wordflood (aka writer’s clog)

A losing battle last night with a blank screen, the blinking cursor taunting, mocking, laughing at me as it remained in one place. On. Off. On. Off. On… waiting to travel across the page, hoping that

Over the years I’ve found that it’s never for lack of words that keeps me from beginning to write…

It’s because there are far too many of them inside of my mind and heart, and while I know the only way to string them together to make any sense is to write them out – sometimes even that filter desperately needs to be cleaned…

But of course the only way to DO that is to write.

(((sigh)))

library

Loving that one of the main characters in a story that I am reading, written by Richard Brautigan in 1966, is still strong and alive.

It is a library, and though dressed in different clothes and given much more charm for the sake of the story, the ghost of what it never was is still echoing in the walls for those who know.

The Strange Things Inside Of My Head

Well that was quite some dream. One of those dreams that when you wake up from it, you just kind of go “huh?” and leave it at that, not even bothering to look into an interpretation.
It began with Amy and I getting ready for Day of the Dead in my apartment (which was BIG!), getting dressed, putting on makeup, getting all done up. Johnny Depp stopped by out of the blue, and seeing an opportunity, I asked him to help me cover some areas of my face in white, simply so I could say that Johnny Friggin’ Depp once helped me with my makeup and add that to the list of memories I had for the reason of “just because”.
He left shortly after, and I was having a serious problem with my makeup. I kept changing it, but instead of taking it off and starting over I just put more makeup on top of the old. This worked until the top layer started peeling off like a layer of paint warmed and softened on a sweltering Southern day. Some unknown friends came over to give us a ride, and only then I realized that it was 11pm. Fuck it. Let’s go.
Act II (Completely Unrelated)
My makeup for *something* was going on well this time, but still undone. I looked like a half-done clown that had been in a pillow fight – I just needed to straighten the lines. Cut to random officer knocking on my door, saying I had tested positive for Class Six Narcotics. (Was I on probation? Huh? What the hell are Class Six Narcotics?) Anyway, after a “what the hell do you MEAN, I tested positive?” Pointless argument, I ended up going with them knowing that it would be cleared up – but brought my makeup bag and just for good measure, my Roller Blades.
I ended up in Summer Camp Jail, with ping pong, open co-ed rooms, and two air hockey tables that were being used for one game, the two players hitting the puck and making it jump from table to table. I saw all of this as I was skating around looking like some bizarre half undone klown. Oh – and of course I was wearing my bathing suit, because that made perfect sense somewhere inside the subconscious depths of my dreamland mind.
I was called into the office, skated around the multitude of joined rooms until I found it, and sat down at the desk of the plainclothes officer who took me in. There was another uniformed officer there, who said that my test results were most likely a mistake and they would get it cleared up as soon as possible.
And then it got strange. The plainclothes guy (who was actually quite nice) took me and another person I apparently knew (?) out, and we all climbed into a van and headed out.
We took beautiful roads that were unfamiliar to me, lined with autumn trees in some places, along the crest of tall mountains in others with breathtaking views that stretched for miles. Then, we started to descend, and on the left I saw what looked like the La Jolla Cove. In front of us looked like Shores Beach, and gods, what an epic day it was! Waves beautifully formed with nine foot faces, surfers dancing on them. “We’re going SURFING!” I thought… but as the van approached the shore, closer and closer, it was speeding up on this road that was only ours.
Then appeared something that looked like a Hot-Wheels ramp which ended just before the sand. We were going fast then, much to fast to stop in time, so I figured out what was coming. I was nervous, yet at the same time excited to see what would happen.
We flew off of the ramp in the van, well over the waves and the surfers and beyond the break, and then – there was a landing ramp. We touched down on it as if on a cloud, barely jostled, and kept going.
Now this road turned to the left, and we climbed a hill, again with extraordinary views. We drove for a bit more, climbing, when off to the right side I saw a Water Park. The van stopped, we all got out Somehow my skates had disappeared) and as it turns out, we were at the top of the tallest water slide. Just drove straight up to it, like we owned the place – and then went down. I stopped about half way to help a girl on another slide that was stuck, or afraid, or… something. I forgot.
Then Ruby woke me up to go outside.

I still want to figure out a way to record dreams. Oh, the strange things we would see inside of our twisted heads…

In The Light Of The Moon.

