wandering elsewhere…

Scratchings posted other places due to lack of a computer.

I miss Clotho, and gods, i miss my music – the music that, along with the beautiful Tea, helped keep me warm on the freezing Austin nights where the top of my tent was sheeted in ice…

but that is the past.
In memory, nothing is ever gone…

Oct 11th 2007
In Very Brief…

Things have been bouncing around, but seem to be bouncing higher.

My computer got deaded last week, went kaput – but hopefully that’s only temporary. Since then, I’ve been surviving and trying to make the magicshit happen on friends computers, bouncing around the city and now at Bobzilla’s in Berkeley,

which means at long last Boe has his home back. I’m happy about that, and more grateful than I could ever express in a post titled “in very brief” for his incredible hospitality and tolerance…

And so now I’m at the great Bobzilla’s, who just moved into the entire house, not a tiny little space, and the place is exquisite. Huge. Beautiful. His dog, Shomer, and I keep each other company while I try to catch up with everything. This kicks ass.

As a result of the demise of Clotho (my lappytop) where the soundtrack I had put together for my piece was stored, and partially because of the hole in my leg, I had to completely change the show I’m doing for Shadow Circus Vaudeville tomorrow night (AT FAT CITY – be there!!!) and up until yesterday, two days before the show, was terrified. Had no idea what I was going to do, but promised a performance.
Anastasia saved the night. Contacted her yesterday, asking if she would be willing to do a vignette we put together for The Edwardian Ball, but never got to do, and she said yes – she even still has the props and the music we made. Hells yeah. Oh, hells fucking yeah. Show is saved. Commitment kept.

Hospital again yesterday, and leg actually looks better. Much better than it has felt for the past few days. Still a huge hole, but they said “it looks like hamburger.” Apparently, this is a good thing. They fixed me up, re-packed the hole in my leg, wrapped it again and gave me a new script for painkillers. I had run out of my previous script a couple days before, so a friend gave me some super-extra strength ones. Took the pain away and also any intelligent thought – but I did have fun on them, stepping out of Anna’s car in the rain to clean the windshields and such, but they just weren’t too good for productivity. The pain is small for now, and I’m leaving the painkillers alone – for now. Hospital again Saturday. Sure as hell going to take ’em before I go there.

Got a call from Billy yesterday – we’re shooting for Sunday to get the bread truck. I decided last night to park it in Berkeley in front of Bob’s house for a bit, where power is available if needed, there are shade trees, and the ground I’m going to be crawling around on while I fix is isn’t saturated with the smell of piss. It will make it to Portrero in time.

Things are bouncing higher. Even got a call from someone who works for my agent in New Orleans asking if I could do a gig. He didn’t realize that I’d moved away – he’s a new guy. Still, it was cool.

Things are bouncing higher. I’m interested/excited to see what the inside of the bread truck looks like…

But now I need to get back to work.

Got the bread truck!

Sunday, October 14th, 2007 It sits just outside, waiting for me to figure out what to do with it – how to optimize space, and all that.

It’s pretty damn cool, though much more work than I thought I was getting into. Still, it’s one of the most unique vehicles I’ve seen, and has tons of potential.

It’s going to be one hell of a project, but then, what isn’t?

The guy who gave it to me was literally jumping up and down when I told him my plans for it – to style it as closely as possible to the warm, lush bohemian interiors of the old circus wagons. We’ll see what the space allows for.

Interesting thing – it isn’t a ’54 Ford. The year and make are completely unknown, and there is no VIN. It’s origin is a complete mystery – and as of now, it has none.

Though I’m exhausted, I want to go out and have a few drinks to celebrate tonight, somewhere. Right now I’m in the East Bay.

Anyone want to join?

Hope so, ’cause I ain’t going out to celebrate alone. Just not as much fun.

Let me know.

Woohooo.

I need some biggy-time computer help…

Tue, October23, 2007 It looks like Clotho (my laptop) might actually be dead – not absolutely certain yet, but I’ve tried a few things that friends have recommended to no avail.

Also, I finally had the opportunity to plug my external hard drive to Bobzilla’s computer yesterday, and – well, it’s dead too. Won’t be recognized, yo.

