I am a product of my mother, who I have never known, never met. Never hugged and thanked her for this beautiful life I have found, manifested. Become me, find me. Finally found.
I am a product of my father, the same. I have no past, no proof of my existence, no ancestors and nowhere to look to find out why I am who I am.

I am one. One, alone.

I am only me. I began alone, and I continue that way.
Myself and my dreams, my dreams, my dreams. Much more of me than anything, my dreams.

Look into my eyes and try to see the perpetual pain. Pain is not uncommon, but this one is unique. Only adoptees understand it , as it is something that is accepted. Accepted by all that haven’t been there, who never will be. According to you, we are “the chosen ones”. This is what I grew up with and accepted. Accepted for most of my life…

Fuck you.

Who am I?

I am only words, only offering delight. I am nothing, I don’t exist, I am me.
I am me and I fucking rock.
I have built this life, piece by piece, I have built this life of mine and the sacrifices have been immesurable, but it is my life. I do what I want.  I do what I need to. Tomorrow might not happen. Today must be more beautiful than any other.

I select my friends wisely. I see them with my heart, look at them through my soul. I judge, and I admit it. I haven’t the time for games. I don’t play. See me, feel me. Touch me and wrap your arms around me. I need that – we all do.

Who am I?

I am you.

I am my friends, a mirror.
Look into me and you will find the purest love. trhis is what I find in you.
Look into me and you will find happiness, this is what I find in you.
Look into me and see yourself,

as you are what I am.

I am love and beauty. I am pain and sorrow, and the ways to escape them. I am destruction, I am creation, and everything in betwen.
I am you.

I am you, and thoug it’s been said many times, I will keep on saying that…

I love you, and I wouldn’t exist without you.

I love all of you.

You are the reason that I am stil alive, still here. You gotta take my word on this one…

My friends. My family.

Stories from the jailhouse, third and final.

Where did I leave off?

Oh yeah – with metting ‘K’ and the melding into other ramblings.
This will be the next eight days…

Nothing. I wait, wait for court. The days blend together. I read, try not to think of my friends, my van – what if it is towed? All of my performance gear – statuing, stilts, fire – my computer, phone, a few books that I love. The picture of my favorite grandma. “Dot”, taken in the thirties where she looks so insanely glamorous and beautiful. It is the only picture I have hanging in my van – she was a true jewel, and I would be more than honered to be of her blood, but I’m just an adoptee. I have no family by blood…

I wait, I think we all do. Santa Rita is not a permanent home, I don’t think – most will be transfered to San Quentin or released – or from what I heard, transfered to any prison to run their sentence.

Monday comes and goes, I start on the second book. the first was by Grisham, and was actually quite good. This is one I’ve alreaddy read by Anne Rice, but luckily so long ago that I could read it again and still be suprised – almost. I made myself be enraptured by the story. I needed to.

I think that it was Tuesday that I was called to court. They have speakers in every cell, and call us individually at around 4:30am. PORTER, COURT. GET READY. This folllowed by the loud clack of the cell door being electronically unlocked. You don’t sleep well here. Jungry all the time, tired and uncomfortable. Imagine that. The best hours to sleep are during the day, somehow – at least for me. Maybe it was because after breakfast I finally had a stomach that didn’t bitch at me, and lunch, served in a sealed plastic bag and consisting of four slices of breas, some strange, inidentifiable meat, an orange, a powder for a drink and a couple cookies – that wsn’t anything to look forward to. I slept during the day, and the nights were spent trying to, or reading.

Waoting, waiting. Finally on the bus, heading to the courthouse in Oakland. We’re placed in a holding cell again, cement benches, overcrowded, waiting for our names to be calle. Mine finally is, and I’m escorted by the deputy through a small hallway into the court. Then, I find out why I am being held. From the DUI years ago, I had a commitment to do comunity service, which I tried to do a couple times, got to the Eastbay late from SF, and essentially, eventually, forgot about. 15 days. The judge, without turning her face to me, says “15 days community service, woule you like to serve that in time now or get an attorney?” I stumble. Fifteen fucking days? I need to WORK! Bohemian Carnival is coming up, I need to get to the Wharf, I need to fucking pay my friends back! ( Is the van still there???)
I’m not a drug dealer or a thief, a gang member or a murderer.  Fuck your law, fuck your judicial blindness. I’m a good person, let me go…

I opt for an attorney who doesn’t do shit. a few days later and I’m iback n court, with nothing relaxed. I’ve been in jail for over a week now, and have met another person – I forget his real name, but he’s a huge mexican guy, and a friend of Little cha Cha’s. He doesn’t kno mine either, so introduces me a s “Blue”, in regards to my fingernail polish. Fucker. beautiful  bastard. That was going to be the name of the child I almost had.
Since this is all about nicknames, i decide to call him Roadblock. He laughs. Good.

