A Spec

11 11 04 – Moleskine

I would fall 1000 times to test whether my heart cannot possibly break. But to what and will my silly gesture lead? I have received it. Yet again. And as I will. Soon. You for it. The jolt of my broken America or perpetual decay the white to my yoke. There is so little since to be made of this peace anymore. It topples upon itself always and forever an eternal yet stagnant puddle reversed for the light it reflects and loathed for the mosquitos it makes. If I could only get inside her like that girl the other day–but oh, she, this life, won’t be the sorry pussies I’ve fucked all these years. There really is no hope since JC left us like this. It’s not the church I’ve come to despise but more the idear of JC and how the church has manipulated me in his name. But I still want to believe. The bible school love preached to me, illustrated by RGB colored books for four year olds. Yes, that love I want but to hang the church teacher liars.

It is this place I love so much. If only I could code into its soul a message (blah blah blah blah blah). Of course it’s a long shot. The want of such a thing. Yet it is a spec of something worth living for. This place, I love so much. Like a runaway father it eludes me. Sitting atop a Great Wall only seen from space twiddling its thumbs. Oh, I am my own stiff-arm. Out of control. Impenetrable. So there is a spec. Of something worth living for. Something so many stride for everyday as they live, drawn in mendacity. I have heard them yearn and live for so much but when in a brief second, during a quick discussion about life and mendacity, they indicate a hidden desire. An agenda. Is it the great and meaningful love-fuck produced between Disney and Porn-wood? No. I given in and hopefully admit to it being something else. A spec of something. Spec. Of want and desire. For meaning and knowledge. The moment comes and goes too fast. (S)wishing by in a hurricane with roof shingles.

Gripes. So many of them. The place I live, the place I’m from. The anger and frustration leaving my real home some 15 years ago is now the same for the place I live. Both have annihilated the other. Yet there is still meaning. Where will I find refuge? In the silly place where ironically Marx and the automobile were founded? No place to go between those things. And what things they are. In this night I will pass more than a Meridian.


After Math

06 11 04 – Moleskine

What are the things that modify? No, I mean motivate. Words and thoughts from others. Just finished Walden. Very inspiring but of all the nature I’ve been subject to it is the most non-sexual composition I have yet encountered. The author is asexual, right? There are practically no words, and certainly no thoughts, on women. What was Thoreau thinking? There was nothing about family either. Or Children. Very confusing.


“S11.2” A Play.

A play about the aftermath of a second 9/11. This time the country has fallen apart. Banks out of cash. Cities in ruins because infrastructure neglected due to govt. spending even more on protection. Huge regional packets of American’t are in apocalyptic chaos where corporations like Nike, McDonald’s, etc. were dropped from a “favorites list” of govt and hence left open to the hyenas.



Old Getting

05 11 04 – Moleskine

So few entries. Not just in this notebook. I spent the evening thinking about old people. Odd how so little of my thoughts having anything to do with my oldness. But O, let’s review these silly words in another thirty years.

Idear: a retire community, a grocer (Publix) and the old men packing the groceries. Retirement, what a privilege. Voting conservative. How can people not vote for Bush/Dubya? Even if the retired men packing groceries iterates his disgust for Dubya conservatism, secretly, deep down inside, he wants Dubya there because he will preserve his privilege.

Greek wannabe gulf town just north of St. Petersburg. Thinking about lawyers, don’t remember why, probably something to do with lobbyists or Dubya confusion. And so a play about American’t confusion driven by lawyering and tainted by media. Has this (sarcasm on) been done before? The protagonist wants to change the world but is finally beaten down by the system that he’s underestimated. The play/story is about his beating, defeat as an idealist. In the end he loses his cool and takes on the lame-brain lawsuit against him. He then runs amok. SNL producer for killing so many really fat comedians, i.e. Belushi, Farley, etc., and they died so young.


The End

03 11 04 – A weeping Moleskine.

The intellectual (or lack thereof) coup detat is complete. It is now AMERICAN’T. America’s dungeon doors are now locked, sealed. Her fate for the next century is enclosed with the emblem of Dubya (George W. Bush). Coins and cents will be tarnished with his resemblance and the mediocre (meek) will (shall) continue (inherit) to rise (the earth) by the seats of their SUVs. The struggle of the intellectual to win over madness is just that. How can a mind communicate w/ a non-mind? Yes, ignorance reins in this world and I see it clearly this day between the green of the gulf and ascending blue where a sky forever leads to the edge of a place we should be able to fall off. This is, therefore, the end. I’m not optimistic enough nor frivolous enough, to hope for what is right in my life-time. What is “right” has lost all meaning now. The response (with ignorance) to/of nine-eleven contains no thought, nothing cognitive in the least. And yet 3.5 million Americans believe that the path set since then is the “right” one–at least that’s what 03.11.04 tells us. And so there can be no correction other than a separation of states. Let the children of the red states serve and the die for their 9/11 response and the blue states suffer and loose weight for lack of (war driven) economics. When the final separation comes the red will prosper w/ large motorized vehicles serving as antics and the blue will be tired of starving when the first horde of invaders arrive.