Ouch.

On Clotho I have irreplaceable photos, my books, other writings, important things for Big Top Magazine – just loads of stuff that I would really love back and can’t replace – and on my external, 20 gigs of music collected over years and years, even from back when Napster was still free. Lots of weird shit that is incredibly difficult to find, as well as compilations from friends – things I really want to hear again.

I need this stuff back!

I would LOVE to get Clotho up and running again, we’ve been through a lot together – it seems to want to, but just doesn’t have the spirit, and I don’t have the know-how.

I’ll be in on the lookout for a super cheap (though necessarily fast and powerful, I have lots of stuff going on in the digital world) laptop soon, but in the meantime, can anyone recommend an incredibly inexpensive place/person to help me try to fix these things? Could it be you?

I would much rather it be a friend – I’ve done the “bring it in for repair” thing before, and that was just a friggin’ nightmare.

SO – if anyone knows of anyone who might be able to help me with these things, please let me know –

Thanks!

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Rollin’…

Thursday, October 24th, 2007

Well, almost.

I finally found some tires for my (temporarily named) MotorBeast, and they’re on order. Fuckity fuck, they’re expensive, but it absolutely needs to be done – the front tires are rotted flat. Thanks the gods I have a decent paying gig tonight, so I can spend almost all the money made on tires.

Hopefully I’ll get those on tomorrow, which will make me feel comfortable enough to crawl under the Beast and replace the fuel tank. Really uncomfortable about doing it now, lifting it tweaked the hell out of a 2 ton jack – actually bent the thin quite well, an right now it rests on jack stands that are also rated at 2 tons.

I ain’t crawling under the thing. No way. Not until I get those tires on.

I FOUND TIRES! It just hit me – this thing is happening.

Hopefully when I get the fuel tank in and connected, get a battery hooked into it and see what the motor needs, it won’t need much. Hopefully.

I started stripping the peeling varnish off the wood paneling a couple days ago, then sat in it for about 1/2 hour, trying to figure out how to re-create the inside. It needs to be softened, made into a home. I have too many ideas running through my head, and space is quite limited.

Keeping the shower in back, keeping the heater and built-in closet space. I ripped the stove out, and the fridge is going too as well s the whole kitchen counter and sink. I’ll survive with a toaster-oven and microwave. Perhaps a smaller and newer fridge. That will open the back up for storage – a bar to hang clothes and a couple dressers, shelving. On the forward facing wall of the closet I’m going to install book shelves. MY BOOKS! Finally, most of them out of boxes.

My life out of bags and crates, at least a little bit.

Soon.

Picked up some beautiful material to replace the nasty-ass curtains yesterday, the two main side windows are cut and ready to be sewn.
Most of the floor will be covered in an oriental-style carpet, lush fabrics and pillows everywhere. Soft edges, soft light…

a home.

Soon.

jumble…

Written other places…

 

 

In very brief…

Things have been bouncing around, but seem to be bouncing higher.

My computer got deaded last week, went kaput – but hopefully that’s only temporary. Since then, I’ve been surviving and trying to make the magicshit happen on friends computers, bouncing around the city and now at Bobzilla’s in Berkeley,

which means at long last Boe has his home back. I’m happy about that, and more grateful than I could ever express in a post titled “in very brief” for his incredible hospitality and tolerance…

And so now I’m at the great Bobzilla’s, who just moved into the entire house, not a tiny little space, and the place is exquisite. Huge. Beautiful. His dog, Shomer, and I keep each other company while I try to catch up with everything. This kicks ass.

As a result of the demise of Clotho (my lappytop) where the soundtrack I had put together for my piece was stored, and partially because of the hole in my leg, I had to completely change the show I’m doing for Shadow Circus Vaudeville tomorrow night (AT FAT CITY – be there!!!) and up until yesterday, two days before the show, was terrified. Had no idea what I was going to do, but promised a performance.
Anastasia saved the night. Contacted her yesterday, asking if she would be willing to do a vignette we put together for The Edwardian Ball, but never got to do, and she said yes – she even still has the props and the music we made. Hells yeah. Oh, hells fucking yeah. Show is saved. Commitment kept.

