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But I'm the one who has to live with these words, more than you, because for all I know you're not even going to read them, while I'm having to read them now and will see them again as I head through here cutting and chiseling and scraping, trying to find something that makes sense. Or maybe I won't cut or chisel or scrape. No telling. I don't want to cut, chisel, or scrape anything right now, I don't even want to write anything now; I'm doing this to fulfill my desire to put November onto the line(s) here.
I'm looking as I write at a rocking horse moon, cutting through the cloud cover, ducking in and out. It's hanging directly over the hotel across the river from here, up on the interstate. A semi grumbled over the bridge a moment ago, low gear, and the sound of cars is ever-present. Geese are calling, as they will, and answered by other night birds.
It's the time of the day I love most -- I love the feel of it, it's noises, the softness of the light and the softness of the sounds and the softness of the whole of it.
I have no reason to continue writing nanowrimo this month. I'm stopping, tonight. The drivel I've written -- and it's been drivel -- isn't worth the time and effort, I don't even really give a shit about what I've written and I'd bet you wouldn't either, it's flat and lifeless and boring as hell; I've been trying to force the issue, and that just won't do. So, three days in, I'm no longer in. I'm done.
Just as well -- I've got plenty to do anyway, a lot on my plate. It'd be different if the words sang but they yawn.
Eight hours ago -- after sunset but still light, as the light leeched out the sky -- I practiced where I'm sitting now. And in that practice I came to the conclusion that what I'd written last night, with complete certainty, was not really the case. Maybe the conclusion came to me. No telling.
What I can tell is that the writing is back on. Maybe I just need to practice every day, maybe I need the freedoms loosed by Ashtanga to fire these words.
The train, sounding in the night. Simultaneously, a semi growling across the bridge.
It's another beautiful night.
The river calm as last night, and as pretty. The view from here is nowhere near as pretty as the view from the boat dock where I live, but it has an advantage, a large one -- the train trestle is probably 100 yards from where I sit, and when the trains come through I'll not only hear them moan, I'll get to watch them, and see if it's a freight or passenger train (I'm hoping for all freight trains -- aren't you?) and this bridge will tremble as they cross that trestle, the water will get to moving, picking up good vibrations.
Short but sweet -- I've got less than half an hour before this joint closes; I got here about twenty minutes ago, flirted with the extremely beautiful and blazing hot Chelsea, who is, sadly if you're a men, on the other team. But she's fun and kind and it's fun flirting anyways, maybe more fun for me with a gay gal just now, as there's no threat of anything happening, other than maybe her girlfriend beating me to death with a Birkenstok, or like that. If she has a sweetie. A kind young woman, four months in Austin and loving it.
Damn near midnight, I'm out and about, hungry as hell, it's late and not a word yet written. That's actually not true; I've written a few, including this one right here. But no others, just this lament thus far.
I slipped last night, after I set this keyboard down. I've not eaten sugar, damn sure not in any insane way, since I started my yoga practice. Turns out that Alison has just all kinds of shitty, sugary candies in her freezer. Or she had all kinds of shitty sugary candies in there -- most of them are now gone.
She ran him through her mill. I'd given him plenty of heads up but he just had to hear the sound of her bra unclasping -- it's got to sound like a fucking vault opening, she's got a huge rack -- and see her tits tumble free and feel them spin and twirl under his hands. Then she spun and twirled HIM; most guys don't make it through her games undamaged, there's been lots of fights and lots of guys getting drunk and lots of guys unable to face her lunacy, and run off from the club she cherry-picks these guys from.
And don't think you've eaten tex-mex if you've not eaten in Texas. I even saw a restaurant in fucking Paris that advertised tex-mex: Bullshit. It ain't gonna happen. And it ain't gonna happen in Chicago, or LA, or anywhere outside the confines of this wacked-out motherfucker -- how I wish Texas was a country. It should be a country. And I'm not talking about the phony scumbags who've come to be thought of as Texans, I'm talking about the real deal, piss and vinegar but warm and worn, strong and decent, and The Hill Country, and Big Bend, and West Texas.
However. Notwithstanding alcoholism and various addictions/cravings et all, notwithstanding manic depression and all it's varied manifestations and symptoms, there still in my life lies considerable leeway that lies under the possibility of being disciplined. I can -- the point that she makes so well is that to live well I must -- become the guard at the gate, to allow in thoughts I wish, to welcome those thoughts and thinking patterns which bring peace, but also to block entry, bar the gate, send off those thoughts which I don't want in my life, thoughts and thought patterns which bring only pain.
