Friday notes

Writing and the journal continues to mutate. I really started to write when I began to struggle—riding the bus and train to work—all that time I had, all the suffering my current job was piling on. My initial thought was to see a psychiatrist, but I realized I could bypass this by writing furiously into a notebook. The notebooks piled up. JOT, my magazine at the time, was quietly coming to an end. My view of the world was becoming more hardened. I no longer believed that chanting on japa malas would save humanity. Just maybe I was tossed in with the rest and was being swallowed up by destruction, and there was nothing I could do about it. I developed for myself the humility of writing small notes (not always philosophical) and “poems,” broken lines, particles, ghosts…

And there were the coffee houses, with open mic nights. I could get up in front of an audience and read what I felt at the time to be the essence of my thought process. Once I overcame the fear of the audience… I tasted purity.

I kicked out my website in the late 90’s, altering its design several times. I kept the fetus as a theme. For one, it represents birth; the mystery of existence; novelty theory – all things new and exciting; the beauty and horror of the womb, being trapped, confined, and released. Released into what? Released into the world? But what is the world? The world of detail. The world of detail can be a sort of playground. But do I really consider myself a writer? An accomplished writer? What is accomplishment? To be published? To be published by a company? To be self-published? The internet has enabled all zine makers to move into a free territory. The nature of publication has changed drastically. But… am I a writer? I can say I have interest in it—sometimes intense interest. But it is safer to say, for now, that I take down notes while I go about in the world trying to notice all things (important or otherwise).

Why be safe? Who wants to read the safe writings of safe people?

. . .

Three new people behind the counter at the coffee shop, much of the usual staff gone. The one guy cut my hair the other day. I ask one of the girls about the new staff. “Yeah, there are going to be some changes around here,” she says, as if she’s being held hostage in her house when someone comes to the door and asks if everything is okay. “But I’m staying.” Good, I tell her. The new manager introduces himself, managed the place back in the early 90s. I don’t give a goddamn fuck about that. I only care about if people are being treated right here, to an extent. I only know a little of what’s going on, but it doesn’t seem right. Have some people been unjustly fired? Did they quit?

I move my gear out front and look at all kinds of stuff on Wikipedia.

It is Friday, but I have a full shift ahead of me for tomorrow. This goes down once every six weeks or so.

The cops are out this morning. They pop up out of nowhere on people, throw their lights on. They are so completely unnecessary it’s unbelievable. Maintain law and order? Is that what they think they’re doing?

New comics are out. 52, Astonishing X-Men, All-Star Superman—to name a few. For those who don’t read this genre, you should definitely reconsider. Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud is a great introduction. And if you’re jumping into the middle of a story, there’s always resources online to catch you up. I recommended Grant Morrison to one friend of mine who picked up The Filth awhile back. The Filth is fucking tripped out, same as The Invisibles.

. . .

Will I die a natural death? Will I live to see the end of this day? Will I have children? Will they like me, and I them? Will time itself come to a crashing halt by 2012? Will we enter the next dimension? Will global warming increase and wipe humanity off the face of the planet? Are we just getting started? Is it true that time and consciousness are accelerating, and if so, towards what? Does it have to be something? Is there a god? Is god angry or psyched or just plain unfathomable?

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Thursday morning notes

I don’t want you to be nice to me, to smile and nod and lavish me with compliments, as a way to appease me, as is your way of self preservation, as if I really buy into or play that game. You don’t have to do that with me. I can back off and let you do your thing and you will get no hostility from me. No threat. Trust that. Believe that. I want your sincere kindness or no kindness at all. Otherwise, hop into the seat of your quietude and turn the key. I wanna see you excel in that area. Add to your portfolio. Your smiles need not be corporate. Fake smilery is what makes us take shelter in art galleries.

. . .

Next time you see a beautiful woman, make sure you take notice of her hands—these are the give-away. It is very important for a beautiful person to possess the proper mitts. I’m talking about gracefulness here. It shall not be overlooked. A sense of flair in conversation, these orchestrations to accentuate the better things in life. If a beautiful person is not thinking beautiful things their hands will reveal themselves as talons that crack necks in seconds.

The day is beautiful! Just how many beautiful people will you find?

god made me mad

Some of the most horrifying things involve somewhere the killing of a roach in the middle of the night, or a house is flooded, or burned, and there is that smell. I wake up around midnight ’cause I trailed off early and reading is sounding good again. Sadly, I’m reaching its end. If you’re trying to write, a good book is the contagion.

I’ve begun traveling an even narrower path and that is to push the envelope a little further exploring my mind. I’ve fallen into the darker areas where I’ve sometimes thought I was hurdling the edge of sanity. The shadows are without names. All of it has me rather speechless. It has been a flickering thought to attempt writing again. There was one day I fell to the floor and would not get up for what seemed hours. I would not cry or weep or moan. I would only flip around inside the past 33 years. The nightmares I had as a child during bouts with the flu, unexplainable paranormal events that I tried to suppress — it’s been very difficult to turn away from. I think I see now, it will be some more time before I find closure.

feel a
buzzing
in my head
like junk mail
delivered
with a panic

you gather the
eggs for the basket
I clutch
my chest

still, no
I don’t
eat onions

disdain

storm floods
but we
remain dry
enough

remember that?
yeah,
drink water instead

communicate
what ya gonna
relate?
devotion for?

well I’m
back on the
floor again
for the time being
humble again
just a
different being
some of the
Philly kids
still
recognize

can only say to them now
sorry for the
messages and slokas
I screwed you with
hope it didn’t
fuck up too many years
for the record
I was drinking all
that poison with you

we were its victims

they had clawed onto
my enthusiasm
and I learned
to spit fire

but later I could see
they were just like
the rest of
the world and I
became furious again
all over again

think outside
the box!
yeah, jump in
our box!