Hospital again yesterday, and leg actually looks better. Much better than it has felt for the past few days. Still a huge hole, but they said “it looks like hamburger.” Apparently, this is a good thing. They fixed me up, re-packed the hole in my leg, wrapped it again and gave me a new script for painkillers. I had run out of my previous script a couple days before, so a friend gave me some super-extra strength ones. Took the pain away and also any intelligent thought – but I did have fun on them, stepping out of Anna’s car in the rain to clean the windshields and such, but they just weren’t too good for productivity. The pain is small for now, and I’m leaving the painkillers alone – for now. Hospital again Saturday. Sure as hell going to take ’em before I go there.

Got a call from Billy yesterday – we’re shooting for Sunday to get the bread truck. I decided last night to park it in Berkeley in front of Bob’s house for a bit, where power is available if needed, there are shade trees, and the ground I’m going to be crawling around on while I fix is isn’t saturated with the smell of piss. It will make it to Portrero in time.

Things are bouncing higher. Even got a call from someone who works for my agent in New Orleans asking if I could do a gig. He didn’t realize that I’d moved away – he’s a new guy. Still, it was cool.

Things are bouncing higher. I’m interested/excited to see what the inside of the bread truck looks like…

But now I need to get back to work. Thu, October 11, 2007 – 12:13 PM

get me off this thing.

It is in a strange desperation that these words continue to come, it is why they always have. For you to know me without me needing to say anything, for me to know myself. We keep changing, learning, growing.

The love I thought I knew the meaning of then is nothing like it is now, and long ago I realized how fleeting “in love” is. No, there is no in love without the most solid foundation of love itself, but who is to say what that actually is?

Some say it grows over time, needs to be worn in, and yes, this is partially true – but I have met a few that I knew the possibilities from the beginning, tested the feelings, tried them, questioned them and to make certain tried to see if I could make it all go away. It is then that I know that time means nothing and even the strongest and purest love can be immediate, at times – though seldom. Not a love that strong. Seldom. Always approached with apprehension and warning, but over countless years and many lessons I have taught my heart to be true, and though time can change anything my heart sings when it is time and there is nothing truer than the music it carries at those rare times.
Still I am questioned, and always give the same answer. I just know. I’ve learned to trust what I feel. It’s as simple as that – but who am I to talk of love? It is not something to be talked about, only felt, lived, and longed for. It is all we can say, but the word itself is far to small to carry the weight, the word is used and used carelessly and becomes nothing but a token. Look into my eyes and someday perhaps I’ll find yours, and in silence the greatest stories of romance and passion and love and adoration will be told and they will be ours. There will be no need for words.
I think that is love – but who am I to say?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I keep thinking about SIGIL, and how I remembered what home was there. I miss that elegance, and Keri and Samara created an exquisite evening. I wish that I could have simply been a bystander…
My piece apparently ended up going over well, but it was much less than I had intended. There was supposed to be a whole diatribe, an actual act, an actual scene, but the megaphone just couldn’t carry the sound over the music, so it ended up being just a buttload of fire breathing. I received a lot of appreciation for it, even days after when random people recognized me from the show, but someday the whole scene will work out properly. I need to get past that fear.

This is what I wrote to say/scream for the show, which would have also had a lectern that caught on fire, a flaming book, and this crazymad preacher character doing the whole evangelist tango while breathing fire. Someday…

IT IS BECAUSE OF YOU THAT WE ARE HERE TONIGHT.

Because of you.

Whether you know it or not, you called for this, called out for us, – and tonight we are here, for you.

YOU screamed for lust and passion and blood and pain and the power in the beauty that lies so deep inside of these things, a beauty that most can’t see – but can you see it? You see it.

This is why we are here, this is why we do these things. We are here to satiate, if only for a brief moment, to satiate your exquisite thirst.

Your thirst – and ours.

This night was created out of desperation – perhaps the same desperation that you feel, the same delicious thirst for more, more, more of fucking everything.
This is my wine, our blood – offered to you. Drink it in love, and share. Pass it on, you beautiful fuckers. Suck it dry.

