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Empty-headed, anxious waiting. a cactus in the desert, dry. cannot feel myself. if i could i would be doomed by my own thorns. to pierce my flesh with my own tangled limbs. still in the endless sand. no rain no wind. hot ferocious days. long silent nights. no openings for air to flow through me. only to caress me and leaving me standing unfulfilled. relying on my inner composition to replenish my thirsting physicality. and the movement of my own cells to invigorate me. the sun trying and prying. penetrates me, my source of life, warms my inner soul.
Rooftop beauty is an infectious thing. Day or night a view from the eye of a bird to show you again how small things are below, how we can soar. The worst cynic on a rooftop is cynic no more, finally readjusting their eye to take in much more. Sonic motions only, no small cramped movements in four-walled box. Only the sky you have deserved to hear and see, dome shaped. The other half of your former circle that always seemed like a cup with no lid over flowing, bottomless and tall instead of a round ball of continuousness.
This girl, she don't care what other people think. She will argue them that they did not partake in breakfast that morning and if they did and said it, she could still disagree. She points at the table. She presses her finger tip into the table and takes her stand. A declaration that is the beginning and the end. No possibilities in between. You will be told until you understand. Until you see this way and you agree. Mean nasty schoolmarm with ruler in pocket to scold you, close-minded freak to make assumptions and mold you. I hate hypocrites.
Just one friend can make me happy. One great song, one smooth maneuver in the car, one little sound. I am trilled by a good dance step, iced coffee, and world exploration. I love happy couples, ice cream, white-blue mornings, surprise phone calls. Perfectly fitting thrift clothes and an accidentally good radio station can change the course of a day. As well as buying a new cd making an effort to see a friend or dancing. I am partial to red sketchbooks, black ink and hot sauce. I write 100 words per day and other stuff, mostly to be silly.
Clean home, clean head. yesterday i thought of this thing: home is where you keep your passport. today i cleaned my house until my fingernails were green. it was ghetto, i moved furniture and the shape was still on the floor. now i have a clean head. my passport is here too. soon it will come with me on a trip during which it will remain on my person for a better part of the time. in this case, i am my home. i like being my own home. i could stay out forever if it wasn't for everyone else.
Clouds lay over the mountain tops in a thin smokey layer of grey. The entire scene was of muted shades and for as far as my eyes could see these mountains rolled on. In the distance the clouds turned into a milky flat sea simmering the mountains below yet shielding them from a brilliant sun that only those lolling above the clouds could tell about. The mountain tops and I would share the beauty exclusively except for that one twisting river reflecting its light. Ribbon of pure gold seeping between the shadows and illuminating their dark and forgotten sloping sides.
I don't buy this whole hand sanitizing fad. I don't believe in disinfecting every utensil that touches the same raw meat we've been cooking for years. I believe that a certain number of germs are healthy and some are even necessary. I did though just accept a disinfecting band-aid. It is different in the instance of a wound. This particular one being the triangular result of accidentally snipping myself with a scissor. I am a little scared for humanity and if by accident someone sterilized themselves into a corner. The bus will be forbidden and water fountains, glove wearing.
I have life I have life! I have music I have dance. I am selfish I say but I will give it to you get close get close. I have music mobility. I have essence in my pocket back pocket of life. Drink from me lay down on me. I know life will buy me a shot of tequila when I need one, pour me out on the floor. I will throw up a light signal for you to reach me while the rest eat olives under trees. Relax, come up come up when you can because we're here always.
Siesta makes life worth living. A day stretching before you each morning is not quite as terrifying knowing you will be able to return to your own private dream state in just a few hours. Also you will not be condemned for staying up until three in the morning on any given weeknight and having to rise early does not hurt so much. That second half of the day permits one another chance at that segment of twenty-four possibility-filled hours. Lets you dream and live and dream and live and dream and live and dream and live etcetera.
Looking at Jeff sitting cross legged on a bench. The shadow cast from the trees above are like a disco ball standing still. Splatters of light, splatters of shadow. We are waiting for the paintings in the El Greco museum to wake up from their siesta. We are in Toledo. He drove us here. We wait with two beers. I paint with ink, he writes. Its awful nice. I might have to sacrifice the painting for its size. Flies attack us. El Greco paintings are deep and dark. Mine today is full of light. He is full of light too.
Ryan says its funny if you put peanut butter on a cracker and stick it to the roof of a dogs mouth. You grab the snout, jam your fingers in near the teeth and force it open. Then put peanut butter side up to the roof and watch them lick like crazy until the cracker disintegrates and they can get at the peanut butter. Sounds funny but its probably not nice. Buddy licks his nose like crazy and its very cute and funny. Although he does not eat people food, I probably couldn't get that close to his mouth anyway.