We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Had an event or gathering that we wanted to go to, looked forward to, but as the time was whittled to hours, then minutes before we had to leave, as we grew more interested in a project we were working on, increasingly loving our solitude, or, in my case, a good book with my puppy finally sound asleep resting her head on my ankles, we begin to make excuses.

It won’t be the end of the world. There will always be next week or month, the City just stole my car and I have a disdain for the bus and besides, don’t have the four dollars to spend, don’t want to wait.

The worst of all – I won’t be missed.

That was me tonight, thinking of any reason I could not to go to Mark Growden’s beautiful manifestation, the ‘Calling All Choir’. Any reason… but especially getting there and back. They were the strongest. I love driving, loved having a car, and absolutely adore getting out of the Tenderloin – loathe walking Ruby in it for the most part… but I digress.

I received a message, straight out of the fading blue by someone who is becoming a dearer friend by the day.

“Hey darling! Are you singing tonight? Do you need a ride?”

I remember to listen, and I hear. I accept. The world does not work in mysterious ways. It works, and we only need to realize how perfect they are.

I remember Mark, so many years ago, driving by and seeing me in my garage on Paige and Steiner, holding a garage sale to hopefully pay rent. We waved at each other, and he pulled over. (I have permission to say this from him) – and then, said a brief hello as he walked quickly into the breezeway to do what he used to do after copping. I could say that he isn’t the same person, make this a lie – but he is the same person. Full of passion, determination, desire and… and love. He just changed direction. Now, he channels everything from the former past of the crack stem to the world, creating magic. Magick.

Then there was tonight, and for the first time, my voice wavered fighting back tears. Tears of appreciation for him and all the others, tears for… for everything.

We began with voice exercises, Cameron and I bumping each other out of love and appreciation and so long unseen, holding hands, exorcizing our demons, exercising our voices. We needed to be here now, needed to let go of everything. I tend to hold on to so very much… I have let go of more, but always remember.

Part two. Moonlight.

Mark crated a song out of a single word, which he wrote while it was streaming through his window in country. Moonlight. If I didn’t know better, I would call it contrived, but I see, I listen – and some, I cannot help but hear. A four part harmony, even the least of us were now singers with his humor and instruction. We look to him not as a teacher, but as a true friend, he us just that way – and as I said before, I would die for my friends. Hell – I would even sing for them. WITH them.

Mark requested that we sing all parts, find our range, find what we preferred to sing. I was, and always will be, Bass. (In an opera, I will always be killed. Ain’t that fitting? A New adventure!) Wandering again.

He asked us to form unclosed circles – imagine a flower. We were pedals. Bass, tenor, Alto, Semprano. Might sound difficult, but under him, easily and quickly done.

Then, he asked us to sing. He asks us to sing, and the heavens opened; He asked us each to sing the part we had chosen and then led us outdoors, to sing “Moonlight” to the full moon.

I didn’t look at anyone. I looked at the moon, singing my part. Everyone else was so perfectly singing their soul. My voice wavered with tears… and I was home in the light of the Harvest Moon.

One word, and a song so powerful.

It is nice to be back.

Listen. You just might hear us – or better yet, come join us.

all, with grace.

HOLY SHIT. Seconds ago I awoke from a crazybeautiful  dream where I was SKATING again, ollies, kickflips, running from cops, one empty pool to the next, The Jesus Ramp in San Diego at the entrance to Highway 52.

I mean hell – I had buttboard races (where you’re sitting on your board) with the kids in my hills, no helmet, no pads, leaving an absurd amounts of flesh on the streets. I  can show you the scars.

Yeah, I was good, fearless but never competed. I remember skating down the hill to Allen’s house on metal, then clay wheels. the vibration of the road literally turned me 360 degrees while my board remained straight and determined. So many hills, so much flesh paved over. I won many of the races. Not all, but most.

And then bikes. I had the first freewheel bike with a handbrake in San Diego. I will always adore the people that paid  $50 for it, used. David Baily, my introverted and only friend at the time, taught me how to use it. We rode together. Up to the top of the huge dirt wall with speed, pivot in the back wheel or hop the bike 180, then down. Yes I was a child of the stars. At the top of every ramp and pool I wanted to go higher. Fuck what everyone else was doing, I needed to fly. To the moons and heavens, to the stars and beyond.

But this is not about bikes. This is not about skateboards.

