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It's 5:42am January 2.
I've not been to bed; to me it's still January first.
I've painted this morning, green and then red and then some more red and then some more, it's fun and lively and bright and festive. I'm not usually Mr. Paint-With-Tons-Of-Fucking-Red-Paint; it was fun to watch it cut under the knife.
The green painting (on wooden panel) is so goddamned beautiful and strong and it's completely alive, the fucker sings, a song of life.
Maybe tomorrow I'll have the jam to step into that large canvas.
The kitten is purring/sleeping against my arm.
I'm very happy.
So I walked into Julie's office on two hours sleep but happy regardless, hands full of colors bursting with life and whatnot.
A change from the portals I've painted so often these past years -- a solid base and color bursting upward/outward. I'm not sure what it means, if anything; it means I've painted differently. I'm interested in the change, wonder where it's headed or if it is in fact headed anywhere.
And I fell in love, again, with glazes, hoping again to walk that direction.
It'll be fun to watch it play.
I'm goddamned glad I'm painting again.
Practicing on the boat dock earlier tonight, I found a new opening in my body, maybe another step in flexibility.
Practicing outdoors in chill weather it seems I am having difficulty in finding or keeping balance, perhaps it's that my feet are cold, numbed, thus unable to be as responsive as they otherwise might.
I've been practicing in swim suit, sleeveless t-shirt; I pussied out tonight, wore poly long-sleeve shirt and long-johns in my practice. It was comfortable, I almost broke into a sweat, and unrestricted movement was nice also.
I'm fading off into sleep, drowsing now, time to stop.
I'm highly allergic to poison ivy; last time I got nailed by it I had to go to Brackenridge and get a steroid shot to keep my throat from closing down completely.
I think that about four inches of each vine needs to be chopped out, to keep it from growing again. After it's hacked and dead for a while the vine can be easily pulled off the tree, the roots holding it to the bark die.
I'd gladly do it myself but I can't risk getting that oil on me, at all, and cutting through the vines you're exposed.
I want to let you know that there is a very good AlAnon meeting at noon tomorrow; it's one of the best in town. I go there, sometimes, when I'm awake and stuff. fyi -- Diana's mother died from active fucking alcoholism (duh) this past week; understandably, she's all tore out, eat up with it. She led the Wednesday meeting, crying and acheful, and I come bounding in there all festive, having been up all night painting, two hours sleep, then Julie's office, and from there into the AlAnon meeting, my hands and clothing covered with paint and glory and happiness.
So here's my 'missed' day, I'm pounding these hundreds in on February sixth, early in the AM, and I'm not going to get done tonight, my only hope is that I can still enter some of these hundreds tomorrow; if I'm not mistaken I've entered them in late on the sixth of whatever month before.
You'd think I'd fucking learn. Enter these hundreds daily. Easy, right? But nooooo! I can't do that, that would make too much goddamned sense.
I can be such a jerkoff.
This ain't rocket science. Enter your goddamned hundreds, every fucking day, ya fumb duck!
Whoa! The Devil and Daniel Johnston. A great flick.
Be ready to watch this guy unfold right in front of you, melt into deep psychosis, far into the netherlands of manic depression, maybe schizo-affective disorder, probably schizo-affective disorder, singing the whole goddamned way.
It's an intensely intimate portrait of an artist, living on the brightly flickering but darkly shadowed side of the line which separates genius and insanity. He's just barely able to function, but he creates and creates and creates, his entire life a continually unfolding art.
A long movie, worth your time.
I was six words from 100...
I know exactly what poison ivy looks like -- one tree turns into a poison ivy festival every fucking year -- if our landscapers can't see it and/or don't want to deal with it, hire someone who will. Buy me a haz-mat suit, a sharp hatchet, I'll do it myself, a smile on my lips, a song in my heart.
If these mopes can't tell poison ivy from some other vine just cut any/every vine. I could do each tree in five minutes, we have maybe twelve trees on the waterline -- one hour for one guy with a sharp hatchet.
Here we go loopty-loo
Here we go loopty-lie...
Julie said today, and it's dead-on I think, that manic-depression isn't so much waves up and down but is rather circles, end over end in the cycles of the thing.
It's headed forward, in time, and every person who has the illness has different size circles and at a different speed; the cycles are circles.
It's like spinning through time, end over end, like flipping off the diving board in zero gravity, whirling outward and onward.
It's perhaps amusing to you who walk on terra firma to watch me looping these loops...
Bukowski was so goddamned great. He wrote. And wrote. Wildly uneven -- I don't know that you've read him or not -- but the fucker kept on writing, and writing, and writing, right to the end.
I know it's easy to love Bukowski and probably even cliche but I don't give a fuck. His first novel is maybe the coolest named book ever; I'd buy it just to read the title, over and again. I loaned out my favorite book of his, didn't get it back; his last book, written as he was dying, 'Last Night Of The Earth Poetry.'