Six beams stretch across the diagonal ceiling. Its a tiny room. At the highest point of the diagonal the shadows are so tall that you forget. From the third beam a small chandelier hangs down like a crystal tarantula on a gold chain. The center on the house is an outdoor courtyard like all the centers of all the homes in this part of town, Nerja. The doors are often open allowing a pent up tourist to peek in and ogle that excellent outdoor space inside the home. Windows are covered in wrought iron and all the doors are large.
Tonight's meal was an experiment or a biology project. I ordered grilled calamari. You all know how it comes when fried: in rings. ‘Rubber bands' as we called them in the houses of my grandmothers. I have worked in some restaurants too and thought my guess was educated. Thought I knew what to expect with this simple order. Instead I was faced with faces. The entire thing, grilled all right. Heads, eyes, tentacles, ears, guts. The first one I ate all then realizing there were parts I needed to eliminate. Working each little beast over with my dissections skills, yum.
List of things I would like to be: rock star (singer), fashion designer, full-time painter, travel agent, college professor, professional adventurer, ballerina, movie set designer, oh what the hell: stunt double, chef, pastry chef, life guard, aerobics instructor, restorer of famous paintings, famous experimental writer (would have to be famous already), welder, house painter, antique refurbisher, cafe/shop owner, truck driver, party thrower (whatever you call that), taste tester, jewelry maker, ceramics or pottery spinner, picture framer, curator, olive picker, peace corps (relief organization) volunteer, mural painter, beer brewer, tomato grower, bird feeder, cat and dog rescuer, super hero.
I've got these big deep yawns, like sighs. They are not complete until they are so deep that my lungs expand all the way down to my belly. Certain muscles have to stretch: my back, my throat and if its not complete I'll have to do it again. I am somewhat plagued. Leaving my company to believe I am pretty tired which is not true at all. Just kind of looking for this big release. Giant power of breath to dip way down into my body and coerce the other parts into relaxation even though I am not tired, yet.
There are many of these ruins of buildings here in Spain. They resemble cakes that were once beautiful, elaborate and since a fat man has devoured them savoringly with a sharp fork. The insides are eaten out and only a few of the bricks are still stand reminiscent of the old shape. The crumbly red bricks with a bit of their old white frosting still clinging to the outermost layer. Many of them have for sale signs and phone numbers spray painted on their sides. One had a brand new pastry built right on it, adjoining, maybe holding it up.
I have been dashing off these words without a care. In other more thoughtful times, I would talk about things that seemed a little deeper, a little more that just the abrasive surface bullshit that scratches away at soft consciousness daily. I suppose also it is reflective of the way I have been treating life somewhat in the last ten days –just thrashing and crashing instead of the exploration and inspiration I promised myself. Energy spent on thrashing, a method of defense for little humans in big rough world. Sun beatings, water washings and I suppose I won't suppose anymore.
Fucking forget about me. Please. Leave me here. Bury me in sand up to my neck between some rocks on a deserted beach. Then please, forget me and leave me here. Allow me my wits and my knife, spoon, fork toll and I will see you soon at home comfortable. I want to hack out that tiny path, big enough to pass one body, across the earth and back to my home with dirty bloody fingernails I will clean when I get there, back to my origin secure. Gather my things and toss them out. I won't need them then.
Today's experience at the Museo Reina Sophia was an amazing four floors of world changing art, curiously placed in the perspective of the Spanish civil War. In a beautifully restored old building were Miros, Picassos and many other Spanish (and other) artist works in large smooth halls. Ultra modern glass elevator welcomed a visitor at the front of the building as well as a long hard tall organic sculpture. Exhibits and permanent collections alike were thorough and informative. The inside of the building curled around a sunny green park area with some sculptures scattered and the museum shop which sucked.
A tired feeling weights down my lids so i want to sleep hard. am i closing my eyes so the lid can protect the next thing, the layer under. do i unfurl flesh to cover deep dark caverns? nothing true can come from a one way view, no surface to reflect upon. you can like or dislike anything. eyes half open half closed. a continuous sleepwalk. never pierced, never harmed. putting up a guard fight. subtle tones don't show. even when you think its all the way, it hasn't skimmed, light's obscured. a common picture in a common frame.
Tonight is one of those nights that I dont really have a drop of essence to spread across this page. Drank a bit only not to drunkenness just more like a staleness. There is a bitter taste in my mouth. My eyes burn a little around the edges and sleep mocks me from the bed in the other room. I walk around stepping on things and drove my car a little wiggly. Thank god this life is just about repetition because the other stuff makes me even more tired. Waiting for the magic to rise, waiting. forcing. To be extraordinary.