And her writing about her decision -- and the ability to act upon that decision -- to bar any thoughts from the harbor that leads to her soul. Beautiful. Talk about rekindling hope. Or maybe kindling it for the first time, in this area. Had she just written about it, the *idea* of it; well, I've read seventy-eight million different peoples words *about* it. But she talked about implementing it, that it's by god not only possible but that she learned to do it, and how she conceptualized it, and that she then did it -- hope. Elizabeth Gilbert has given me hope.
We saw this Irish movie, "Once", probably would be called an indie movie; a couple of musicians, and their meeting one another and creating music together. Being as how it's not Hollywood, it didn't end with him flying to her place in a helicopter professing his love; he went his way, she went hers, the music was beautiful, the time they had, the richness in the friendship was good, and life moves on it's way; I sure liked the honesty in that movie. I liked the music, I liked the cinematography, I enjoyed watching these musicians pound out their music.
You can see how jumpy I am tonight. Here, there, everywhere. Sit with this in silence for twenty minutes; noisy silences. But I believe in meditation, regardless how I 'feel' about it at the time. It's like yoga; you show up. "No, wait, I'm tired today -- I don't want to practice." Tough shit. Show up. You might throw up. Who cares? Get on that mat and move your goddamned body. Or you might sit twenty minutes in noisy silence. Tough shit. Show up. Sit still though you're maybe twisting and shouting ("Shake it up baby, now! / Twist and Shout!") on the inside.
There's a pretty cool crowd here just now, some rock and rollers, a young black couple (travelers maybe -- nope, I just spoke with them, asked them what the heck brings them in here at four am; he runs The Crazy Lady, topless bar just up the street. I couldn't get a read on the gal, doesn't have the hard eyes of a dancer but maybe a dancer anyways or maybe his wife or girlfriend or whatever), and two cops, and a bald regular just walked in, cool looking guy, black leather jacket, could be a killer, could be a priest.
Somehow, in some way -- I don't know when or how I did this -- I pulled a muscle in my back, on the right side, about midway up. It HURTS. Bad. Like a motherfucker, tonight, worse than last night; as I practiced I kept on crying out in pain, because I'm a pussy, I guess. What other possible explanation is there? It took goddamn near the entire practice before the son of a bitching muscle FINALLY warmed some and quit hurting so goddamned bad. It's not hurting now -- I'm laying in bed; if I started some yoga pose I'd start howling.
In any case, it's never, ever a bad thing to write, it's always helpful; writers write. You cannot become a writer unless you become a writer. There is not one word -- not even on a fucking grocery list -- that's wasted, that's not applicable to learning the ability to communicate. John Taylor Gatto, in that cool series of vids I've been watching -- he talked about this, how the only way writing can be learned is by writing, that in fact teaching just gets in the way, at least up to a certain point, and he's very doubtful even after that point.
My father died two years ago today. I wish he was here, I wish I could have asked him for help, reached across the chasm that separates me from everyone, that of addiction, also across the chasm of his creation, his idea that all would be well in my life if I was married -- how painful that always was, he'd say it again and again; I'm like, hey, I'd like to be married and settled. That was my fucking plan. Life happens, see? Take a look. I'm doing the best I can, Dad. I wanted all that shit too, then.
She walked in, slouched, a tattered jacket, sick skin, she looks fucking dead, in the way that junkies look fucking dead. She had the money to buy her drugs but they didn't want the money, these sick fucks wanted her humanity, they wanted to watch a white girl fuck a dog, and she fucked a dog, and neither the rocks nor the junk kill it, it's all inside her and now she's here, her hands dirty, her pants dirty, her soul trashed. She's got no hope, doesn't even know what hope is. The lights are out. There's no one home.
Nothing worth saying here.
The best in the day listening to Jon, hearing for the first time his songs, seeing his presence upon the stage, watching the interplay, him and Collin, mostly, but the bass player also. He's a good writer, maybe great, lots of sweet hooks that don't feel like hooks, and maybe they aren't, maybe it's just good writing.
Maybe, if I keep taking ibuprofen and if I rest again tomorrow, maybe soon I can get back into my yoga practice. I so fucking miss it. It's a huge piece of my self-worth, or so it seems, already.
But no, these women have all these wacky ideas -- use ice, take medications, do the right things, blah blah blah. I just want the fucker to heal -- it's supposed to have done so by now, in fact it ought not to have fucking happened, not to me; let some other fuck twist around in back pain or whatever else they want to do, I want to practice fucking yoga. I want to be all healthy and shit. Mr. Fitness. Mr. Thin and Trim and Strong, and like that. Here I lay like a lump of shit on this cold goddamned ...
