The most absurd thing of all is the story or the desert<

Stuck in a rut,
Raining on myself,
Because I am far too paralyzed
To jump through the hatch.
Acting on actions,
Bringing up the past,
So that I can circle the drain
With dignity,
Or with an explanation,
At the very least.

Aged by the notion
That street lights are furtive,
Distancing themselves
In the distance,
Humming with delight,
And sinking into the hollow core
Of the earth.

An accidental imagination,
Slipping into stories uncreated
And changing the rules
So that irony is copasetic,
Instead of something painful,
Opens its eyes for the first time,
Irises ablaze with horror and
Shaking with delight,
So that it might see a future
Unspoiled by the spontaneous emissions
Of a childish psyche.

Shot through with spontaneity
And filled with indecision
Due to the constancy
Of shifting allegiances
And the uncaring egoism of change.





-------------------------------------







Feel like I have been swimming all day.
After an afternoon seaside,
Sprinting through the water,
Springing in the water,
Challenging the waves to beat me,
My heart and lungs have beat for the good.
How long can you hold your breath?
I can hold it longer.
In that moment Breathe is it,
Not yours or mine,
Just the it of the Ocean,
Fighting against the Ocean.
Which one of us can help Breath
Overcome the Ocean?
My skin feels drained;
My eyes, drained by the salt water,
Suffer to be kept completely open,
And squint so that I can wander up the shore.
I struggle on the sand.
Sad Sand,
Residue of the Ocean,
Involuntary servant of the Ocean,
Against its will, impedes my departure.
And my limbs are drained,
Numbed by the water,
Cells engulfed with sodium of the sea.
Overcome by the immensity of the Ocean and
Fatigued by the impenetrable rise and fall,
My spirit is tired.
Even the sun tires of the oceans enormity,
Everlastingly drifting a top
An eternity of bays and harbors,
And, of course, clear blue nothingness.
There is no escape,
Only the small consolation of change.

Twinkle little spider
Caught in the cusp
Of daylight
Soft lights
Of the amber sun
Dimming as you lay
Headfirst in the pond
Peaceful for once
Quite for once
And gone
For good
Little spider
Weaving your world
Printing yourself
To pursue your self
Images and pleasures
Self reflexive
Aggrandizing
Damned eyes
And soft white
Light of the sunrise
As you lay
Headfirst in down
The universe spinning
Piles of shit
Above you orbit
Convulsing you
Vomit
And a man says
Are you OK
As he pulls
You upward
Gets inside of you
And drives you home
You puke out
Of the window
As another spider
Photographs
From the street
Spinning his web
Publishing himself
Self reflextive
Shameless World
Tragedy is Art
Sex is Victorian
Spiders eat their babies
And I weep.

Simone Weil




"Queen of Spades"


"Gestalt"


"Never F"



Some photos I have taken

Making meaning is natural,
Like singing in the shower
And sounding like a prodigy:
The melody is the meaning
Of the making and the
Sounding is amazing.
Alluding to each other.

Tree branches and
velvet blazers,
and making change
and changing makers
are all meaning making:
birds and flowers;
hipsters in their homes;
doing laundry or god;

Every meaning is an allusion
To other meaningful illusions.

Subtle illusions, or, perhaps,
Bold and gaping, grinning
This way and that.

A flitter of the heart
Tells me that I can feel,
After months of
Self-imposed solitude
And remorse.
That is meaning.
For me, it means
My heart can beat
For another who
Is meaningful to me.

Tasting god because you want me to.
Tasting gravel because the grit feels good;
The tough and zinging crunch is
Enough to make my insides rot.

My hair is falling out because of your marrow.
The giving you gave was not good enough;
And now the spreading cancer is causing
My hair to fall all over the floor.

It is quite stylish though, I stammer,
As I imagine the hair crawling on the floor,
Just like little mice looking for a snack,
Squeaking and chatting with their mice friends.