Our government has been dishonest and murderous and contemptuous and crooked for my entire life and before that also. It's just so blatant now. And the internet allows those of us who want to know about it all to share information; it's the only place where there is any honesty, that I know of. Mainstream media has always been dishonest but now it's totally a sham, a scam, a show -- four hundred thousand Iraqi deaths, Americans torturing people, but we see 'news' about Paris and/or Britney sucking some dopes dick or whatever it is they do. We're fucking sick.
It's like a smashed, filthy, wet, run over coke can in the street, and bit by bit, step by step, that can gets straightened out, tiny little bits at a time, and it seems to take FOR-FUCKING-EVER but it really doesn't, pretty soon that smashed, trashed and filthy old can is able to hold some water again, it's able to be of service though it's still sortof trashed and leaky, it can be utilized even as it's being straightened more and more leaks fixed on it. Point being that we're like those cans, the higher power straightening our asses out.
One thing to tell Matthew, when you talk to him -- if/when he does go to TDC, this prison guard friend told me to tell him that he has no friends there, and NEVER -- EVER -- accept any favor. At all. Ever. Even if you pay it back fifteen minutes later, apparently the way things work in prison is that if anyone helps you -- in any way, even if he gives you a candy bar, stamps, anything -- then you owe them. And it just escalates and escalates. I didn't put that in his letter, as the guards are opening his mail.
I let her into my condo, early one Saturday morning; she was wacked, a drug addict, she had some horror show tale of a rape attempt or some such, would I let her in, protect her, and I did. She asked if she could clean up, take a bath or shower; I said sure; she asked could she use my telephone, call her mother, I handed it around the door to her, no problem. Except the nutty bitch called 911. Crazy fucking cunt. Inside four minutes I've got cops and detectives and EMT guys and a social worker in my condo.
So I practiced today on an empty stomach and just flat ran out of gas; I couldn't do much. Actually, I did a lot but when the tank was empty the son of a bitch was REALLY empty and I was flatted out and had to stop.
Still high off yesterdays realization, my newfound flexibility, turning my neck. It's just unreal, to me -- it'd been locked for years; various doctors told me "Arthritis -- it's your life now" and they were wrong. It's making me wonder; will I actually be able to do what some of my cohorts are doing?
Over my right shoulder I could see the whole of the window behind me, and my entire pickup bed, even some of the area on the drivers side, that blind spot; it was just like looking out my side window, it was almost as if I was turned facing that back window. Over my left shoulder, I could see almost the entire of the pickup bed; directly behind me and all the way to the other corner of the pickup bed I could see. ALL OF THIS WITHOUT EVEN SHIFTING MY ASS ON THE SEAT !!!
HOLY FUCKING SHIT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I left your office, hit my house, pet the cat, showered, out the door, yoga at six. Left there, starving, home to eat, then out the door at 8:00pm, as I'd told Kelly I'd help her assemble her bed; hauled ass down there, worked on it until 10:07pm, then blasted down to meet Jason, my role as sponsor, and now I'm in from that, and read email, and just finished a great short story -- remarkably powerful writing, Richard Currey. I pet the cat as I read, then threw the bastard off me when he continually bit and clawed at me.
Sales on art supplies are horrific.
I bought more paint, some pigments, another new knife. I got the best possible deal on my favorite black paper, acid free, thick, beautiful.
I love to paint on this black paper.
But I haven't painted since the 23rd.
I have reasons but none of them are valid, not really. I've got paint, knives, gesso, canvasses, beautiful paper, some wood panels to paint on, great brushes. I've got food. Clothing. Shelter. I've got this jamming new kitten, it's true, and he's eating up a lot of cycles.
I need to paint.
I need this.
Hello Austin Humane Society --
I have a great cat, one of the sweetest cats I've ever come across. We found him just before Christmas, wandering near the highway and tired and dirty and scared and hungry. Took him home, cleaned him up some, fed him, took him to the emergency vet to get treatment (seemed he'd been bitten by another cat). Somewhere along the line, I decided to keep him. He really is a great little guy, truly a loving cat, and in no way a problem.
Except that he's a cat. And I am not a cat person.
Sunday Night / Monday Morning
To me it's still Sunday, my calender works that way; days start when I awaken, end when I sleep. Though this has been the case for quite some time, I've never considered where on this calender lay my dreams. Probably they don't belong on any calender, as they're not in time, not defined nor shaped by it; they are like purring cats.
I'm thinking of you.
You are to me Art, a ceaselessly creative force, more dream than reality, outside the bounds of space-time as I currently understand it.
You are dazzling.
I sure miss you.
Ashtanga yoga -- I'm already sore. Tomorrow will be interesting, by which I mean painful. But it's Full Moon, a day of rest.
AA buddy Paul in the hospital, surgery tomorrow. He's a young 61 but not seeming so young just now.
I scared Jon, badly, tearing pages out of a bible, tearing them up. It's a book, it's only paper. But fundy roots run deep; the look on his face worth fourteen million dollars.
Last -- chatted with Emily, The Girl Next Door -- an art heart, integrity, beauty, brains, an innocence -- Naivete? -- rare in a 30 year old woman.