After court, I know I have either tow or four more days in here. I can almost taste the air, the freedom. I don’t think about my van, ther is nothing I can do. Nothing.

Finally, after four books, coutless games of cards with Chad ( who usually won, damnit) many other things and hours and hours of meditation, my name is called agoin over the cell speaker. PORTER, ROLL UP – YOU’RE BEING RELEASED.


Waiting again, but happier, more anticipation, less patience. Realeased out of this place where I most certainly do not belong, and will never return. Myself and others go throuhg the ritual – dressing out, getting property, waiting for doors to click open. I had no cash on me, so they gave me a BART ticket for 3.90.  Walking away, more waiting, the end of the Dublin line. I hop on the train, take it to 24th st. Mission, talk to the stationn managr who lets me through – the ticket was a buck15 short for where I needed to be.
Off BART, breathing in the fresh air. Walkijg dowm 24th St. The entire time I was locked up I sent out energy to my van, trying to make it invisible, making it still be there. I turned the corner – and
and it was. In an area that has 1 hour parking except fro area P permits, I had only two tickets for street sweeping – and a notice on the windsheild that it would be towed that very day. You can only park in S.F in one spot for 72 hours.

I am blessed.

I am blessed, and fucking tired, but I needed to complete this saga. Now, I need to sleep, get to the Wharf early tomorrow, and make some scratch for my trip to New Orleans on Monday.

I will never be able to express how much I love all of you, but I’ll do my best.

I will never be able to express in words how much I missed you, or at the same time, how wonderful this strange non-existence felt. How dissapearing was so delicious. How it was to have absolutely no responsibilities, to have human taken away, to escape time, obligations… to escape life.

I will never be able to express the absence of everything that I felt. This absence is necessary in there. It was a strange temporary death.

I will never be able to express how much I love you…


Azure Ray – I will do these things…

I will take your childhood dreams
And turn them into to beautiful film
I will take your most important things
Cast them gold fill a mueseum

So your heart doesn’t know where mine’s been
I’ll never let your heart go where mine’s been

I will kiss away every tear
They’ll disappear in my mouth
And i will believe in all your fears
You let them in, i’ll let them out
And put them in their place, my love

So your heart doesn’t know where mine’s been
I’ll never let your heart go where mine’s been

I’ll never let your heart go where mine’s been

backwards for forwards again…

back to the Oakland Jail…

Mike and I are “dressed in” in our county issue red pants and shirt, given socks, an undershirt, rubber sandals. The color you’re dressed in denotes where you’re placed, how youare seen. Red is for protective custody and psychos, orange for the Surenos gang, and blue is mainline. Thankfully they don’t place the PC’s with the psychs in holding. They scream and bang a lot…

We’re taken to the bus – the big green County Sherrifs bus with bars all around – some of you may have seen them. It’s seciotened off into different cages for different colors. I’m placed into a small cage with three others, quiet people. In the garage everyone is talking at the top of their voices, laughing, just having a ball it seems – until the second gate starts to slowly open, sunlight streams in, and the bus starts.
As we pull past the gate there is a hush that overcomes the people inmates, and where as before they were all faced inside, as I watch the conversations end in mid-sentence, and they all turn towards the window to look out past the bars. I watch them – on the trip to Santa Rita Jail in Dublin, almost nothing was said, they’re silence and sad stares saying everything…

I was picked up Monday afternoon. This was Thursday. We arrive at Santa Rita, and again, the processing, the waiting. Finally, at 3am, Mike and I are called out, given out bedrolls which consist of a pillowcase, a sheet, blanket, washcloth and towel, walk through the building, right shoulder to right wall, no talking. We’re taken to our “Pods”‘, as they’re called. He is sent into 21 West, I am taken to 23. I don’t see him again until over a week later.

