Pic, wot I'm drinkin

Wiped out from the bathroom refinish.

Other guy, I have not forgotten our love.

Pic, April ending ice

Pic, riding, sword ready 1914

prom 1990 somethin

new toy

Pic, yellow death

Pic, bath Armageddon

just living the dream/ song

I woke up this morning 
But the morning was gone
I called you at home 
But you weren't around

I know that our story 
Is not that sincere
I know that my past 
Is not all that clear 

And I know the miracle
Ain't as grand as it seems 
I'd tell u the secrets
But they're all so obscene 

Justin living the dream 

When I heard you were gone 
I wasn't all that  surprised
But I thought I'd feel differently 
I thought I would cry 

I really thought I'd see you again 
and I really thought we'd always be friends
I never thought that we'd 
Never make amends 

But that's just the way 
That life is sometimes 
It's true what they say 
They say love is blind

Just doing my time 

The hadron  collider
May have killed us all
We just moved to the left a little
We walked through the wall

Maybe that's what life is 
Our personal infinities 
Some day well move through them 
All of them as we please

It puts my mind at ease


C Am F F5m1
F Am C

Pic, lid

gutter lyfe

Pic, beware the hunter

womp womp womp womp womp womp womp

Google maps, good times!

Pic, creative angst

And so we fall, and follow. Sitting and dreaming of actions. Comfortable yet pining. Let us always pine. Let us always dream, and guess, and design, and find the itching of necessity realized. Let us make plans. Let us gather, sort, discern, strategize, and lay plans. Let us wish for something other than this. Let us be unsatisfied, unimpressed, guilty, and motivated by present conditions. 

show me the money

apologies other guy for my absence
been without a computer.

Pic, schaulger hammer

Pic, gator flower

Pic, croc shrub 1

Pic, barren strawberry

Pic, worried wood

Pic, random sos result

Dapper Dan

Pic, peace pipe

Been thinking of opening lines

Been thinking of opening lines. Something as microcosm beautiful as the dark tower opener.

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."

Perhaps,

Once more, the problems end as our solution begins. The steel irising closed behind, as the future returns.

be there when i feed the tree

Pic, 1 carpet

rolled some stones that gathered moss

Pic, lazy crack

Pic, downtown solar, and shadow

Art afternoon 2, draft Keller outline

Art afternoon part two of four. Blaze it starkie. Hint down, boogie crown. Kings of drinking dirt, mice that flirt, and all the remaining scarecrows in the corn field. Funny the lunch crowd faces flooding from the elevator bays. Their expressions of confusion, surprise...wot? That such music interrupts their path.  But hey, that's ok. Dreaming up the goings on in other peoples heads is a serious pastime of mine. Along with the rest of the human race.
I wonder if Neanderthals tried to peer through skulls so much?  Maybe they didn't, maybe that's why there aren't around anymore.  No matter, conjecture, rambling. Moon river.  The quartet is playing zepplin now, stairway to heaven.  Righteous rebirth.  Full crowd this time. Locked in the stacked bodies. Smelling his soap on the left, and her salad on the right. Though the impression fades as the once new scent grows familiar as it saws back and forth in your nose.  Your face absorbing your environment. Interfacing with the cosmos one breath at a time. And yet even i, stinking up the 3 feet around me, adding to the olfactory noise, nosey din.  Luxury of existence.  And I still don't know why.  But fuck my navel. Moving on.

Note, I need an app for writing that is more stable. This "writer" is nice and minimalist,  but has a nasty habit of crashing and losing the last minute of one's words.  Oh Well,  more words where that came from.  Have I told you how nice it is to have you here? Linking my now with your later-now. Least I hope it's a later-now.  Otherwise we have a creepier yet story to tell.  One time to tell, one time to know. Suddenly your shoes with a stranger's laces.  Creepy shit. Anyway...

Vocabulary sketch for Station Keller:
Spiraling, cycle, metallic grinding, sliding, cold white light, human comforts,  human furniture, castes, slavery, tribe, myth, lore, stars, authority,  legend,  law, retaliation,  marked, cipher, stolen, cavitation, industrial, pharo like construction projects, endless destiny, building, building, distant goal. Dark truths, inhuman designs, all too human strategies,  paths to victory over time itself.  What happens when the mice learn the reason for the maze.

What happens indeed.

. Tunnel scene, sounds smells, the walls closing in behind, the shocking calmness of the elders, the fear of the children seeing this for the first time.
. Entrance, sudden explosion of behaviors, strategies, vendettas acted upon within the clan, plays called out like football, lines forming, the traditional pockets of posturing.
. Flashback to the planning, the conversation between Hanin and an elder, beginning of exposition
. Story proceeds with alternating scenes of present interface room with station Keller, and more flashbacks.

