

you’re right on with your complaints. you’ve got it razor sharp wise like potato chips. why thank you, thank you. doesn’t come without bleeding out of the eyes.

I do claim however, if anything, my taste in music is anything but poor.

the way it should be

sitting here on a Sunday night, betting that a lot of people think I’ve gone into retirement by now. betting some are replacing garbage bags and setting their alarm clocks without the slightest care in the world, which is fine, ’cause it’s really how things have to be anyway. so I will sit here and write about nothing, as usual, and hope to squeeze my way back into the attention of a few readers. nothing is going on except for the music playing right now. well, this is what I want to say. I don’t know if I can. it comes down to this, sitting on the bed late at night wishing I could buy more time. if I could I say I’d engage it in writing something of worth so my soul’d be saved from . . . sitting on the edge of a Sunday night before work is like sitting on the edge of a cliff knowing you’ll fall in. this is the writing that pulls something out of you. I’m not looking. I can’t see. is it too late? no one can see me. will I die like this? die in some neighborhood unadvanced, die with my doubts, die alone?

I put my neckbeads back on. this means something beyond my understanding. there are some things I love. water. running water. the taste of water. bodies of water. large expansive views of forests, rivers, oceans. I love riding through, or walking through, beautiful Alexandria neighborhoods hoping one day I’ll be in a house just a little bigger than this one. but how do you love these things? how do you fully love these views, these bodies of water. I’m thinking I should dive in. I’m confused if I want to do web design, music, or movies. I don’t know where to throw myself.

time is a serial killer.

went and saw Hannibal. you know me by now. come on, you know I loved that damn movie. the more movies I discover the more I distrust these professional critics.

of course they’re not human, they’re newspaper men.

no nightmares, nothing.
saw the movie and went home
it’s still moving through me

and this is the way it should be

go claim the damn airport sky somewhere else

I want to be a natural writer
this means writing
freely and a hell of a lot to get to that
free up
inhibitions of the hand
none of the technology means anything
if the thoughts vegetate.
think by and for yourself and be the mature man.

he says he’s trying to have love but isn’t succeeding. not yet. you have to be simple and innocent. love for small animals, the sky and silence, love your day, you have to find the good in people, and when you do the bad mostly all falls away.

life ain’t sane
you’ll be unhappy
find sanity
with desperation
don’t sign out and
take a drink
Bukowski said it was wine
wine helps me to write
wine helps me to think

what’s wrong with your current sober state?
shouldn’t you be tightening up on that?

he is an old man with more life experience you could say, but the truth is, he was an old man tinted by his alcoholism. not that I still don’t like him, but it’s important that we don’t think we have to emulate all the qualities of the writers we look up to. best in the end to look to the saints, if you can.

I don’t want to lose sight.

the sky I love. this dark blue sky over the airport. everyone here thinks this view belongs to them, feet planted on the platform looking out over the top. and some don’t look. it’s just another day. you see, there’s a better view somewhere else, but it’s all I’ve got for now. I’m patriotic to my own experiences.

by now the trees are merged into the sky and my eyes are watering. computer monitors put you to sleep. maybe I’ll get better performance if I increase my intake of carrot juice.

King St. we should start a football team here. I’d regret it for how instantly boring it would become. not that I don’t like some mundane things myself, but some things are very mundane. setting up forever taking positions on the field. pretty damn boring.

well, God bless.

my way of being social

this evening I was falling asleep on the train. last night I was on the train home falling asleep too. on the outside seat away from the window, my eyes struggled a useless fight.

there’s this huge set of days for me to work hard, and with no end in sight. pretty dismal. all smog in this situation. I’ve got my own thoughts, my clarity. and at the machine, I’m pulling my notebook up from my pocket and writing for the better masses. it’s my way of being social. I don’t stand around drinking anything by the water cooler b/c I am not a casual guy. I’d rather go home and play with my cat.

they make themselves useful

dream: the detail is lost almost like being born. but I was in a house trying to relax in a basement apartment with sliding glass doors that faced out into the backyard. looking out I saw these little girls playing dressed up as military. then the real military dressed in black come in on helicopters and on foot wiping out the neighborhood. they killed the girls and the bombs started whizzing by close, and then hitting the house, several times taking out huge chunks. as I am starting to run for the new imaginary basement it’s too late and they’re coming in through the glass doors. at this point there is a strange hope like all they want to do is say something to me instead of kill me, like “you owe us taxes.” and that would still be a nightmare.

silence for the slain

a note to say hello

Monday late at night, I swear I’m going a little psycho. I’ve got some new ideas, some obsessions that I won’t share just quite yet, but let me tell you, I’m in a damn good mood. no matter what I have to stay on top of the game and be creative. and before bed, I know this is not a good idea, but I have to find something to munch on because it’s been a good day for starving my damn head off. empty kitchen like a dried up river. went over to my friend’s website and read some stuff – after reading “Catcher.” I’m beginning to see the thread in words, in the music. God, how music and writing are interrelated. the hunger is intense, like the assholes all over the earth. the hunger rises up and falls forgotten, forgotten mess in my stomach shrinking as I sit in the hallway writing waiting for a manager to show and let me in. sheltered from the cold Saturday morning, I’m glad there is a back hallway to take me. it is freezing like hell outside again. the weather is really up and down. one minute it’s in the 50s and the next they’re talking about snow. we’re tired of it, we don’t want our progress slowed, our tires spun. not true for me. for me I’m hoping for some kind of disaster in the Golden Triangle part of town – so that I can go in later. so that I can go in never.

what is the mystery in N.E. lately with college kids being killed. the most recent one was stabbed in the head and all that, just a young freshman. this note is ending now. I hope to see everyone back here very soon.