Listning to KCRW on line...

I developed my voice on the glowing box, as I listened to KCRW's down tempo trance grooves. I have been writing in notebooks for the past six years, since I left LA. Now I return to the glowing box, listining to KCRW's witchy tunes again.

And I trip.

Talked to Jim Trip on the phone today. No talk in years. For no reason. Catch up session. Reconnection.

He gave me Barker-sans Number. No talk in years. For some reason. A season a friendship goes through.

I feel a tangible conduit between now and then. Reverberation. Feel as though I am a conjuration of the consternation of a life I was living then, and still am... A dream born of a fevered nightmare.

And the thought that I might be dead came back again. Or the ghost of a past life insinuated itself into the percieving apparatus.

Whatever the case, I got the sudden feeling that if I went back to LA, it might reclaim me as one of it's own, like heroin, or women, or cigarettes. I hesitate to think about spending any more than 24 hrs in LA. I might snap and deliver a pitch for a talkshow that is all about me: where I write, film, and perform the whole show, interviewing aspects of myself. Daily.

I might get roped into charging obscene ammounts of money to do private consultations for Hollywood insiders to train them in my new anti-marketing marketing system. How much is success worth to you?

Crazy.

Got ten free minuites on a live webcam sight tonight. You can chat with beautiful women on camera. Live.

darkguerilla, you are chatting with LuvToTease:
darkguerilla: Hello?
manmeatforu: Can you spread you cheeks?
LuvToTease: Hi Dark!
LuvToTease: Sure hon...
darkguerilla: What is going on here? Is this for real?
manmeatforu: It's for real! Squeeze your breasts togeather sweetie!
darkguerilla: Are you ok?
darkguerilla: Are you being held against your will?
manmeatforu: You are too hot! I'm going to have to jerk off to you!
darkguerilla: Do you need someone to bust you out?
darkguerilla: If you need help, pick your nose and blink twice...

The girl on camera did a double take then laughed. Then the frame froze. I don't know if the delight I saw was hope for being rescued or what. My time was up.

I think she was in LA somewhere...

It's late and I want to sleep...

I'm not complaining, at all. Just saying that I'm exhausted and still yet I look into the glowing machine. I am dreaming...

Been drinking. Nice night. Talk story in Manoa. So much to say, about it, about life , about why I'm here typing when my eyes are screaming to close.

Driving home, after Jason drops me at the truck on Waialie, I thought many great thoughts about the state of humanity, about pop cicles, about sustainability, about the soft lips of a woman and the power that breasts have over me. And I think I could write many interesting things regarding this.

Then I think that I could get some sleep. Then I felt that I would disrespect the beauty of the day if I didn't say something about it, for my sake if no other.

So I took some ibuprofin as a preventative measure to insure that I didn't feel the effects of the beer and the wine. Thought about writing about that in a superficial way.

Fact is I know better than to over esteme myself and my thoughts.


He he he....
Aloha

And the war rages on....

Well, I can only speak for myself, and my war.

war (wôr)
n.

A state of open, armed, often prolonged conflict carried on between nations, states, or parties.
The period of such conflict.
The techniques and procedures of war; military science.

A condition of active antagonism or contention: a war of words; a price war.
A concerted effort or campaign to combat or put an end to something considered injurious: the war against acid rain.

Yes, I am at war.

Had to stop after that last line, too lightheaded to sit and focus. Took a walk into the nursury.

After four and a half years, I finally learned to be comfortable in slippers. No sneaking up on pua'a tonight, I think as I flip flop through the darkness.

I've been living on the farm for a year and a half, working the trees here for four. Been alienated from the land since I took on the business. Miss employing my time in the service of the dirt and plants and rocks and aesthetic therof. A veil of weeds have blurred the lines. A fractious mind makes hasty actions. The care has not been there.

My focus had decidedly been on what's not getting done. This narrow vision managed to eclipse what has been done, what I'm doing, can do.

So I walk under the stars tonight, a partial moon looking on through intermittant clouds glowing orange from the city lights below. Sit at the fork in the dirt road and pet Kolohe, look at palmtree silouettes above the bananas. I move to the edge and start pulling weeds. Been doing it long enough to tell the difference in the night, can go by how they feel. Makes me feel better, seeing the plants unmolested. Nothing personal about the weeds, they make fine compost, and I need as much of that as
I can get.