Oh, in this consciousness I am driven to imagine. I wonder if irony and fate toy with me. Of course my intellect tells me it can’t. So I am stuck dreaming of the wonder. They, that is, who have left me behind. It will always be a simple journey, the path to my women. But once there I feel as if the struggle just begins or has already ended or… No matter who or what they are the clitoris stimulation connects them all. The byway to failure is nothing more than bypass surgery on a man who has never exercised in his life. To tell a mother to catch up w/ his mechanized health is like spitting in the wind. Oh, a God given (and not nature) planetary error.


Vote Days

30 10 04 and 1-2 11 04 — Moleskine notebook.

30 10 04

Listen to the voices before they come. They will tell you things you’ve never heard before. Like the whisper of children (that is always on) to be had. Or the cries of another woman who hasn’t deserved my mistake. How then should one go through the day if the voices actually speak to the soul? Yes, the counter is that normally the voices only speak to the ear(s). We know that they are only a machine.

01 11 04
Another year less than two months before ending. And I hear the soft currents of the Gulf of Mexico slap the white shelled beach just in front of my villa.

02 11 04
Wrote nothing. Why? Vote.


Sunshine Darkness Illusion

27 10 04 – Moleskine. Pages slightly burnt, scratched, tilted. (What does that last one mean?)

Even among the most fluid demons that inevitably find me, this far away from reality, I think and dream simultaneously of time. It befronts me most here at the so-called “Almost southern point” as a lollying figure. It could be due to the remnants of something that has left me here or brought me here or it could be something recently awakened by the very recent happenings. No matter. As I will deal with this dilemma as I have all others. Run away from it or delegate it to someone else. Although this time I am finding it hard to take the easy way out. And so I deliberate time. It is just what I need. Not time in the sense we all know though. I recently read of a tribal people who had the same word. The way they would indicate past, present, future was by pointing in a specific direction. My question is, or, my avoiding point is, what if I were to do the same and not point? Yes, your assumption is I live in such a tribal store world. That world or place or community is now.

I said to some woman who is just ahead of me. “Where are you running to?” She didn’t respond. The hot sun was beating down on the back of my neck, the hurl of old timer airplanes roared in the sky and the sour smell of drainage being cleared overwhelmed my senses and I curtailed even further my hope of ever finding a paradise. I know, it’s very naive of me to think I could ever find a paradise on such lost shores but in the midst of my daily reality checks sometimes the pessimism subsides. It is obviously overcome though by and even easier misnomer. I like to call them the runners. In articles or notes I have called them the wounded or the dead (see failed novel Chad). But here, in the sunshine of darkness and illusion, they are the runners. But where do they run? Some have said to win the race. Others know the metaphor. What do you win? They usually illuminate some physical prize and I walk away laughing. For I know it is the run the keeps them alive. Run from here, run from there. Run too. Run hither. If you run forever excepting tokens along the way and never search for wisdom, what is the point? Should there be a point to everything? I want so badly to say yes.


On Key West

26 10 04 – Moleskine notebook.

Days Pass again. But I have seen another end to pieces I’ve created as though Keylime were the motivating factor. Still, between the tourists like myself I feel no force that joins us unless content is a new force of nature. Can you believe, faithful black book, that I’m in KW. A sudden arrival it has been and when I sat next to another foreigner with a T-shirt saying: I can see dead people, I was propelled to make sure he knew he could see me. But the gist quickly subsided as a catamaran wished by blowing it’s horn and when I looked to it felt sorry for the tourist who paid for the sightseeing and had to raise its mainsail. The first hours in the confused American Caribbean left me with yet another bitter taste. It is the aftermath of a life of consumption that has been forced upon me. Completely stuffed, like a Thanksgiving dinner, the waiting sunset my digestive, I can think of nothing but compulsion as I watch the stingy street artists in their over zealous and lost fixations to be something they are not. I suppose it is all part of the bitterness I feel when I place myself in the holds of America. It is the other, the my, compulsion I cannot avoid. Yet the smarts of Hemingway’s bar or beaches or boats is not enough to fight back what I feel. And feelings are amass in this time and space between Disney reality and American Tom – Tom foolery. So here IM. Lost in the arms of another magnificent love and I can’t figure for the life of me what to do with it.