Treat me like a friend, treat me like a fool. I found no love in there instead I looked outside. Liquid cooled my burning soul, some things don't subside. Wonder, awe and memories cloud crystal thought of today. Biting tiny words that sting red abrasion. Flecks of hope. Flecks of sorrow finding new rhythym in old things comfort to keep mind hurrying through laden day. Dark breezy nights. Huge stinking garbage cans of memories rotting inside your brain –causing roses to smell like old fruit and love appears unclean. The time comes here and there to empty the shit already.
I am fucked up. And my boyfriend thinks that I am crazy. I do not disagree. Sometimes I want to explain away everything because I am sure there is a perfectly good explanation for all this. I am also sure they will not help me a lick. The thing that simultaneously cracks me up and sucks is that I have been telling everyone that would hear that 'I cant live like this much longer'. And 'somethings got to give'. Sure my last excursion was a blast, it was not remedy for the ailment I have had for so long, unfortunately.
I think there are no secrets. We can know everything we want to. I am not too quick to believe that people don't recognize that power within themselves. Or maybe until everyone starts realizing together, no one wants to admit the discovery, or maybe its easier to live in a state of denial. It is said that it usually is temporarily anyway. People see things when they want to if they know it or not. It manifests itself in a thousand ways for reasons constantly obstructed by daily odds and ends that wont let you sleep sound at night either.
Having trouble rejoicing in little things. It's more the larger idea of ideals and screaming silence that turn me on. No body functions. that could be one word, nobody. Onebody functions like something. An amount and an object, vague or particular they may be. Because onebody is you or me. Idea gets so deep into your conscious that you automatically begin to not insert a space in between. The area that one occupies in space. and the shape that is formed within or the area that when the atmosphere wants to surround it instead pushes out.
Head fell on the keyboard faster than one hundred words could emerge from my lips. Head on the desk mouth open and a few drops of drool looking to weld my cheek to it. In my head a parade of stories and words ran past. Hundreds and hundreds! of words chasing each other and providing an endless supply. Enjoying these words so much, I moved to the bed to enjoy them in comfort rather than head down on top of folded hands painful to stretch in the end woke up finally realizing the page in front of me was blank.
I want to take so many things and squeeze them until they burst into flames before my eyes. I can dance around them like a ceremonious heathen begging for r rain. Or maybe in thanksgiving to the many gods who have allowed me fire that I can dance around and the warmth with which it provides me. After the barefoot dance blood will spill from my feet and get absorbed by the earth causing fire and blood flowers to spontaneously grow. After they have grown I will pluck them from the earth's surface and squeeze them until they burst into flames.
Twenty-five ships sailed west from the vast golden shore. Laden with camels and dried fruit, colored fabrics, spices, tea. Solid from masts to bellies with benches for over four hundred people to row each vessel forward. Equal numbers of men and women passengered, for the plan of creating a new nation upon arrival was intended. Carefully calculated amounts of rations for the journey as well as necessities for settlement were supplied. The combination of human power and a complicated configuration of sails swiftly guided them on. The wind and the stars navigate their people. And new world is discovered.
She was a large, warm woman. She was wrapped in the elements of the earth. To lean into her, hug her, was like feeling with all your senses pleasure. Her eyes globes with sea and sky blue. Skin brown earth. Teeth and laugh like a clap of thunder and real from the core. Joy in crevices of skin. Wide mouth and pupils mars black and vast. Pin pricks of stars in her hair. Her lips always looked like they were reflecting fire. And a love that made everyone want to hover around her and reflect for a little time too.
Talk to me about days I do not know. Describe to me the color of the sky during that decade. Were buildings dark or light? and people? was there a feeling that everyone shared when peering into eachothers eyes. were they familiar? were there more or less people dying? is there a place that has stored away old sounds from the beginning of the century? not the music, but sound in the streets. Was it louder or more quiet? was anybody making sounds together? did they do that back then? were windows open or closed? did they deliver the paper?
We do not know of real. I suppose we attempt to piece it together from universal details gathered journey to journey. Although visiting and living these vibrant moments are very different ways of entertaining or one could say hosting. To vi the difference of the behaviors of ideas which are temporary and others that you live with daily. In and out of days and weeks. Motions in rest are spent swimming at sea level. Jumping forward and thrusting your mind into space. Where you've never been concentrated. Your essence a timeless span reaching out three times from behind your eyes.
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