I only just realized that against all odds and imperfections, I am still alive.

DAMN, I skated with Tommy Guerrero at Safeway on Market & Church, I called these streets my home even after  hitting the goddamn stupid truck that got in my way at Haight and Paige. Sorry, couldn’t stop, and you, you asshole, did. I saw you through your window, and now I have a miss set leg because fast is always dangerous,  and danger is always better than peace.

I don’t want peace. I want a challenge around every corner… and I can face them all, with grace.

Maybe that is peace.

I take it personally.

It’s actually quite funny. I got fired from a gig for being drunk when I was quite sober. Tired, weary with little sleep but as always ready to work – but not intoxicated in the slightest.

I got there late due to the train (and yes, me) but once there, at a bar on the wharf cheering for New Zealand and as requested, dressed as a pirate to inspire, entice, and engage the customers – I WAS a damn pirate. The very first thing I did was find my co-worker, who offered me a piece of minty gum after saying I smelled like alcohol (which didn’t surprise me, I had just celebrated the best birthday of my entire life with a dear friend the night before) – and then, and this is a key point – I grabbed one of the poles that was supporting the long tables they set up, and, quite honestly, did what I was supposed to and dressed to do – to be a Pirate. I hollered for New Zealand. (Oracle can suck my a**) And gods, what happened then…

I had – I guess we had people coming up to us in elation, one girl even said she changed bars, came to us, because she saw me on the table. I danced with people, I played with them, I held little back, but some. I played with kids. We passed out their schwag (eye patches) until we were dry – and yeah, pictures taken of me and us everywhere.

I engaged in no one improperly. I held good and fun conversations. I am not bullshitting. If I were in the wrong, I would be the first to admit it, but – I truly believed that is what they wanted. Seems like the patrons did.

Maybe it is just an excuse. Maybe everything is. If you don’t want a performer, ask for a pawn – or at the very least delineate boundaries – but don’t fire me for actually being a character that you asked for.

Yes, I  take this personally in ALL that were involved – Some people are weak, some are impetuous, some just try to survive.

I choose to not try any longer. I will just simply live.

I admit – this is was a very difficult post to write; leaving out names, most anger and words. In forty-six years, I have never felt any anger to a recent ex… I have felt passion, hope, and well wishes – but never anger. I have studied this, and know it is only a small part of me, where this comes from. I have always striven to be a better man – and I have always written about them all, in understanding or trying to find it… until she asked me not to. Doomed from the start, and she is beautiful, and people tell me I am, and…

Life goes on.

I’ve fought far too hard so I can give my life to others. I believe your life is yours, and that is good – but…

Consciousness

…just doesn’t seem to be in my game plan today… at least not yet.

Waking up at the crack of 1pm, stumbling the few feet to the kitchen to throw water on the fire for coffee, and in my haze completely defying the saying that ‘The watched pot never boils” – but honestly, I really wasn’t watching it with all of my focus, only all that I could muster at the time. It wasn’t much, but although the water did boil, it seemed to take longer.

Getting a call from a dear friend that her cousin had just passed, doing my best to be as much as I could for her, but I never know what to say.

I don’t think I ever want to know. Some things you just need to feel, and put all of your trust in that. Trust that you won’t say too much, or say too little. Pray that you won’t say something stupid or insensitive. Wish that you had more coffee coursing through your veins, or the final drops of a shower falling off of your body.

I’ve watched far too many people die, and it never gets easier for those left behind. All that can be done is to raise your cup of coffee up to the sky and say “Be Well, be at peace, and though I hope I don’t see you too soon, know that you will always, always be with me until that time.

Yeah, I don’t know. Just going to take a shower, make another cup of coffee, and see what else the day has for me…

the fabric of dreams

Something that an old friend found of mine and reminded me of the other day, written for her in ’04

It’s the dreams
the fabric
threads intertwined in fantasy
that we wrap ourselves in
tighter and tighter
to protect us from the biting cold
of what we might see

what we might see
what we might feel
when our drapes have fallen
folding to the floor
and we are standing there
naked to the world
to ourselves
and

suddenly

unprotected, all we can do
is accept
or run and hide.

it’s up to us.