When I stick a pole into water in the sunshine, what I see is that the pole is bent, it takes off on a drastically different heading. I clearly see this to be the case.
The pole is not bent. My perception clearly shows it to be bent.
When reality shines through ego, I very clearly see that I'm under attack, I'm threatened, someone is out for me, I need to get even, I need more, I am more, I am less, whatever.
Reality is. My perception clearly shows reality twisted, skewed, and distorted, not at all what it is.
Both Iraq wars based on lies.
The Iraq war was planned by Wolfowitz in the early 1990s.
WTC Building7 is a controlled demolition.
There were bombs going off EVERYWHERE in the towers and WTC7.
There were molten pools of steel for months afterwards.
The evidence was shipped out and recycled, immediately.
People in NYC were lied to about the safety of the area.
White House changed EPA reports to say NYC was safe.
The Pentagon was not struck by a commercial jet.
The 911 Commission is a total piece of shit. Lies. Denials. Hiding.
I don't know whether to call it beautiful or not, though it is beautiful. So I guess I'll call it beautiful: It's beautiful. An intriguing beauty, a complex beauty, an intelligent beauty, a living beauty, a precise beauty. The people are top-notch and they know it, you don't get here if you don't belong here. The best of the best. If you can survive and thrive in ER, you are one interesting human being.
I love to watch it all unfold. Dramas played out before your eyes. Here's a junkie OD'd, here's a 51 year old accountant in crisis, heart attack.
The sounds of rain in a small house, dripping sounds, and the sounds of the drops hitting the window to my right, the east side of the house, thunder but not heavy nor furious, more rumblings, and the sounds of the rain on the roof, unless I miss my guess. A chill, wet night in Austin Texas, full moon but I've not seen it at all, it's behind the clouds. I'm under three blankets, wearing long underwear bottom and top, still wearing my jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and I'm a bit chilled, regardless all those measures, mostly my feet.
I flat fucking KNOW that the ER staff at Brack is top-notch, through the roof insanely great, the experience I have with them was great -- seemed the nurses were almost fighting to care for me, and flirt with me. It was fun, except that it wasn't. But mostly it was, at least under the circumstances. So. I can say, totally, completely, that under the circumstances upon with this caring and flirting occurred, and bearing those circumstances in mind, I will say that, aside from that, I had a fucking blast. Rock star treatment. HUGE flirtations, lots of clowning around. Fun.
I feel like I'm on a cusp of some kind, maybe -- this whole truth thing with Kelly is good. Real good. And my sexuality -- one way or another, I'm going to resolve this. Or not resolve it. Whatever. But I can maybe reach some peace with it.
Wouldn't it be nice if I could find a way to stay with Kelly. I'm so goddamned angry at her for not taking care of herself but I'm not doing real well at taking care of myself either.
We are good friends. We are good companions.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring.
Julie, Judith is the warrior woman sister I've mentioned, who has championed me for the entire of my life. Judith, Julie is my jammin' new psychotherapist, a divide and conquer terrorist with a whiteboard -- I sat catatonic on the couch, sobbing, big streamer of drool running down, there's Julie putting up bullet points and whatnot, lining out my life HERE! NOW! BANG! ZOOM! Plus, she made me paint with water colors, and made sneering threats about future water color experiences. Probably she's going to get out a skirt, try to make me wear it. I can't say, for certain.
I'm pretty happy, some of the time, and the rest of the time I'm mostly able to see that it's my perceptions that are skewed so as to get me to thinking I'm not happy. Bob is a good sponsor. I'm sponsoring six guys, and that is a huge help to me. Thank God for AA. I have a great therapist. And: Better living through chemistry -- good psych medications -- Hurray! And my prayer life, while not as steady as it could be, is strong enough to humble me, a bit, maybe enough to allow grace to enter into my life.
Well, here I am, at the end of this stack of November words. Or close to it, anyways -- one more day. I've been contemplating where to write tonight -- no, I was contemplating until about twenty minutes ago, when I decided to write here, to make a avocado sandwich on toasted bread (I actually made and ate two of them) and brew myself a nice cup of coffee here. The other option I was looking at was Star Seeds and I'm just not up to it tonight, or I'm worn down to it maybe, whatever -- I didn't want to go there.
I'd hate to wake up the way he did; to put it into scale, it'd have to be a guy seven foot two inches tall, the light at his back, in my eyes, and glinting off the stainless blade of the knife, and it's a sweet knife, too, I love the son of a bitch, but I wouldn't love awakening to it in the hands of some angry fuck like me because when I'm pissed, my eyes get wrong, and hard, and hot. The whole scene had to be pretty unhappy for him, plus he was sleeping off a drunk.
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