Tonight, we give to you all that we are and more – but it is not a random gift. It is not just another fucking show.

We are not here to conform we are not here to succumb we are not here to crawl to be someone else’s lapdog to be someone else’s fucking pawn.

and Neither are you.

WE are all the queens and kings, the gods and goddesses, we are the few. WE ARE THE FEW. We are the warriors of the light, even if we thrive in the darkness. We are the people we dreamed of being as children.

SCREAM with me, CELEBRATE this beautiful evening. THIS IS OUR NIGHT. THIS IS OUR NIGHT. THIS IS OUR FUCKING NIGHT!!!

This is a place of sanctuary. This is what we do because we need to, because we need to for you. For us.

This is not a show, this is not a gift. This is a need.

This is not a show, this is not a gift. this is our blood, our hearts, cut out and laid on the table of this stage for you to t
aste, for you to burn, For you to consume. we could never do anything less but give you all that we possibly can.

This is not a show, not a fucking performance, not anything but the bare fucking flesh and bones of who we are.

This is nothing less than a sacrifice.

Tonight, there will be death.
Whether it’s real or just a dream – does it really matter? After all, I ask you – can you tell me – truly tell me, if life is real?

Can you? Can YOU tell me if life is real, or a dream? Can You? Can YOU?

No, none of you can, and I sure as fuck can’t.

This is nothing less than a sacrifice.
With this dark circus, perhaps we can change something. Perhaps when you walk outside you’ll be changed, perhaps not – but while you’re here, you’re ours.

We either create and improve or we follow helplessly as the world changes around us. This is simply a small offering, a taste to get your juices flowing, to get you salivating, to perhaps even spark a dormant imagination into becoming. I want to see the fire in your eyes. I want to smell the passion in your sweat. It’s time to twist minds, it’s time to make people wonder just what the fuck they’re doing, or walk away in disgust. Let them walk away, and then be more. Ask yourself; How long have you been the language of a story that could be true?

And yes, this is for you.
WE ARE HERE FOR YOU

and we love you.