Hey that's almost an outline?!

I was never the kid that had pictures and stickers on the inside of my locker. No band liner note photos. No pictures of scantily clad bikini bodies torn from skin mags and taped haphazardly in the back where the prying eyes of teachers and administrators couldn't penetrate. No sketches of of guns, planes, tanks, and bloody victims. No sketches of knife bearing serpents or hearts with arrows and names of lovers scorned.
I, in fact, rarely even went to my locker. My visits became more seldom by the semester as I started carrying everything I needed, both for school and life. By the second semester of my junior year, I put a few books and a notebooks, maybe some other things I can't remember, and never came back for them. I eventually forgot my locker combination towards the end of the school year. I stopped by it a few times and apprehensively spun the dial to some guessed numbers. I would get frustrated and walk away. I would still stop and stare at it as if maybe that would bring the combination back from the dark corner of my memory. I stopped and stared at my house in the same fashion. I stopped and stared at Aaron's old house on Emerson in the same way.
I was embarrassed to go to the office and admit that I had forgotten. They would now that I hadn't used it in months. They would know that I was stoned. They would just know! When that glorious summer finally arrived. I just left everything in the locker and walked away for good. I thought about coming back and trying to figure out when the custodians would get to my locked lost world on the second floor. Something seemed to awkward and unattainable about this idea. At that age, you tend to avoid awkward situations and don't want to put yourself in strange situations, so I just didn't go back.
I've never told anyone. I had, and still have to this day, haunting dreams that I left something important in there. A sketch or poem in a notebook, a bit of acid, a twenty, hell... maybe even a weapon.
These ominous larger than life nightmares take me right back to that mindset and I very accurately have all those anxieties, hopes, dreams, and fears of that teen age boy. In a way, it's a link to my past, the person I was; high school is a nightmare. In these dreamscapes I become the old me like some sort of born again in reverse. I'm desperately trying to remember the combination still and the anxiety and fear of what may be in there or what I may have lost. I wake up in a frenzy and cold sweat. It takes me some time to realize that it was just a dream and I am no longer that awkward skinny teen ager. I have been replaced by a grown Gen X'er with a hole new set of problems. The combination doesn't matter and what I left behind is long gone. I still wonder what could have been in there from time to time though.
I know I left a library book and imagine to the library it was returned. Maybe the custodians just threw it away. In one of my recent dreams, I became that library book. I was looked up via card catalogue in the Dewey decimal  system, (If there is anyone out there aside from the other guy, I'll take a quick bathroom break while you investigate the meaning of all of that.) a name was written in my interior due back by card, very little interest was shown in me, some pages had previously been dog eared, my columns written in with ink and my words highlighted. Then I was returned to a shelf and locked away in a dark hole for months and forgotten. I think maybe their is a clumsy and glaring metaphor in this dream, but an apt one.
I feel liberated exorcising these demons and hope that maybe these desperate dreams of locker combos and forgotten things are now gone.
 Not a thousand, I know, but this is where this story ends.

Pic, lady parts

early year

sorry to the  guy. been working 100 hour weeks making pretty things.
Still too early for this, coming back in two weeks to plant tings here.
not gonna do it. wouldnt be prudent at this juncture.

Pic, old cottonwood

Pic, broken edge

Pic, faceless rock

Feed the trees

Good solar system visualization tool

http://www.syfy.com/theexpanse/enterthefuture/inside

Enter the future

Comment, cause blogger comments work for shit

And it is pissing me off. Blocking our organic give and take.

"Fabulous.  You've incorporated much of the last fireside. I am eager to outline plots and passages"

Pic, downtown assemblies

Bone Keepers

All eyes upon you, sadistic stares
all night aware, albeit a few.
The fire's breathing, a homely hearth
thoughts stew their worth,
ideas teething.