I’m only mad
for good reason

sometimes
I can see its effects
like late
late at night
or when we fight
how it’s brought
down relationships
and been a
source of
loneliness and
self loathing…

This advance copy of Thom Yorke’s The Eraser has been in constant rotation as an attempt to figure out what he’s getting at. The feel of it is more personal, tortured, desperate.

. . .

Monday: I’ve been to some quiet hells. One being a courthouse room where I sat and waited my turn to present my driving ticket to a judge in dispute–showing my insurance card and proving my innocence against a cop’s insolence–reading the first few pages of Slaugherhouse Five while shifting zigzag up the pews for over an hour. And this was on the second attempt. The first, a Friday night, I was directed to the room and it was full of at least 50 people, and the judge was quite a cranky bibby. Roughing this one out, I could tell, would be at least a four hour wait. It was best I got up and came back later.

the little devil on my shoulder…
mine wears saffron
long flowing robes

he says:

don’t write about
your non-self
you’re not expecting
anyone to care
are you?

I brush him off
he moves to
the other shoulder

you’re not
this body–

blah blah

damage done to the psyche

can be undone, son

all the world is overwhelmed
with personal traumas seen or unseen
and confronting them
on a small scale, moving on up the scale…

is our inevitable calling, to
hold back and deny…
we’re just going to
turn ourselves into
stone

and I can’t
allow that to happen

not to me

so I write about my non-self
my not-this-body

The Righteous Need Pay No Mind

Check out Writeboard.com! My interest in it is to create an ongoing collaborative writing project that will complete itself within the next six to twelve months. Over the course of this time we will edit and re-edit each others writing and in the end take no individual credit… Prose/poetry, whatever we’re into.

(Tentative title: “The Righteous Need Pay No Mind”)

The tone so far, thanks to me, is mostly rambunctious, and the topics are starting to birth. Myself and two amongst you have already spoken up — we are ready to slay vampires.

Send me a message if you’re interested and I’ll hook you up with the link and password.

I have some friends who are young, passionate, confused, and wrestling with seriously pissed off demons with age and experience. It’ll take at least a decade to shake them free. I worry about my friends like I worried and still worry about myself. So much has come into clarity and has not surprisingly formed new questions that may or may not find conclusions. Often I think there’s little I can do to help them. Everything I’m facing I realize is my own thing and cannot be relieved by external aid. It is significant downpour.

No guarantee sanity will stick…

June notes

Though I cannot drum worth shit, I can write and dance around in the paragraph. There are a few dances that come out of me that mimic bringing down the universe, and they need only to come out when they feel like coming out. Most always what summons them are the drums.

. . .

This is a new period for me where my dreams, my memory of them, has returned. When I wake up each morning, I’m able to hold onto them and attempt to process their meaning.

. . .

A sun is in the sky, just one though. There is that scene at the end of Contact where Jodie Foster is shot through a worm hole and winds up in one solar system where there are four suns, looks down upon a planet to see it vastly populated, “They’re alive!” she screams, and is pulled backwards into another current. Under the influence, this especially tripped me out. It tripped others out that it effected me. I have not discovered why.

It is barely raining as in it has stopped raining altogether and classical music has dried up the pavement for the time being. More storms are in the forecast. The coffee shop crowd are parking their cars and forming a line at the cash register. I’ve been sitting here writing in my journal, wondering what I’m going to do with myself. Also, reading an amazing book Breaking Open The Head by Daniel Pinchbeck, a writer adventuring through jungles in pursuit of shaman and psychedelic truths, merging them together.

. . .

Work is going well despite the usual discrepancies and irritations that probably go along with any job you’re obliged to. Find myself daydreaming a lot. The kind of anger I had in the past, I suppose I still have, but at times it subsides and I have long stints of quietude or even wired silliness that has me cracking lots of jokes.

It’s also a time of car inspections and registration renewals. The other day a cop pulled me over for no reason whatsoever, but then to my misfortune I could not find my insurance card. I was ticketed for this and sent on my way. Cops, in this way, are the ultimate nuisance, like gnats or roaches.

Gnats and roaches, after all, serve some kind of purpose, whereas cops only symbolize man’s ego, greed, and tyranny.

. . .

Clock punching
pull the car back
and let go
watch it go!
sip sipping
us and our straws
inventions
click click click
tick tick of
the clock
mind your manners
say hello
to your
boss
I have a string of
them on
a rope of
the past
this rope is
swung out over
the landscape
and kicking up dust
the saturday visions
I had weren’t short
of amazing but
there are
others to come
and I will be
spending good
time with myself
facing many more demons
figuring out the mysteries
and energies
and coming back (most likely)
to the page

the biggest difficulty I’ve found
is in verbalizing the intricacies