My cell is number 35. There are 48 indivitual two man cells here on two tiers, along a row that has a 60 degree bend in the middle of it. Across the common area, the deputies qatch quarters see everything through tinted windows that we can’t see in. I wait by my cell door until I hear a lout clack, open it, walk in and shut the door which instantly locks. I have the top bunk. Chad & I introduce ourselves, I make the bed just enough so that I don’t have to lay on the plastic coated pad, put the case on the plastic coated “pillow”, and do my best to sleep.

Friday comes and goes without my name called for court. I still have no idea what the warrant was for exactly, but I expect that I’m there because of a DUI course from around four years ago that I didn’t complete. Almost did, but ran out of money, so they kicked me out. I want to go to court, expecting that I’ll simply be released that day with another court date…
I need to wait the weekend. Hopefully my name will be called on Monday…

I essentially keep the same demeanor that i think I have on the outside, (listen to me – “on the outside?”) friendly without being imposing, mainly keeping to myself but open to anyone who doesn’t seem like a total nutjob. I noticed how few white guys there were in there, and the ones that were were people that I looked at and immediately didn’t want to associate with, except for my cell-mate, Chad. They just felt wrong.
I guess in order to land in jail while white, you must be really stupid and easilly pegged as a criminal, (or have a warrant that you didn’t know about, which I guess falls under stupid, ahem) while the other races don’t need to make much effort at all.
Just an impression.

During the weekend, during “Pod Time”, where we are actually let out of our cells for an hour or a few, a young mexican kid actually comes up and introduces himself to me – I have no idea why. His name is Little Cha Cha. Nice kid. We don’t talk much, just say hi. This gives us the okay to nod a friendly “hello” when we pass each other, opens things up to become friendly, and possible conects me as someone unthreating and generally okay to his friends. I don’t feel threatened in here, but there is an unwritten protocol that is easily learned if you pay atttention. If you don’t…

Eating lunch a couple days later, another guy – another mexican, somewhere around 50 and looking pretty old school, calls to me. “Hey – did you ever spend time in Federal?” I look at him, think of what my answer should be.
“Yeah – a long time ago, but that was in San Diego.”
“I thought I regognized you. I remember you from MCC.”
We introduce ourselves, his name is “K”, but I can’t place him. Still, nice to have another ally. Aparently, a fimiliar face goes a long way here if there isn’t war attached to it.
I look at him a bit closer when he isn;t looking, and then remember – he’s the almost spitting image of Marlon Brando from “The Godfather”, with smaller jowels. I remember writing about him after I got out of there, and here he is again. Later, I ask him what he’s been up to, where he’s been.
He lists a chain of around six prisons, almost as a badge.
This, apparently, is his home.

For most of you who don’t know, around seven years ago I spent some time in Federal Prison in San Diego. Working for a Harley Shop, my boss – Rick Nelson, (((one of the very few people I would happily torture – not for what I got myself into with him, but because while briefly living with him and his family I saw how he was desrtoying his two beautiful daughters and treating his wife – though she was pretty damn discusting too – they were the worst white trash you gould imagine – and the first on the list is George W – Rick is second, don’t know of a third)))… Anyway, Rick dealt pot. No problem by me, until I had my suspicions of the untimely and strange death of a good friend of ours as they were riding bikes back from Cabo for a Harley rental company that used us as a business and maintenance base.
George wasn’t the best rider by any means, but he was very aware of his limits and as far as I always saw, intentionally rode under them.
The went off the road about 50 miles of Loreto, Mexico, head neatly cracked on a rock.
Rick owed him lots of money.
This is all a different story.
Back to the reason I ended up in Federal…

Rick set up a deal through friend of his in Boston that he hadn’t heard from in a while – 400 pounds.
A sample was sent to them in the mail – one pound. Mail = Federal offence.
I knew what was going on, but somehow was smart enough to not say anything in out meetings. Any questions I had I asked Rick afterwords.
Ends up, Boston guys got busted prior to this, were working with DEA to lighten the sentence and lead them to a kingpin, and contacted Rick. The stupid shit set it all up with undercover, and I was caught with 98.8 pounds of pot in the trunk of the car I was driving.
I worked at a Harley shop – we pick up cars, bikes, and drop them off as well. They couldn’t prove I had any knowledge, so instead of getting a pretty hardcore felony I plead to a misdemeanor. One month in Federal, then one month again when I fiolated probation on a traffic ticket.
That’s that story.

