Looking for the way I think when I am writing. It’s almost interesting – thoughts are much more colorful, more prolific, not stunted and ripped away at the end of a paragraph, not the two or three lines that I’ve been conditioned to think in through letting Facebook regulate me, then down to nothing… gods, I miss writing.

Time to get back to it. Back to the color, back to the imagination…

Last night when I returned to my motorhome I sat down, took a look around, and realized how much I truly love living in this. A c of my own, my home, a place that I know I can escape the world outside and simply be alone to read, relax, think – or not think about whatever I wish without any disturbance. I’ve been making it mine, a perfect place to think, to create.

I love the way that right outside my door lies the street, the world, waiting, inviting, and oblivious to whatever might happen in here. I love the way I can move the door anywhere I wish – and have this door to escape all that I want to leave out there.

More work on the motorhome today, getting her ready for the times where I will just hit the road and keep on going until I find that special place that calls to me, whether it be by the ocean, a lake, in the mountains, another city – anywhere, everywhere…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Coming back to life, coming back to performing – I’ve been gone far too long from the stage, and it’s nice to feel my blood pumping again…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Well, that was a little something – almost. In time I’ll find my writing mind again, I just need to remember the words that sing…

Now, time to get to work.


this nothing of words

Last day in Berkeley watching Shomer, Bobzilla’s crazy dog. There is something very not right about his brain – but he likes me, one of the few people, once he remembers who I am – that guy who is around & feeds him, loves on him, when Daddy’s gone.

I don’t really like Berkeley, at all. Perhaps some of the rudest people I have ever encountered. If they aren’t shoving their noses in your business, they’re ignoring the simple fact that a response is nice, customary, when someone else says “thank you” or something along those lines. Maybe it’s just the ones that I come across, but as far as the laws of probability go, that would make it quite… improbable.

Just writing, trying to cure myself from the affliction of one-paragraph writing that I’ve let Facebook taint me with… it’s almost like trying to write a second novel, where I expect too much from myself & feel that anyone who has read me for a while expects the same – but it will be something that I need to grow into again, it seems. Until then, until I’m able to write again, or at least babble reasonably well like I was doing back here https://kseaflux.wordpress.com/2005/11/ , just this nothing of words- but it’s at least a re-start.

If anyone knows how to not have it skip


line every time I press return, please let me know – I can’t figure it out. (Assuming, of course, that anyone reads me anymore…)

A few more things to do – laundry, clean up the motorhome while I have electricity & can vacuum. I’ve got some more painting done on it, outside & in, hung some fabric, creating more of a home.

At least I get a lot done while I’m in Berkeley…

once a Warrior


coming back to life, becoming again, remembering the man who was once a Warrior, sacrified for the imbalance of dreams that became obsession, dreams that became less sweet…

remembering the magick, remembering what friends are – and what they are not.

Opening my heart, carefully, stacking the stones of meticulously built walls aside,

and coming back to life with a vengeance.

Believing, again, that there is a possibility of love… but gods, she will need to be one in a million.


Hear that, Universe? I’m ready when you are.





and I wonder  if there’s anyone

strong enough

strange enough

daring or

deranged enough

light enough

dark enough

doesn’t give a fuck enough

about the social stigma shit enough

to fall enough

or rise enough

in love enough to be




the subtle light of dawn shows outside my motorhome – outside the tiny holes I see through the blinds, outside.

blood & flesh, I am still that. Blood, flesh, and failing candlelight eyes. I read the words I once wrote, will write again – the heart has not changed.

She is out there, somewhere. She. She who just might actually be able to love me for all that I am, all I am not. I live the life of a hopefull romantic, waking dreams of exploring the world we will call ours. A thousand words said in a crooked-smile, knowing glance. Into eyes that have seen everything yet somehow are not bored with me.



All of what I had went to getting this home to roll. Not even ten days into the month and all the money is gone. I wonder why I keep hoping that CultureFlux might get something without begging, but I do.

Back to sleep.

if I don’t think…

If I don’t think about it, it’s easy to pretend that I’m already on the road.

Sitting at a cafe I’ve never been in or even seen before, having a light breakfast & coffee. Unfamilar faces, shops, streets; I’m somewhere wles entirely, on my way to wherever I end up and from there on to the next wherever, the next blessed anonimyty. I could pretend that this is the beginning of another new day of adventure, a subdued excitement to see what lies ahead once I crawl into the drivers seat, turn the key, and follow wherever the dreams lead…

I could pretend, if I didn’t think about it – that I’m only in North Berkeley, sitting at a cafe while across the street my motorhome gets some work done to it that I don’t have the proper tools for.

I have another hour or so before the work is done, and during that time, until I get the call from the shop…

I won’t think about it.