The double bong hit didn't sit well on all the cigarettes I smoked today. Breathing shallow. I lie down on the road and look up, breathe. I think of all the people that won't do this. Don't breathe, don't look up, don't connect with the ground. Psychedellics cured me of the disconnect affliction. Many intense nature trips pulled me to my knees, and lower, as I connected to this planet, felt earth on my face. Atonement. At-one-ment. Felt good to be at rest with nothing between.

Mosquitos pulled me to my feet again, and I walked to the hammock between the ravaneas. I look up at the palm leaves above and breathe, wonder what has kept me from being out here more often, with more excitement over the possibilities of the raw materials around me(mosquitos remind me of one excuse). I want to work under the moon.

Back at the house I pick an orange from the tree, peel it with my dirty fingertips, cleaning them on the inside of the skin.

I look at the line about my war. Call a cease fire.

I have to reach level four...

I am dreaming, though I have slipped from lucidity. Fluid in my scheeming, yet shy of being conscious, consistently.

I awake from sleep restlessly. I think of the dream and I am working. Figuring it out, you know. I delay the day job because I must finish the work of the dream. So, I rob myself of the joy of either.

Cleaned a little kitchen, consolidated some office, vacuumed a room for living. Made a pink stirfry with rice.

Walked in the canopy today, stepping limb to limb. Climb up one tree, come down another. High way.

Excavated in the bananas, digging out ti's from the weeds. Picked up cat food from the post office.

A dream.

My life a 3D canvas. My surroundings a studio, a set. A style of possession, mode of madness. More depth. Another layer. God is in the details, so it has been said.

After the fact...


Haven't written in several days.

Friday night I had a moment of clarity. I had been talking on the phone to Carson, smoking a roach, smoking a butt, drinking whisky, talking incessantly. Listening to the song of her linguistics. Long distance intercourse.

So, I get off the phone finally, ready myself to write, but I'm light headed. Woah. I gotta lay down. Slow down. Climb under the net and close my eyes. Sighs. Breathing exercise that I learned from the Reichian.

Hypocracy. I write and rant and talk about our unity, how separation is a myth. As I act as though I'm separate. I compromise my heart with cancer sticks and learn new tricks of rationale that allows me to roll another.

I'm undercover. See,I'm just acting like any other one of them, to learn the zen of being acceptable. Eventually I'll be myself unabashedly, politeness sacrificed to honesty. Though I'd like to do it gracefully. Repeatedly. But then, where would be the comedy? Can't take it too seriously...

I think about death often. I consider suicide regularly. It comforts me. I like to think of death as an option, but it's more like wise councel. I give death a ring, and tell it what I'm thinking, how it seems to me, and it laughs. Like a good parent it sooths me while simultaneously trying to foster my indepen-dance of it.

The concept: I could be beyond death. Part of me says: when are we going to give it a rest? Another part says: when you stop seeing it as anything other. And I wonder at the beauty of it, the beauty of the exchange.

The very strange arrange a free range to lay over the constraints of the very formal. Hop aboard the metaphor. Act as though it's normal.

I must be crazy...

I have a very eclectic diet. Or, I eat food when it's necessary, otherwise, I don't have the time for that kind of thing. I eat because I must, more than I want. Same thing with sleep. I avoid ending the day though I know it's coming. Like death. I'm not going 'til it takes me. Stage hog in the play of the day. I always leave me wanting more.

When I'm with a woman, I want to eat, and I want to eat well, and I want to do it with her. I like to share the dining experience. Home alone I spend reading or writing, or tinkering with something, or smoking , or drinking, or avoiding the things I think I should be doing. If and when I have food in the house, and I'm home alone, I pick the things that I can eat while doing something else.

Went to sleep at 3:30am this morning. Woke at seven from an intriguingly anxious dream about something. Half dozed 'til 8:45am when the phone rang. Prettyboy pulled up right after. Walked down from the loft and sent two pidgeons flying about the living room. Steve, who had been snoozing on my bed, sped about the room snagging feathers. I yelled at him to stop. Pretty boy grabbed a towel and nabbed both at once, threw them out the door.

Cotton mouth for breakfast, dry eyes, side of anxiousness about sleeping through the crecendo of the morning bird song production. I woke up later than six.

Sister called. I told her I'd call her back when I got it togeather. Sunny weather.