WELCOME…

to

SIGIL

~~~~~~~~~~~

(And parts that were cut out because they were crappy or just didn’t find a fit…)

Who do YOU worship? There is no god, no fucking devil, no heaven or hell except of our own creation.
We are only who we are, and we are everything – and perhaps you caught me in a lie.
WE are the gods and goddesses, we are the only ones who have the power to dictate the path of our lives. Creation, Destruction, and everything in-between, it is all ours, and you can’t fucking look to anyone else. Make your own life, it is all you, and you are everything…

{{{love has been tainted by the dirty fucking hippies, and it’s time for us to bring the reality of it back, don’t you agree?
We don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves – we

If your heart is full of FIRE –
(pooftypoof, fire breathing)
welcome.

LOVE is passion, pain. Love is being ripped to shreds and coming back stonger than ever.

{{{{{WELCOME.
Let us share in this exquisite thirst for the beauty that lies under the pain, and the way the further we go down, the higher we can rise. }}}}}

{{{{{ I mean, fuck – WHAT is love? Love is not valentines, cupids or EVER Spelled L-U-V

Love is passion, violence, and the thing that makes us do things we never thought possible. Love is the true enigma, the ever unanswerable question. LOVE IS A FIRE that cannot be quenched, and I want to HEAR you!
FUCK YOU – I LOVE YOU – FUCK YOU, I LOVE YOU. FUCK YOU, I LOVE YOU
If you came here with your kindergothy black hearts and drama, then get the fuck out – this is not for you –,and if you are here to stand alone tucked in a corner with your pathetic ass wrapped up in your oh-so-woe-is-me personal pseudo-bullshit that has NO fucking place here – get the fuck out.

BUT If you are here in your own pureness, if you know your heart, your heart that may be wrapped in pain or sorrow but you can see how high it takes you and you can see and share the beauty past that pain – then welcome.}}}}}

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Yeah, it could have been cool, but honestly, I didn’t have any time to remember this, so the sound problems worked in my favor – all I had were a few key points which would have kept being repeated over and over, probably – but there was one guy who really wanted to know what I was saying so I shared what I had printed with him – and he seemed to like it, asked if I could email the rant to him… cool…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This is my story. It is a story of miracles and madness, a story of life, love and loss. The story is all that I have to give and the story is the dearest thing I could ever give you. I rip myself open and everything inside flows onto the page. It is all that I have to give you, and whether it be a curse or blessing, I will keep writing until the last word that I have has come and been written. This is all I have to give, but it is not a gift. I am not so arrogant as to think this is anything that you could ever choose to read – it is simply my need, the words that must be put down, these things that need to be released in order to take the weight away from my heart, create more space for the new crap.

Gods, I actually love where my mind goes, and the way my mind follows my heart. If it wasn’t for the way I’ve found to somehow make sense of the words and let them go, then I would be one *hell* of a lousy bar companion.

Besides, the spoken word ain’t my thing. Who would want to listen to this crap, anyway? I don’t like talking too much, and I would never want to vocally subject anyone to these strange diatribes. I would much rather listen to music, and lose myself in that, laugh with you with a light heart, and write the heavy of my heart out.

Hells yeah. Time to go pick up some arrows. Not the ones I ordered, but they’ll work. Eddie (the archery shop guy) is sweet as hell, but just doesn’t seem to be able to get things done. At least not special orders.

I worry about him. Only met him a couple times, but it seems as though his health – and his mind, are not really doing so hot.

I really need to shut up now – but damn, the words keep coming, and I can’t hold them in. There’s a strange mix of elation (truck/home!, arrows, good friends) and frustration (need to *get* the truck/home, get out of here, getproper arrows) and a bit of simple, profound fear (bizarre infection in the leg, maybe more cutting it open and draining if the goo doesn’t go away by my next appointment on Wednesday). And yeah, maybe the lightness of a certain someone that I kinda dig, and look forward to knowing the dance in her eyes again. Things have been said that needed to be, so that hearthaunt has flown by and it’s up to the whateverhappens.

Yeah, the usual stuff. Life goes on, and I am completely, head over heels enraptured with it.

Even in all of the struggle, I have no question – I am one incredibly fortunate bastard.

And all I need to do is think of my friends to know that.
I go to sleep every night thanking the Great OoooAhhhh for you.

you.

Fri, October 5, 2007 – 9:31 PM

still churns.

it is the words I come back to it is in the words that I find my peace it is in these words that I find solace and for me there is no stronger drug. Words.