Fuck, there is so much in my life, all a part of a previous story. Intertwined, everything effects everything. I may have not make the best decisions at times, and there is an ongoing feeling of just a floater, a dreamer, wanting someday to do for everyone but until then being only one who wants. I give what I can, at this time it isn’t anything compared to what I desire to.
The list grows, I shrink, drink, and wish to be what some people see in me.

I’m a vagabond, a dreamer. It took 38 years to realize that I couldn’t live any other life than this. I give everything for this, and what I am. I reach as far as I can, then further. I loathe the mundane with a passion, and with absolutely no arrogance I ignore it – feel that it is not worthy of me or the people I hold dear. I’m not good at day-to-day shit. Parking tickets, court, Yeah, I’m stupid, but fuck it. There is no question that new worlds begin with sacrifice, and it is time for a new world. Long fucking time that it came about.

I was talking with my mom tonight. One of the most loving and caring creatures ever,  and  ther came a point in the conversation  where she was concerned with my lifestyle,  not having a savings, a retirement. Five or ten years down the roa
d, where I will be?

I needed to remind her.

These days, today is everything. Today is the only. I feel good, but tired and sore. Tomorrow – fuck that. Today. E verything today. All of me, all i can give. My health is waning, I can’t get to my doctor who works at the clinic on Fridays only until I pay my friends. Friday can be a good day sometimes at the Wharf.

I’m tired, sore – but for now, I’m alive, and I will do everything I fucking can to share that. If I get to sick to work next week, I will have no qualms, no  regrets. I brought as many smiles and as much wonder to people as I could, and it will be a passing that I won’t argue with.

But i won’t get sick.

All be told, it’s been about 22 years.  In ’85 I heard, didn’t believe.

Fuck you, I love you. I’lll sorvive as long as I need to. I’m ready anytime.

I’ve made my peace a long, long time ago –
and now,  I almost want.

But tomorrow could be exquisite, so I stick around…

because I love you, my life, and the high of dreams realized…

More jail eventually…


Suprise (somewhat – knew about the date, but not confirmed until this morning) corporate gig with Vau de Vire Society today at the W hotel, nine hours plus with in and out-load of all of our equipment.
Makeup still smeared on my face with only one cleaning, I leave it until tomorrow – more goes on then anyway.
I’ve been wanting to write more for days, but just haven’t had the time or that delicious sense of solitude that becons the words…

So much to do in the next few days. I leave for New Orleans on Monday, and have yet to find a place to sleep for the week I’m there. Perhaps tomorrow night, after the Wharf and dinner with my visiting mom, I’ll get my shit together – call the people that I need to just to simply say hello, make arrangements for NOLA, write more about my jail time…

It’s strange – perhaps those days in jail did have an effect on me, tough Kevin asked recently how I ws adjusting and I said fine, no problem…

 Twelve days of being locked in a 9×12 cell, with little “Pod Time” as they call it, where we get to step out into the common area and almost pretend we’re human. Almost.

The world doesn’t exist in there. Not the outside world – It can’t. I almost understand why people spend their lives in and out of prison, and it’s difficult not to equate it with being a slave in the BDSM world. It’s almost, in a way, so completely freeing, sacrificing your freedom.
They take away any responsibility. You do what they say – if you don’t, you are punished. Life is incredibly easy with the right frame of mind, and you need to have that. If you think of the outside world, what you’re missing, what your friends are doing – if you think of fresh air and good (ie: recognizable and healthy) food, if you think of feeling the Sun on your shoulders, rain on your face, or looking at and adoring the Moon – if you think about a comfortable place to sleep, even if it’s in a van – if you think at all, you’ll be miserable; you’ll go crazy. In there, breakfast, served at 5am for no reason that I could figure out, is the most exciting part of the day. That’s when you could tell what the stuff on the plastic tray was, and since they serve “dinner” at 3:30pm, almost eleven hours before, a true sleep never came easily. Not on that bunk, not hungry. After breakfast, with some food in my stomach and nothing to do but wait until lunch but sit in the cell, that is when I could sleep…

The concrete and steel becomes your home. There is no other way. It’s not rehabilitation – it is breaking the spirit, and gods, how they try…

Even after only twelve days inside – which is essentially nothing, I find myself struggling at times to take care of the thngs I need to. In there, everything was done for me. In there, I couldn’t think about you without wishing I could call and hear your voice. Couldn’t make plans, couldn’t work – it was a strange lesson in living in the “Now” – but far from a healthy one. In their “now”, there is nothing. No action, love or possibilities. In that now, you don’t want to dream.