Roll a smoke and play a game on the computer. Tell pretty boy to take the day off. Come back tomorrow.

Clean the rental. Drive to the freeway and call sisiter. Have her meet me at the rental shop, off Nimitz, by the airport.

Her car dies in the parking lot. Call AAA. They come, jump, wave goodbye. We hit the freeway. Back to Palolo, to fetch my little truck to go and pick up Betty, the big truck. Sisters car dies on freeway. Call AAA. They tow to Palolo. Call Shawzy to come get us from the auto shop. She was in bed, exhausted by a long quest for lotus root in Chinatown.

Grab invoices, hit the freeway to Waipahu. Pick up Betty. sister and I trip to the North Shore. Pick up plumarias that Ant and Andy cut the day before. Ate mexican in Haleiwa. Drove to check out the birthing stones, being that we were too late to make the tree drop today. On to Waipahu so I could grab my truck and set off to pick up Zoe. Back at the farm, pick up Karrie, take her to pick up her car( it was the alternator). Zoe wants to stay with auntie. Return to the farm alone, and don't eat. Danny comes by. We rap for many hours. It's 3:06am now.

Much more than that happened today. I must sleep. Have to get up early today...

Barefoot on the freeway shoulder...

Yesterday I took Roberts flatbed dumptruck for a run. Was going to make a delivery, then take it to a mechanic to have him check out the fuel system. Had a notion, from the way it was running that the fuel filter was clogged. If that was all it was, then I was going to pick it up, buy the truck, and go big. My own dump truck.

On the way to Makakilo the roughness increased and the truck died. Used my brand new AAA card and waited. Tow truck driver arrived, assessed, said I had to unload the seventy plumaria cuttings before he could tow. Called Karrie. Tow driver drove me to the airport, sister met me, brought Alan and Cee.

Unloded and loaded. Waiting for the tow truck to show up again. I lie down on the shoulder of the freeway, between the two flatbeds, staring at the clouds passing, smoking a cigarette. Cee freestyles, riffs on the moment, Alan beatboxes. I can't hear much of it though they are close enough to kick. The roar of the traffic, just a few feet from my head, dominates.

Another tow driver. He says he can't take me to my mechanic in Palolo, my truck too big. He gets me off the freeway though. Drops the beast at a gas station in Ewa.

Back in the rental, more trees, smoke out with Cee. Grab pizza then home.

Phone rings in the morning. Fuel filter clogged, damaged the fuel pump, jacked the relay, screwed the injectors. $1,340.00. An estimate.

Jason shows at my place at 7:30am. Odd. Says he has been surfing with some army dude, getting up at 5:00am for the past few days. I'm amazed. Usually it's nine or ten and then the coffee smoke and chow before he plows into the day.

I've been considering getting up earlier myself. I'm usually up by eight or nine, but up and on the phone, responding to the dictates of the nursury, groggy and blind. Maybe if I get up earlier I can write or eat or make some coffee in peace before my dreams detatch and release themselves to the pressures of the day.

I ask him how he does it. Looking for some encouragement. He says it's more easy every day.

I am free to succeed or fail the business of my life, clearly. I answer to no one, sink or swim for my own fun.

Talking with Robert and Nash yesterday about the way the couch of the kind invariably finds a tenent. I'm not talking about the couch surfers, but the campers. Not bitching. I have afforded this to others as this has been done for me. Living for free.

The insanity of working all week just for a place to sleep. One of the happiest times of my life was as a guest of Mr. Green. He was house sitting for the winter, and opened this house to me. No rent. For ten months. I worked steady at things I didn't hate and had money left at the end.

Now I work a lot, have no money, but have no boss. Running a business, paying a crew, taking the hits. No glitz, but don't miss the clarity of slavery to another. Annoyed with being employed by another. Who can best employ me, and let me retain some dignity? Ideally, me. We'll see.

On the way home, got a call from Simone. Asked me if I'd like a glass of wine. Fine. We talk and smoke and laugh at a book of Donald Rumsfelds "poetry," a collection of insane rhetoric and allegorys culled from Defense Department news briefings. He's one of my employees, theoretically. Not exactly a visionary, but he's consistant and as a good attendance record. He gets up at five o'clock in the morning.

It's 1:35am. I won't be getting up at five in the morning. Maybe six...

Found a lighter...

Life without fear. I once wrote that fear was not necessary. I followed that statement with: Fear- a door for that which we don't want to enter into our lives.