We can hide forever, if we want –

but that is not life, for in our hiding from
the pain
we forget the warmth
in the fabric
that weaves the beauty
inside ourselves…

becoming again, again, again

The dawn comes in the window, slowly illuminating this place. My apartment, where I rest, where I still can’t bring myself to call ‘home’. Not being allowed to paint the walls, to create a space that is my own, a reflection of me & all my moods makes it difficult to see this other than a place to sleep, to give Ruby & myself comfort. I know how fortunate I am to even have this place, but still, it is simply a stop on the journey. Perhaps if the largest wall wasn’t concrete and therefore took a small demolition team to simply hang something it would make a difference, but quite honestly, I haven’t given that wall as much effort as I could. Perhaps I just don’t want to get too comfortable… and even more, it isn’t a hospital room. Count blessings.

New Years Eve, 2012. What an amazing few years it has been. Cheated death twice, just by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin, and after a lifetime of wondering, half of that searching, I found, at long last, the woman who gave me life.

I still don’t really think that has hit me with all the weight that it has, all the weight that it deserves – especially in this magickal life I have lived, so full of joy, of sorrow, of adventure and all that I have learned, and continue to discover. True, the past year has been mundane and somewhat dull, but then again, I consider what I have grown accustomed to, and feel grateful. Perhaps was a necessary exercise in Zen, of accepting what is and knowing that the present does not dictate the future.

Hells, you think I would have learned that by now, but when the present deadens the soul… when the present deadens the soul, it’s time to remember the caterpillar. Perhaps this time has been my chrysalis. Maybe it was needed, and maybe I didn’t use it as wisely or constructively as I could have… but that time has passed, and with it, slowly, the distaste for myself and lack of action.

So… what now? I asked M, and knowing me better than most, having a better feel for these things than most, she said that she could see me as a sculptor.

Though I didn’t disagree with her, I also couldn’t find a way to wholly agree – it just didn’t seem feasible. Not in creating the extravagant, larger than life things I’ve always pictured creating in my mind, especially without the necessary space or nickel-one to begin… but perhaps it planted the essential seed, and from that, a different world of accepted possibilities grew and became something that I can see myself loving to do, can grow with, and perhaps most important of all, has endless possibilities. And, not in any way a small thing, are needful things, and therefore can generate the funds to grow into something…. well, something. Maybe big, maybe not, but definitely self-supporting.

And then, something else. Something good. Something that I need to be careful with, to nurture, and try to be certain that this old fool with a child’s heart isn’t just dreaming again…

But that’s what I do.

I dream…

and somehow, someway, if the heavens smile as they have a tendency to do on me, the dreams held onto even in the direst of times will reveal their power when not forgotten…

or something like that.

fighting words

12.19.12 2:18am

As is common these days with no schedule, I sleep for an hour or so then wake so my thoughts can get together and decide that it’s now that I should be considering what to do with my life and tomorrow. What my brain doesn’t seem to understand is that the more it prevents me from sleeping now, the less I’ll be able to accomplish what it thinks I should do when the rest of the city is bustling about with their normal productive lives.

I try to appease it, even wrote on the refrigerator in dry-erase marker what I need to do, but my mind doesn’t seem to trust me. I guess if I were my mind, I wouldn’t either, but at least I would understand that it’s because when the morning comes and the time to do things happens, my mind decides then that it’s a good time to sleep. It truly is completely irrational in the way it goes about things at times…

 

I called and left a message earlier today for my Mother, inviting her to come down for the Hobo’s Christmas. I think that the setting would be the perfect one – amazing people, great music, and if we want to talk we can sit in my motorhome. Nothing forced, nothing expected, as it might feel if we met for the first time in a one on one situation. It would be like… like we’re just old friends who haven’t seen each other in forty-five years.

My, how you’ve grown! She’ll say.

How I’ve grown…

 

It’s really not very considerate. If my mind is going to keep me up, at the very least it could do is let me write a little bit better. It seems to have a angle sensor in it – when my head is horizontal, only then does it come to life and think of clever things to say. Once I prop myself on the pillows against the wall, the words and ideas are drained out of conscious thought and I fight for each line.

I need to figure out a way to connect my brain directly to my computer, so it would simply write the thoughts I have when my head is on the pillow, while the battle for sleep is happening in the background.

Five Minutes

12.13.12

1440.

If the math in my head is correct, there are one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes in every day.

Day in, day out, rain or shine, birth or death, asleep or awake, one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes.