A great day.
Back -- I needed to take a leak, and took that opportunity to go and re-fill my coffee cup. Yeah! I now make coffee about the oldest fashioned way it can be made; I boil some water, pour it into a glass pot on top of some great Italian blend, coarsely ground coffee, let it sit for a few minutes, then stir the shit up to give it a rich, thick crema on top, pour it out of the pot into this big fucking cup. It's ugly as sin, hot as hell, mean as old cat piss. I love the shit.
I got your letter, and appreciated getting it; I've got all kinds of shit in that mailbox but I left it all in there, grabbed your letter and walked back to the condo and read it. I'm glad you've got books to read; Sandra told me about that, how I can send through Amazon or another bookstore, or like that. I'll see if I can't rustle up a copy of Marcus Aurelius for you, in that translation by Maxwell Staniforth, which really is the one to read. As you know. I think it's in print, and hope that it is.
Mom asked what I remember about dying, did I have any experiences; I told her that I'm pretty sure I had plenty of experiences but, sadly, I cannot remember, my memory trashed, lack of oxygen et all.
We discussed Dad's NDE; she thought he'd said it was Jesus but I know for a fact -- and told her -- he specifically said it was not Jesus, but rather an angel, an agent, who showed him around, led him to the place of choice.
She told me she'd had a dream recently: Dad, but young and beautiful again, and he was beckoning to her.
I practiced on the dock in the softnesses of January in Texas, the pretty buildings of downtown Austin across the river blanketed, cosseted, soft grays of every shade and tint, the lights and the life of the city caught in the shifting mists.
A cold night but no wind -- that makes all the difference.
Ashtanga wakened and warmed my muscles, stretching and strengthening this old ragged body.
A beautiful discipline; I gladly surrender to it, it's as important as prayer, and as powerful. It is prayer, probably, it's how my body prays, I get to ride along, a free pass.
Your mother tells me you're in London for a few weeks. It sounds really cool, though I'm sure that much of it is work work work. If you enjoy art museums, the Tate is pretty cool, smaller than I'd imagined it but world class of course.
I've only been in London once -- three of the most action-packed days (daze?) I've ever enjoyed/endured.
What else? Big day here tomorrow -- Super Bowl Sunday, right? I've not watched sports in years.
Okay, I just checked -- it's not until next week. I'm perversely proud that I'm so out touch with American popular culture.
So it's early to bed, tonight, and early to rise, I hope -- I've a big day ahead.
Or not. We'll see. I'd LIKE to have a big day. There's damn sure lots to do.
I'm so often crippled, hobbled, unable to do the least things, much less the most. Though it's one of those two -- least or most. I'm on or I'm off. Makes sense to me that I studied computers; I'm a binary switch, two settings -- on or off, zero or one.
In programming, certain criteria determined which way the switch was flipped.
I wonder what my program is.
Both xanax and klonopin are benzodiazepines, thus physically addictive. If that addiction runs out of control, it is the hardest kick that there is; it makes opiates look like fucking candy.
Xanax is the number one choice for PANIC, but not for anxiety; I'd try buspar first, see if buspar knocks it down.
Also, people use beta-blockers for panic; they work on the autonomous brain, below the level of consciousness.
IF you go with a benzo, try klonopin first; it's effective for many manic depressives. Xanax, because it's fast in/out of your blood stream is -- psychologically -- the most addictive.
When I finally quit writhing, moaning, shaking, spasming, this sweet woman came to me, expectantly, knowing the love she'd just given me -- and you can say it wasn't love but then you just flat don't understand the word -- she came to me to give me a kiss, or share with me a kiss I think is more accurate, given what'd just transpired, given the look on her face, the look in her eyes.
But I -- young, foolish, green, not yet understanding love, or much else -- my uptight stupidity kept me from kissing 'a whore'.
How I wish I'd kissed her.
Yeah, I love Julie, there is of course transference; she's bright and fun and fast and sharp as a goddamned razor.
I'm opening every goddamned cabinet, every closet, every goddamned door I know of; fast as I can, I'm laying it out.
She can't help me if she can't see me.
She's got guts, she's hanging right with me, following the curves as I careen through my many and varied neurosis. That can't be easy. I'm a goddamned mess. Jesus fucking christ.
But goddamned if we don't have fun, too. She might be as deranged as I am. Frightening.
I found a home for Carpet Cat, none too soon -- I don't have that patience. He's got maybe the best home possible; I did it right.
Mike absolutely pushed me to the Ashtanga wall, right to the line, not over the line but right to it; I'm blown out of my fucking shoes. Exhausted. Ears ringing -- that kind of exhausted.
Home, exhausted, I forced myself out; Kelly had to complete cleaning that apartment, complete moving, tonight -- she was overwhelmed. I pushed me, pushed her -- ROCK AND ROLL, MOTHERFUCKER !!! MOVE!!! MOVE!!! MOVE!!!
We finished at eleven.
I am toasted. Cooked.
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