I dive deep to create them I suffer the pain and the words are mine. If I could give more I would, but this is all I have, all I have to give. Find my love in this, these writings. It is all I can offer you, at least for now. I am more, tough except for writing I am silent, I am glib, I laugh when you expect me to because I have learned the ways of social acceptance. I am nothing but words, and they keep coming. There is no such thing as an ending when it is my heart that I write from. My heart, scarred and torn, new and always growing. It is this heart that you read.

Pickle came a-wanderin’ here, and hell, we had a good couple hours of great conversation. I won’t go into it, but it’s enough to say right now that he’s one of those people that I know well, and become a dear friend when there is actually time to real
ly talk.

I need to sleep now, hospital in the morning, an exquisite life to live afterwards. I stop writing, but my mind still churns. Maybe more later – I can’t escape, there is none, there is no end, I don’t ever want to escape. I sleep, I hope… Fri, October 5, 2007 – 4:09 AM

it’s at these times

when I dare to realise the severity of things, when I dare to think of what the random infection in my leg really means…

it’s at these times that I am frightened.

Back to the hospital tomorrow, another appointment. The possibility of cutitng it open more. Almost happened yesterday, but the nurse practitioner wanted to wait and see if it could heal itself. The flesh is black around the gash in my leg, the cells are dying. I decay, I am decomposing and am far to alive to have this happen. It’s strange to watch – and feel, myself rot. Not really a pleasant thing.

It’s at these times that I am terrified…

But fuck it! Off to Cha3 on Mission, to be around dear friends and push these thoughts out of my noggin’ until I need to think about them tomorrow. Ain’t nothing I can do but what I’ve been doing, taking my meds, staying off of my leg and waiting.
Tonight I enjoy the warmth of good people, laughter, idiotic conversation and a few drinks, and I don’t want to think about my leg until I need to again.

Nyeeah. Pfffft, and all that. Time to go smile.

Come on out and play. Thu, October 4, 2007 – 9:46 PM

the way of the bow, the story of a fool.

Soon, I will again be an archer, complete. It has been far too long spent without arrows, only occasionally being able to hold my bow, my beautiful object. Tomorrow, if the shop owner comes through with his promise, I will again have them, my arrows.
Archery in itself is a meditation in grace.
I remember the few Kyudo classes I was able to attend, years ago. The way of the bow. Nothing is seperate. At that moment, and always, everything is one. I am the bow, the arrow, the target. There is little as pure, as elegant. In the ritual, in the pull you become everything and there is nothing else but the goal. The arrow exists in the target even before it is released. The goal is beauty and grace, in all situations.
This is what archery is to me, why I strive to be always the archer, why I seldom say it, but always say it with a humble pride.

I am an Archer, always, and do my best to embody that grace – even without my bow in hand.

But by the way, FUCK YEAH, I’m getting more arrows tomorrow!

~ ~ ~

Ohhh, here I go again. Someone put the damn computer in my lap again and the words come out. I try to find good ones, words that string together that might make one of the stories.

“Tell me a story, Pew.

What kind of story, child?
A story with a happy ending.

There’s no such thing in all the world.

As a happy ending?

As an ending.”

No, we keep going. Long after I am gone the words will still be here – perhaps this is why I write with such desperation? No, maybe not. I needed to write long before I believed in my own mortality – and I still have questions about that. Without a beginning, how can there be an end? I am nothing but fiction, I am nothing but my stories, a trail of words I leave behind so that someday, if you’re looking, you might find me. Either that, or so that I might find my way back.
I never want to go back.

The trail keeps getting longer. These are my words, this is my story. My story is all that I am.
This is the story of a warrior and a lover, a king and a fool. A story of subconcious suicide and someone who fights like hell for life. This is all that I am. Everything, nothing. All that I have are these words, all that I am are the actions that create them.
All that I have is you, and I am more grateful than you could ever know.

/end babble.
Thu, October 4, 2007 – 4:41 PM

again with the babble

the second day in a row I am awake early and alive and I lift my face and soul to the sun and it feels as if something good is happening. Perhaps it has something to do with the crap that goes down on these pages. It feels good to write again, to close my mind and open my heart and let whatever words that come fall where they may. Gods, I wish I could get to my livejournal page without it shutting down my interweb connection, though. I feel naked here.

Perhaps Jennifer is right – without question, she partially is. But adopted is not who I am, only something that comes with me. It was the first story that was never told and weighs heavily inside, why she left. It is that story that I never want to not hear again, and all I ask are the words behind departure. Go away if you need to, but let me know why, let me understand. I will tell you a story, make a story out of myself. If I tell myself like a story, it doesn’t seem so bad inside. I am only a story, a child born of chance.