I do my best to ignore most of them, and in doing so hope that they don’t see me as they go by. Like an ostrich with its head in the sand; if I’m asleep, they won’t notice me. So I can feign ignorance as well.

It almost works. I look in the mirror and see only a shade of who I am, who I want to be. A shadow, an apparition, a ghost, the fire that once shined so bright and explosive now no more than fire worms as they eat the last of me, the story that once was so beautiful now reduced to ashes as the worms have their way.

I’m certain that I’ve felt like this before, we all have – so why does this time feel so unique? I’m older? Perhaps, but an absurd rationalization. Weaker? No… but it feels as if I have nothing lift to fight for. I fought death and won, twice or more. Though we still have never met save for a few minutes, I found my Mother and thanked her, which is all I really needed to do for me. I’ve done many, many things, but… what now? All I can do is put on the old, worn out false smile, and… and do my best to get out in the world, try to find something new to be.

What pains me the most is how tragically seldom I write anymore. Writing was once my therapy; it found answers inside where I didn’t know where to look, was something that I did well that brought me happiness, and when I fell into the abyss of loneliness or sorrow, it has always been my friend. The one friend that I knew would just listen, let me talk without guarded walls, and in doing so, find my own answers.

So today, I begin a practice which I will do my best to keep up for at least thirty days, hoping that I find discipline again, praying that I find me.

Five minutes. A commitment. Every day, beginning today, 12.13.12, five minutes of writing. I’ll begin there, and more than likely, the words will seed and grow; seven minutes, ten, fifteen. Something. Anything. Just to remember – because I remember the times before when the words saved me.

For anyone reading this, I apologize in advance for times where the words might seem trite, might be redundant, might be mundane, and I have little doubt that they will – but that’s the thing. Once was a time that I could make the mundane beautiful through words…

For anyone who reads this, please refrain from commenting, as this way I will hopefully let go of the desire to please people through my writing – or piss them off. That is, of course, unless it is something absolutely necessary, or if I request it – something like creative work. Something that will give me a reason to pull my head out of the sand, and greet the minutes as they come.

And so it begins.

bday rant shit

And somehow, the Journey continues.

It’s not simply just another year alive – I look back to older writings and photos, think of things that could be, and realize that this passing of the day I was brought back into form should be, could be something special.

Still, it doesn’t ease my distaste for my birthday, and I know with every stale, colorless, unimaginative and seemingly obligatory ‘Happy Birthday kSea’ (SMALL ‘k’, CAPITAL ‘S’ – yet another thing I detest about that fucking site that won’t let me have the name I gave mySELF) that is posted on facebook I will cringe. I try not to question the sincerity just as I try not to loathe seeing the same ordinary well-wishes, word for word, over and over, written without feeling and forgotten, told that is what they are supposed to today in between taking a shit and posting another ‘click “like” if you’ on facebook… but this isn’t supposed to be a facebook rant. Just, if you read this, try saying more than five words that came from your own mind. Quality, baby – not quantity. I would rather receive three heartfelt wishes for a happy birthday than have to bear the weight of ten-thousand lifeless souls.

But I digress…

 

The fire is being rekindled, the discomfort of complacency is prompting me to act – but there lies the fodder of confusion – I want to do EVERYTHING, and wanting to do so much leaves me at the place of ‘Where to begin?’ What, exactly, do I do now? Do I begin at the beginning or at the middle, like I would if I finally decided to get CultureFlux going again – and *if* I decided it was time to throw everything I am back into CultureFlux, what would the personal return be? Would I have the same passion for it? If I decided to choose the beginning of something, what would that something be?

 

What fresh new dream can I make happen?

 

As always, the road calls – I need to figure out what is stopping me from simply getting back on it, and going – going… any direction, every stop I wish to make in the middle of nowhere, be it looking out at the sunset over a beautiful valley or  in the middle of an exquisite forest, or hell, even to Slab City for a bit – anywhere but one place for too long, and I’ve been too long here.

Here. Here met with quite a hiccup in my plans, but I was exactly where I needed to be in order not to die. Funny how that happens so perfectly, regardless of what I want to have turn out, every single time.

 

I need to learn how to listen again. I need to remember to see. I need to make the best of what I have, here and now, and wait for the winds to blow me where they will…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

But I must wait. I must have an address to find my mother.

 

Fuckit. I’m tired, going to sleep, and waking in my reclusive day.