morning gears

it is early morning again and I am thinking about kind people. I think of myself as being kind at times, and at other times, slipping, not being kind; and of people who don’t know me really, what they actually think, what kind of aura surrounds me, because it is not always easy to see yourself, especially undergoing constant transformations. much time these days being aware of a dullness, a lack of clarity, self-doubt. “if I go to write, just a bunch of nonsense will come up. only nonsense will come up. so why bother.” it’s funny, after all this time, I still have doubts about the simplest things, such as writing. I’ve tried the whole audio thing, but it cannot replace my first love of writing out the words that appear on “paper” before the eyes. and I am thankful for the ability to flow both on paper and keyboard. this is making pretty decent use of my materials, I think.

you were born here and we share words about what this place is like, as well as me telling you where I’m from, and it is a short conversation before moving along to the next thing. it was tonight’s second portfolio review. one of my paintings was a black and white replica of Munch’s Scream. my teacher was not terribly thrilled with it, but did not want to throw it to the vultures either, thank goodness.

. . .

a word pad of gigantic proportions. I just felt like… writing that. writing a new beginning, this mental life. chopped. fresh starts. you can meditate on death all you want, this does not retract from the fact that you have open time right in the current before you have to face your own death. still it is on the brain at times, especially when feeling sick. this is fine, because we need reminders, some of us more than others. refrigerator songs, more like hums. fans internal on computers, to keep them cool. some practice Mac as a religion. I don’t like to geek-ify myself like that, though at times know I geek it a little more than the average person who can barely manage mouse movements, but that is another story.

pads. launch pads. they took me up in a helicopter when I was a little kid. quick. up. then down. back to class. no, memory jumps in here. it was at the fire station, wasn’t it? also, we drove up to an open area, other classmates were there with their parents, and we watch the space shuttle fly over mounted on top of the Bowing blah blah (can’t remember). the fact that I can’t remember would disappoint my dad, who knows all of that junk to the end of time. he would probably laugh. I plan to visit him, as well as mei and amu, around March – in which time a new season of Sopranos will lift.

knee pads. save often. organic frame. fame. we aren’t famous, but make up for it by talking a lot. the school yard is like the prison yard. that is always how I found it. except this one, on the edge of the field, had mulberries. I’d go out there every day almost, spending all of recess stuffing my face.

I have an entire crate of notebooks, journals written over the years, then a bunch more scattered all about. we are outgrowing this apartment with our belongings. we sat and discussed another big move in the next couple of years. Columbus, Ohio is a consideration, as well as Pittsburgh, or Atlanta. hard to say what will happen.

. . .

green tea or
hot choc. mornings
odd hours
silent meditation
all thoughts aside
peaceful stillness
in all you can muster
any hour you
can break free
is a good hour
recognize

single child way of things
no, I want to
build a power

. . .

say hi to all your people for me
it makes you uneasy that
I’m not putting up a tree this year
I say – I leave that to my parents
they get into that sort of thing
I’m not malicious about it
but time is short, this apartment is
small, and that is one less tree slain
for what is originally
a non-Christian ritual to
begin with
plus I’ve got thoughts of
peace on earth tucked
in the sleeve of my shirt
as my own little secret
when you are
walking around brash
and being harsh and
don’t even realize

it is hard not to judge
this too I have
to remind myself

we expect of one another not just things that we will do to reinforce blanks, but we expect of days even, days like today, for instance, to behave like yesterday. but what’s to say something terrible won’t go down? or better, something incredible won’t go down?

. . .

page 194 of The Trial. I am always proud of myself to be far along into a book, to be in the heart of the story. the good part is there. “highly readable” they say. I’ll say! freakin’ Kafka, highly readable? what an understatement! this far into it, things are really picking up. you ask me what is going on with me these days, and I almost let it slip: “I’m up to page 183 of this joint.” instead I tell you about getting a haircut Friday night. I depart with big money, because tips are important. if you think someone really deserves it, let go of what you got!

got got got. my mother would be correcting my grammar now.
I send valley girls to say, what-ever.

better nice and poor than
all the hot air putting on aires
however you spell it
however you word it
I could say
keep it ghetto
but don’t mean that either
keep it real
but don’t mean to beat a dead horse
when it’s already dead to death

again, reaffirm, no use in self-limiting thy small self with little usuals that amount to nothing. I want people to see this from plane windows while cars still remain tiny dots. I will write this on the ground, in the sand, in the rock, across the roanoke valley: winter gear is no type of gear for a guy all year ’round.

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