…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


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



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.

on automatic

Effin’ Hell.
Crawl out of bed at 6am, stumble to the kitchen to make my coffee & smoothie, meanwhile keeping my eyes on the clock – I swear, it always seems to go faster in the morning. By 6:30 it’s sip of coffee, throw on a sock, sip of coffee, the other sock, gulp of coffee, the boots. 6:45 – do I bring my laptop today? Yeah. Close it, hit the bathroom to throw some water on my face & brush my hair. 6:55 already? Screw the lappy, just grab my small bag & a couple books, a few decks of cards shoved in my pockets to practice manipulation & magic, throw on my hat, grab my keys then limp to the elevator – no stairs, the legs hurt again today for some reason. Not legs, leg. Always my left one. It’s the bitch that never got the memo that I refuse to be sick or in pain. Need to have a talk with it later.
Dragging the doors of the ancient elevator open, I see my car through the entrance doors, right where I parked it, directly outside of my building. Good.
I walk outside… waitaminute. Cars lined up in front and in back of mine. No one rushing to move them.

It’s Saturday. Goddamnit, I knew that. No towing today, only street sweeping on the *other* side of the street.
A weak chuckle at myself, a decision to save fuel, and back inside.

It’s easier to practice with the cards in my apartment, anyway.