A child born of chance might imagine that Chance is it’s parents, in the way that gods fathered children then abandoned them without a backwards glance, but leaving them with one small gift. I have no idea what this gift is or if it’s there, but I look for it. This is the way that journeys begin, and the journey has been my life. Exquisite. Looking. Sucking every last drop into me, rolling it around on my tongue and always thirsting for more.

~ ~ ~

Codeine is fun.
I was reading the warnings for the antibiotics the put me on though, and that was just plain funny. “This medicine should be used only for serious infections because infrequently there are severe, rarely fatal (!!!), intestinal problems that can occur…” Yeah, no shit. Good thing it’s only rarely fatal.

~ ~ ~

Soon, this bread truck will be mine. MINE, I tell you! haaaa ha ha ha haaaaa! Bread truck guy has confirmed it, (funny – he says he once was a couch-surfing performer as well) Billy Vaughn, the man with the trailer, is looking for time off to help me get it, but is definitely going to. All is in place, we just need to find the time. Strangely enough, I found this particular picture on some random website. My home is mildly famous, it seems.

Damn, I have plans for this thing. An opulent interior, lush, deep red velvet accents, black, candles everywhere, my grandmothers candleabra being a centerpiece – incense, shelves full of my books, finally unpacked. At long last, I will finally have a room to decorate again. I think Berlin Jessica is the only one who has seen an actual room of mine, it’s been so long… I will have a home.
Still trying to figure out what to do with the exterior, though. It definitely needs work. I’m thinking black with a ghost tribal underneath, probably need to keep the top white so it is less of an oven – or insulate it well. This thing is going to need some work, and I can’t wait to start getting dirty.
Regardless, it’s going to be pretty damn snazzy, and yeah, there’s going to be one HELL of a truck/house warming shindig when I get the inside somewhat close to acceptable.

~ ~ ~

Huh? Am I still writing?
Hmmm – no. Screw this. I’m just putting down crap now, but it feels so damn good to actually be tappin’ the keys again. It’s a free day, things done that needed to be done, things said that needed to be said in other places to other people, and right now, my heart is light.
I’m actually feeling myself again.

It’s been a long, long time. I’m back.
Thu, October 4, 2007 – 11:52 AM

becomming

I think I have the floor plans coming together for my cirkus wagon.

Gods, I’ve been absent from life – so much to do. I’ll get to it – retrieve what i need from all over the bay and move forward.

The van is long gone, and now I have this: http://prairiebluestem.blogspot.com/2007/03/1954-ford-bread-truck.html

the only pictures available because my computer is deaded. No one knows what it is, what make or year. There is no VIN, it has no origin.

 Perhaps we were destined for each other?

All I have found so far is that it requires antique tires – or tires for an RV, which run at over $300 each. Fuckity fuck. The last time it was registered was in ’82. It was given to me because that’s the way things happen. Gifts with thorns. $600 for towing and, I found, tires that are next to impossible to find. Still, it will be my home and I will make it beautiful. I wish I could share better pictures of it.

It has a shower which I’ve decided to keep, but the rest is going to get gutted and turned into a rich Carnivale style wagon – though the space is limited.  Finally last night I decided what to do with it. You’ll see. It will be beautiful, and all will be welcome. It will have a warmth, a richness that all of the rooms that have been mine have had, and then some. It will be a dream room, full of delicious fabrics and  comfort, a tea room, an opium den. A rolling sanctuary to peace and the dark.

But fuck, I need tires and I need to get it running. Can do, motherfucker, can do. I need to find cheap tires and the rest is cake. I mean fuck – I’m a motorhead. I can get this beautiful (really odd) bitch running, but it needs to have something to roll on – the two fronts are gone, rotted, and the rears are only gossamer dreams pretending to be useful. Anyone have a line on cheap antique tires?

I want to start a website for it as well. This is the most unique vehicle I have ever seen, much less owned, and I think that a site desrcibing it’s re-becoming might allure people, entice them to aid me in it’s new life – because this is my home, baby – and the plans are laid out.

because all I can do

is this.

This, and I don’t know what this is.

I don’t want to live a life ov memories, but perhaps that is my curse.

I really can’t express how much I didn’t want to find her and I will never tell you how much I think about her and I will never say how much  I wish I could be for her and as I pass by places of memories I can’t help it but

but

but.

But mayby one day I will find a passion and sensitivity that equals.

I need to stop now. Fuck you – that’s what I’m trying to say. Don’t take it the wrong way, it is said in love and I go.

It's been a while…

my laptop died – hopefully temporarily. I have good friends who know how to fix this shit. I hope that that Clotho can come back to life.