There is a quite stylish thought though!
Imagining mice friends and god chewing gravel,
And then spitting into my bones to save me,
I stammer and then I shout, “Imagine that!”

A shot in the arm,
Caught, caged,
Indoctrinated and embraced;
Broken by the beat,
Completely caught,
As well as sweet.

As for the stage,
Always caged,
Like a tight
On one leg;
A white light,
Bright as the sun,
Spherical,
A miracle
For the making,
Or the breaking;
Broken by the beat.

Competition:
Fission fishing;
Like a bass,
Low pitched,
Ass down
And slippery
On that stage.
Split by the beat;
Like a slipper,
On one leg,
Amputated,
Cut off,
Arms are up and embrace.

Caged in that tank,
Like a fish,
Pitched
On that stage,
Out of water,
A daughter
Sans voice
Stands, and she says
Nothing of the beat.

I haven't much time to say what it is that I want to say, so I will be brief. Today I had a revelation while I was running. Not truly a revelation, but I guess I came to view a perspective I had previously been unable to understand based on recent events in my own life... so, if that is a revelation, that I suppose that I've had one. Its a rather dark one, so if you are weak of heart or feel that speaking of the dark tendencies one may have from time to time is strange or improper, then I suggest you stop reading. Its just life.

My great grandfather shot himself in the face with a shotgun shortly after he turned 70 years old. My grandfather is manic depressive, and we assume that my great grandfather had some sort of difficulties with mood regulation. In any case, I have never really assumed the perspective of how he could have shot himself in the face. I just could not fathom what would bring one to do such a thing. I mean, suicide is one thing, but if he wanted to kill himself he could have simply jumped of a building or bridge, or taken lots of medicine or house hold cleaner or something. Any of these ways would be easier than shooting oneself with a shot gun. So, when I was contemplating this I realized that perhaps he was not trying to kill himself as much as he was trying to stop how he was feeling and what he was experiencing. I completely understand this now, because, of late, I have felt how uncomfortable, terrifying, and disturbing it is when you are crawling in your own skin... When your emotions are so disregulated that you feel as if you are spinning and pasty and hot, as if you are so intoxicated that you are lying on a cement sidewalk, clenching your fists and eyelids, spinning inside your own head, yet thoroughly, somehow, disembodied, and just waiting for it all to stop. Having felt this way, I understand his impulse to shoot himself. In this experience, I felt as if I wanted to scoop my brain from the inside of my skull and discard it. I just wanted peace from the spinning, terrifying, dare I say it, psychotic torment of my tumultuous mind. In trying to describe it I feel as if the memory of this episode is fading. All I can do is continue to compare it to other feelings and thoughts and experiences... I could not hold still, throwing myself from floor to bed to sitting against a wall. I could not quiet my mind with pills or alcohol... it just kept shouting at me. Its not as if I were hallucinating, I could not hear voices, but at the same time, it was like my brain was compelling me to feel terrified, confused, disoriented, anxious, panicked... the compelling felt like shouting in that it was that driving and strong of a feeling, this is why i say shouting... in any case, I understand now that urge to leave one's body. One does not long for death, but one longs for this horrifying state to discontinue, in any way possible. I am so thankful that I am getting better, and finding ways to regulate, and that it never got as far as putting a loaded gun to my head. I am really happy that I have gotten help, and helped myself, because I could not have done this if it weren't of my own volition. I am also thankful, in an odd way, to have weathered it, because I feel as if I have such a deeper understanding of the complexities of suicide. I also am thankful because I feel as if I am functioning so much better than I did before... in the past, I have been two ways, depressed and creative or high functioning and self-destructive. I feel centered, I feel high functioning and creative. And as for the depression and self-destructivity, I feel as if, slowly but surely, I am finding the reigns with which I have control of them, and not the other way around.

ok.

Location:Eugene, Or

I am feeling ungrateful
Among this piss, this shit,
This excrement.
Among the refused, the wretched,
And the lost
I am feeling very impatient.