You only wait…

Now, it is time to sleep, in a glorious bed sans a lovely friend.

Make good dreams.


 just stopped by my miniscule mobile palace, handed me my statue shirt that I left at her place a while ago while caring for her pup and cat. Good to have it back – I thought it was lost and gone, somewhere in travels. She’s a delicious creature, a wonderful woman and growing to be a good friend. Each time I am able to spend time with her (few and far between in the brief time I’ve known her) I delight in fantasies of kissing her, but alas, I do believe that her delicious lips are destined for the more succulent gender. Oh, if I were fortunate enough to be a woman…

I just talked to

, she’s doing well and fine. I haven’t heard her voice in ages, and didn’t know how much I missed it until I heard her velvetspeak tonight. Her voice is the comfort I have known, a blanket of peace. The world is at her fingers, calling for her. She’ll realize this soon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In my van, motor running to support the battery and making this possible. Earlier it ran out of fuel, so I walked to the nearest gas station and filled up the gallon container, then went to the cheapest place I could find. 70 dollars bought me half a tank. Money I shouldn’t spend, but unfortunately need to. I consider it rent. I need to pay people back, and I’ll be standing my ass off come Wednesday to do so.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gods, I really don’t feel like putting down all the notes I took in jail. I’ll abreviate.

Tons of meditation. You’re in your small cell for about 22 hours a day, and the most exciting times are when you’re able to get out and eat. Breakfast was always decent – oatmeal or some cream o’ wheat kind of thang, served at 5am. “Lunch” at 11am, was hideous – some strange baloney type meat, an orange, a couple cookies all packaged up neatly in a bag. Dinner is served at 3:30, and is a hot meal, but less than desirable. We eat it because we need to. I ate because hunger is a horrible thing.

My cell mate is a guy named Chad. In on a paroll violation, the original charge was assault with a deadly weapon. His former wife was cheating on him, so he cracked her lovers head open. Planned it. Almost went down for attempted murder but pleaded lower. Did a nickel (five years) for that, and because of his paroll restrictions ended up back in jail.

I don’t even want to imagine five years locked up.

The California penal code is fucked. He’s a nice guy, made a mistake which he paid for with five years of his life. Then, on the outside, one and a half years later, he talks to a good friend of his that he plans on doing a side job with to reconstruct a bathroom. His friend was also on paroll, and gods forbid, he can’t talk to them. Can’t talk to anyone on paroll, because they may be planning more crimes.
Violation of paroll, with a possible 12 months. Just for talking to his friend about a job. Fucking absurd.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

More later, maybe.
Right now I go to Laurens’ house, a few steps way from my van, and take a glorious shower…

Hoosgow, part deux

I left off with Mike, in the holding cell for us PC’s.

He told me a bit of his story, more than I needed but still I absorbed it, relished it. I’ve most certainly lived a bizarre life, but his is something that I will never experience. Gangs, bullets, drugs – it ain’t my bag, baby. I learned that it is the lifestyle for far too many. It is all that they think that they have, spoken through generations, handed down.

I’m in Santa Rita Jail now, somewhere in Dublin, a holding cell. It’s Thursday the 12th. I was arrested three days ago.Three days is a long, long time in jail.

We hear the jangle of keys and a deputy opens the heavy door, calls our names and checks our wristbands. We’re moving, getting placed. “Right shoulder to right wall, no talking. Follow the line.” Mike goes into pod 21, I go to pod 23. it’s 3 am.

My cell door opens electronically with a loud clack, and I step inside, shut the door. I meed Chad, my cellie. I piss in the toilet but it wont flush. “Waters off. Should be back on soon.”
I crawl into the top bunk and close my eyes. The foam matress is heaven, and I sleep.

Tired right now, don’t feel like writing. More later.