I don’t like this – my books are on it and I can’t get to them, all of the photos I’ve taken of the people I have loved and continue to, all of the memories, for now irretrievable, out of reach.

Strange and terrifying how much my laptop has become my refuge, my solace, my security blanket. There is something I need to write, the perfect setting, the perfect solitude. I’ve read how a couple of my favorite authors have their perfect moments and preserve them – Tom Robbins writes only by hand, which I used to be able to do but these days the strokes can’t keep up with the words that spew out of my head. Richard Brautigan found his place in Bolinas in a certain room after writing such beautifully naive stories wrapped in a gloriously humble imagination. His time had passed, though, and his acclaim had waned. He set the timer for the lights so it looked like someone was still alive, and ate a bullet. This knowledge was taken from the only book his daughter wrote – “You Can’t Catch Death”.

Do me a favor. Read “In Watermellon Sugar” and The Hawkline Monster” by him. Read him and you just might come closer to me. I don’t have favorites, the weight is too much to carry and changes all too often – but he has written my favorite poems, a few seen here: http://thisrecording.wordpress.com/2007/06/14/in-which-we-pass-along-the-poetry-of-one-richard-brautigan-we-are-bringing-it-back/

and this one.
“There is no worse hell to remember vividly a kiss that never occurred.”

We all have our needs, our perfect places,  though we write everywhere on anything because that is what we do. It’s not an art, it is therapy. My parents sent me to numerous counselors and therapists as a child trying to find answers to the way I behaved, and there was only one who came close to touching on anything. Monty. He used to take me to the Pannikin Cafe in Encinitas, and we drank coffee together, just like regular people, no leather couches, we were friends. I was probably about 14 or 15 years old. I don’t know, but I remember one thing he said.- “You aren’t really excited by anything, are you, Casey.” And he pegged it. Perfectly.
No, I wasn’t. All mundane, all trivial. The life I was living wasn’t mine – there needed to be terror, uncertainty, all of the things that lead to growth. I was just me, I was nothing and everything and I was becoming.
I had no idea of what I could be then – now – I do, and I try. I try and I do. I scrape my flesh to the bone and dream, scream.

I continue to scream, and do my best not to let you see it.

My laughter is genuine, my love even more so.

Things are incredibly difficult these days – but I’m always up for a challenge.

But still, I grow weary.

It's been a while…

my laptop died – hopefully temporarily. I have good friends who know how to fix this shit. I hope that that Clotho can come back to life.

I don’t like this – my books are on it and I can’t get to them, all of the photos I’ve taken of the people I have loved and continue to, all of the memories, for now irretrievable, out of reach.

Strange and terrifying how much my laptop has become my refuge, my solace, my security blanket. There is something I need to write, the perfect setting, the perfect solitude. I’ve read how a couple of my favorite authors have their perfect moments and preserve them – Tom Robbins writes only by hand, which I used to be able to do but these days the strokes can’t keep up with the words that spew out of my head. Richard Brautigan found his place in Bolinas in a certain room after writing such beautifully naive stories wrapped in a gloriously humble imagination. His time had passed, though, and his acclaim had waned. He set the timer for the lights so it looked like someone was still alive, and ate a bullet. This knowledge was taken from the only book his daughter wrote – “You Can’t Catch Death”.

Do me a favor. Read “In Watermellon Sugar” and The Hawkline Monster” by him. Read him and you just might come closer to me. I don’t have favorites, the weight is too much to carry and changes all too often – but he has written my favorite poems, a few seen here: http://thisrecording.wordpress.com/2007/06/14/in-which-we-pass-along-the-poetry-of-one-richard-brautigan-we-are-bringing-it-back/

and this one.
“There is no worse hell to remember vividly a kiss that never occurred.”

We all have our needs, our perfect places,  though we write everywhere on anything because that is what we do. It’s not an art, it is therapy. My parents sent me to numerous counselors and therapists as a child trying to find answers to the way I behaved, and there was only one who came close to touching on anything. Monty. He used to take me to the Pannikin Cafe in Encinitas, and we drank coffee together, just like regular people, no leather couches, we were friends. I was probably about 14 or 15 years old. I don’t know, but I remember one thing he said.- “You aren’t really excited by anything, are you, Casey.” And he pegged it. Perfectly.
No, I wasn’t. All mundane, all trivial. The life I was living wasn’t mine – there needed to be terror, uncertainty, all of the things that lead to growth. I was just me, I was nothing and everything and I was becoming.
I had no idea of what I could be then – now – I do, and I try. I try and I do. I scrape my flesh to the bone and dream, scream.

I continue to scream, and do my best not to let you see it.

My laughter is genuine, my love even more so.

Things are incredibly difficult these days – but I’m always up for a challenge.

But still, I grow weary.