Impatient, hated, hateful,
Tired of the tireless lies,
The lies that I tell people
Every time that I say hello:
Friends

I am feeling very disturbed,
Like people want a form of approval
That I am unwilling to give.
I feel I’ve outcast myself,
With my choices, that is,
And my impatience too.

Wreak love. Wreak and wretch.
Too good for those I hate,
To hateful at those I love,
Too much love for those whose love
Remains unrequited, always.

Awake again, sleeping awake
Through the tears and bullshit,
And the excrement.

And I, myself, I alone,
Sleeping awake in this
Lucid life where I dream
Of different lights, streets,
Statements of fashion,
And boring idle talk.

Different, but not better, different,
Poetic and pure.
In my own way, with pure intentions,
Its the kind of difference
That sleeps during the day,
And wakes all night long.
The kind of difference that
Opens cans counter clockwise.

Fighting for the right to live,
Somewhere between what is
Fashionable,
Right,
And wretched.

Triangulated and
Fighting for an image of myself that I can respect.

Location:Frankfurt, Germany (nearly a year ago)

deliberation about the hard copy release of radiohead's new album "In Rainbows" from NY Times.

me and kristen at a wedding. gaaach, weddings...




Location:The Dalles, Or

I made a painting/poem the other night... in my restless anxiety i probably looked like a crazy person crouching over it on the floor while sex and the city and my itunes were playing in the background... i don't know what it is, but lots of noise helps me to focus on one thing.

I made this for my friend Kristen. To my distaste, she loves Lucille Ball, a lot.







Location:Portland, Or

I made this for my friend kayla a few weeks ago, for christmas. it was one of the first paintings i started making in this little painting binge. its a painting of kayla, jory and myself.

This one is symbolic logic. its above my elbow, on the back of my arm.

The bear is new. the writing is old. its on my left wrist. I LOVE BEARS ;)

i got a record player that also hooks up to my ipod. now i can play my 12 days worth of music through an actual speaker. incidentally, i can also play my new Captain and Teniel: The Greatest Hits album. Yay. Further incidence: I will soon be able to play my Radiohead: In Rainbows album on that glorious turntable. As soon as it arrives from the UK that is. GOD I LOVE RADIOHEAD.

strange to find yourself in a hospital,
when it was the one place you have never been.
seen broken bones, hysterectomies, and shingles,
but never have i been the patient in that bed.
so it was strange to find myself there,
for no reason other than the fact that
my brain was screaming and banging against my skull,
like a child in a fit of tantrum will
convulse and scream and bang on the floor.
I was there for no reason other than the fact that
the trees were telling me not to go outside,
and all that I wanted to do was scrape my brain from inside of my skull,
as one would exorcise a cantelope from its shell.
shaking and convulsing against my will
I sit on this hospital bed and wait for my judgment.
"Normal people should not act this way," I say to my brain,
"I am not acting," my brain screams, shaking even stronger,
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."
I think the doctors think that I am faking this,
that I could stop it if I so choose.
How do you stop this impulse to hit a wall until you knuckles bleed?
Or too heed signs that clearly infer that danger is all around you?
How do you stop your brain from screaming at you?
How do you get away from yourself?

new user pic. pink wig.

Creepy crawlies in my veins
This isn’t my heart, lungs, or my body
This is my brain
A parasite

My brain is a parasite
Feeding on what it is not and won’t be,
What it doesn’t have,
It eats alive and asks no excuses given

It does not remember its writing
Or the promises it has made
Again and again
I will be good this time

Forgotten again
As the parasite sucks away
At its own venom
Feeding and regurgitating

hours glide by
like ducks on a pond
I am the duck and the pond
together
placid on the surface
churning furiously below
with torrential magnitude
like a mother duck
kicking to lead her young
"come my hopes
come my little dreams"
I say
leading onward
for no apparent reason
other than biology
and the growling instinct
that I have in me to survive