i’m not admitting that I’m a little nervous about statuing for the first time at Fishermans Wharf to anyone.

So, don’t read this.


off I go.

So, where the fuck are you this morning, beautiful crackhead? She gave you her home, we gave you our time and love. We grab at a desperate sleep – we are tired, my friend. We have things we need to do.
We will give you all we can, but through lessons learned, that won’t be everything.

And this morning, you are gone – all of your things here, door propped open as if you intend to return, she leaves for the weekend in a few short minutes and you are my charge, my responsibility.

If you read this, know that you are welcome back – but only under some circumstances – I’m certain that you know what they are.

Good thing all my rope and restraints are in the garage below. May come in handy…

the most important things…

Getting a ride from Vanessa to Whit’s, I think of how nice it will be to do what I need to do to have some solitude and a internet conection that works for more than a few minutes, excited about my first time statuing at Fishermans Wharf tomorrow and seeig where that will lead. Thinking of the replies that are so necessary for a post I saw on the forum that I have been yearning to get to, to brin more beauty into what we are doing…

Whitney receives a message that can’t be ignored, and everything is changed. A dear friend of ours – an extremely talented, loving, and tormented soul has found his way to crack again after being so fucking good for almost two months, and has sent out a cry for help.

Fuck the money I so desperately need. Fuck the sleep. He called her, and needs us.

No, I am sure as fuck not happy about this — I thought I had escaped these situations years ago – but it’s here again, and there is a reason that, on this night, I am at Whitney’s house.

I think about the money that will be lost. Down to a little over four dollars in my pocket – just enough to get over to S.F. and make more, and realize when we go to fetch him and give this boy a place to escape that he will be my charge for the time coming – Whit needs to leave.

I’m exhausted, I have no poetry. I do what I need to because I need to, and hunger comes second before friends.

Fucking asshole, I love you. I will be here for you as much as I can, and I will not statue tomorrow, and I will be hungry, and I will give you all of the love and understanding that you need until you sober up – and then, I will kick your fucking ass.

The most important things are the people we believe in. The people who give us joy and love in the midst of their own hell, and who the fuck are we to judge?

He asked for help, we’re here.

I can’t write. I’m tired. I never thought that I would ever have to deal with this again, mut he is worth it.

He deserves it…


no more writing, just the hope that soon this boy who has been awake for three days will find sleep, so I can as well.

There are more important things than money, but when all hinges onwhat you may eat or not, the decision is much more difficult.

When his mind clears up, I have the intention of letting him know how much I love him, then knocking his ass out.

Done it before. Sommetimes it is necessary, and as much as I loathe swinging at someone, sometimes there is nothing left to get the point across.

As I have said before in another place, you just don’t fuck with the people I love – even if that person is you.


Okay, no smaking the shit out of him. I told him of my intentions, and it brings back past damage.

No one can make the past better except those whose past it is.

This sounds stupid. I’m wrapped up in drama, and I LOATHE drama.

Next time I go anywhere, I’m hitchin’ up the mules.

Or not bringing anything – except maybe a personal assistant who will get me to the airport on time – like not a day late. I seem to need something like that lately.

I made it to Oakland, but my stilts and the big bag they were tied to with clothes & everything practical in it are in Vegas. Supposedly they will deliver it here tomorrow, at least. Still yet to be seen.

Fuckin’ hells, I’m tired. Time to read, and sleep.

Then get back to work.


An awful lot to think about, so much to do and write and conjur and organise and expand upon,

but no.

Not right now.

As I listen to the muffled sounds of Girl A beginning over and over and over again as Pope edits the DVD below me, I will crawl into A’s bed, turning on the small lamp, opening a book and reading until my eyes force themselves closed.

I’m looking for reccomendations for good books. I need to start setting aside time to step away and lose myself in someone elses world. Make time for myself to escape. I’m open to suggestions…

I’ve been on quite a few flights in my life – not a tremendous amount,
but a decent number, so I should know what I’m doing by now, right?

 Well, that’s the theory, at least.

Actual fact is something else entirely. My flight was yesterday. Yeah.
Leave on the 24th, arrive in SF on the 25th.

Not leave on the 25th.

oops. heh heh.
See everyone? Told you I’d be back soon.

All of the buildup about
leaving seems a bit silly now as I sit here at the Cloud Club again…

In other news, we all (well, almost all) got a wee bit intoxicated last
night as a going away thing. It was wonderful, we all had a lovely
time, and among the horrible drunken photos I took, there was one gem caught by someone
else that I feel is beautiful, and pretty much embodies
everything I’ve felt the entire time I’ve been here.

The lovely Michael Pope & me, sharing a moment:

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