There's not much worse than being alone in a crowded room. We were born here, we'll probably die here in a pool of mixed bloods, waiting for the passage. Wed could wait our lives for the passage. It may never come as it was told to us by our fathers from their fathers, fathers, fathers. We will still train daily. We learn to spill our blood and still float on. We learn to exist, not only here in this sacred place that is our birth right, but anywhere our mind can take us. Freedom comes from within. Illusion comes from outside.
At night we sit in circles, backs together awaiting communiques for the other clan. Their intent will not come as words, but their message will be understood and will stain the floor on this night with the oily black blood that keeps the mines going. It's that blood that keeps us all going, striding confidently into the future. WE know that what has been done to us, the life we have been allowed to live, is a blessing in the form of a curse. We know our purpose as the Salomon knows to swim upstream in the late autumn where he will meet his end before giving a new beginning. We know our place. We accept it, but our destiny will also be met on our own terms. We will decide who is allowed to continue their gene onto the bell and off of Kellar into the deep black sea that separates us from the failed star that we once called a planet. Our lines are endlessly sent out to return again. This could very well be the last cycle before exodus. The culling and the champions passage to come is the most important one in our history, so it is said. The ink of the elders has stretched into their various puzzle pieces that make up our clans. The ink is the birth right of the champions offspring and the trophy of the victor. The champions, once initiated, become the illustrators. They will tell their stories and our whole story through the hollow bone and blackened liver. It is all we are, it is all we have.
Another night on watch with the other bone keepers, our clan is expecting trouble from the night bleeders. We sit together, but we are all alone and miles apart, each wondering if we will pass the test or if our short time in this cycle will come to an end.
There have been words spoken promising an uprising from those not chosen as bone keepers. They intend to take our place in the passage of champions, to overthrow our ancient birthright and ascend in the bell in our stead. They will have to kill every one of us to succeed. We are bound to each other and will live and die with the same breath and the united tenacity of the schools of no extinct fish on Ere that will only ever be bed time stories to us. I can picture them swimming strong against the current their beautiful scales shimmering in the sun light as they crest the surface of roaring waters. I imagine I am at the front of their charge. My comrades picked off aside me one by one until only a hundred remain. We lucky few will take our spoken history and our living canvas to the distant points of light once the great black sea fairer is completed, as the fish also found their great reward. Word has come down from the station that the time is near and the heavy work is almost complete.
I wonder if the others are as excited as I.
I wonder if there is fear behind their still fingers and icy eyes.
Do they think of themselves as leading the charge and tasting victory as I do, or are they just trying to convince themselves of that end?
Many of my comrades will be lost.
Most of us know who will make the passage and who will not.
The ones who will not must also know, but they are bound to us all in the dark silence and will go crashing into their final breath as legends.
We are proud. Even those of us that know we will not make it.
Am I just fooling myself?
Will I be one of the first to go when the passage opens?
The thought chills my already shaking hands as I wring them out apprehensively awaiting a mid moon attack. If that is so, I still will not take my last on this stop.
I will survive this mid moon, of this I am certain.
My father told my stories passed from his fathers father of proud tribes on Ere that could read their destinies and their histories from the small points of light we will travel to. The words unfolded themselves in something called the night sky. It is hard for me to imagine what that is. i wonder if those stories will be there once we arrive.    
They sat around burning trees in holes in the ground and told stories as we still do. They had possessions called instruments which produced something called music. Some of the elders can still imitate these possessions with their voice. This "music" also told their stories from one cycle to the next, from one clan to another.
I also find this hard to imagine as they must have a hard time imagining their lives without these stories.

Stay alive! Stay alert!
My run is just begun..

Art in the afternoon

Art in the afternoon. Sporadic seat filling. Lunch hour for middle class wage workers.  A moment or three of classic melodies carved apart by horrendous vaulted marble acoustics. But the bows and fingers and thoughts wander wonderfully. There is sanity in hearing such beautiful order. There is salvation in the reception of music. Like where rain meets the roof, the play of impact, the sound of interaction with life's elemental beauty. Live chamber music. Fuck is there anything better?  More consuming?  Music can set a background for the mind, a surface against which to bounce like a trampoline, a plane of measurement upon which one's profile may be traced, recording the personal shadow, from moment to moment.  And this moment needs measurement, tracing, recording, memorializing. Not because it is of importance, but because it is all I have now. It is all I am now. Now until no longer.
Forever nonexistent,
persistent and fleeting,
a knife's edge grand canyons wide,
precisely vague,
seldom and continuous,
adamant passivity,
dangerous peace,
lustrous commonalities,
pastime futurists,
fleeing rescuers,
smooth spikes,
leather uppers and coffins made of glass,
old faces newly seen,
babies with instant curmudgeon expressions,
and on, and in,

and so, it goes.

Thin man robot reaches for the plunger

Pic, random is as random does

Random as a clouded sky. Random thoughts, random sighs. Random hours, random days. Random posts, random slays.
Whiffle bats in the big game. Random sayings, all met chaoticly. Spell this,  spell that. Spell simple words, spell hat. We're still here, still present, still recorded, still recording. What could be wrong? We live, we see, we moonriver.

Keep thinking. Key making notation. Keep surfing the autocorrect.  Despair has no place.  No map. No scene. The birds yet cry. I yet hear them.

Pic, minus one day

Was having too much fun in the sun with darts and smackncheese yesterday.

My fish beg like dogs

Another Saturday night

sweating out the booze from Friday night with birds eye chilies and re-uping with Dry Dock barley wine.