Well. There are different kinds of fear. Fear of the unkonown, the unfamiliar, dealt with on a spontaneous basis. Then there's the fear of what we do know, but don't want to face, and so it chases us. Rides us. Lives with us like an energetic parasite.

The first fear serves as a powerful motivator, fight or flight kind. The second acts as a great inhibitor, arresting our ability to respond in time. Outside of time it's fine, I'm sure, but in the rhyme, the rhythm is disturbed.

So, I've been living without much fear for a while. Life seems far less exciting. Fear replaced by dread. Rational scenarios in the head, turns gold to lead.

Running from what I don't want has always lead me to the front of the line for the dreaded scenario. Once the vampire has been invited in, it returns again and again. Until it meets with a bloody end.

Chasing the dream didn't work for me either. Hard to embrace and chase simultaneously. Especially when it's my own tail.

What happens if Ouruburous looses its grip on its tail? Does all fail and fall into discontinuity?

Incongruity. A mental state?

Finding beauty in ones fate, and ruling it to take one to their destiny.

Hell, I could talk shit like this all night long. Maybe I can get a guitar and make a song and sell it to the humans.

Rust on my trust. Tarnished by my frustration of the must. Tripping on the should-could- would.

Life seems to pan out all right, in spite of the trials and tribulation. Or because of them. In relation to them, actually.

Blahg. Weblahg. Between the lines. I have to remind myself that every entry ain't going to be a gem. No pressure. I'm the only one reading this thing anyway. It's available on the WORLD WIDE WEB but no one knows about it. It's just the notion that gets me. Open to scrutiny. For those of us unattuned to the collective, this technolgy comes in handy. A crude tool for what any fool can do with their mind, if they tried.

I act as though what I think I know will show in the scheme of things, whether I articulate it or not. Besides, my best articulation is just a shot in the dark.

Our language has become so devitalized by the privatized that effective communication can be hard to realize.

So, I'm just going to sit here and scream what I see quietly.

4:40am on Friday...

No fire in the house. I don't know where my lighters are. I think I left one in the door of the rental truck that I just turned in. I found a pack of matches. I just put them back in the waistband of my pants to let my bodyheat dehydrate them a bit. Damp in the jungle. Was going to put them by the exhaust port of the computer, but I just turned it on so it's not blowing yet. The shake in the joint is damp too. Constant re-lighting with damp fire sticks. I'm going for a candle...

Water dropping off the bamboo and bananas. Heard the first bird of the day as I lit the candle.

Woke up at eight. Closed my eyes and lolled about for a bit. Lungs hammered by a pack a day smoking relapse. I'm hacking up something that feels like green tapioca pudding. Avoid the day. I'm late. The idea was to get up early, rent a truck, cut and haul plumerias, all day. 9:00am: Pulled myself out of bed with dread. Whole body sore from weed whacking with a blade attatchment, all day, the day before. Cane grass massacre (though I must say the grass was a force to be reckoned with, and I'm sure that eventually it will have its way).

Grab the weed whacker to return it to Hawai'i Rent All. H1 all the way to Vineyard before I realize that I have way over shot the shop. Call sister. Drop off whacker with her to return. Forgot the gas can. Leave sister to deal with it. Off to the truck. Pick up truck. Pick up Allan. To the North Shore.

I miss the H2 and end up back in Waipahu. Take two.

I ask Allan if his parents had a gog concept. He said no. Said his parents were both raised by strong religious families. Got over it, didn't pass it on to him. I asked him if he had a gog concept. Emphatically yes was he. I set him up with the question to shoot him down with an angle. Said I was thinking of a bumper sticker that said: YOUR CONCEPT OF GOG IS A FALSE IDOL. If it can be named it is not the Tao was his reply.

Talking about memes, like genes, and how they are replicated through the body of humanity. Joke memes, music memes, gog memes, catch phrase memes. Memes of myth and law, refined and raw. Some thoughts replicate themselves throughout the species, seemingly of their own volition. A good joke doesn't have to have a marketing campaign.

Getting out from under religion, I feel like I escaped from prison. I have enjoyed the freedom, acklowledged responsibilities for that freedom. Taken it for granted.

I think of all the people lost in the mind fuck of belief. The people who worship the menu, but never taste the food, let alone the wine.

Religions are like the footprints of creation
impressions left on the surface
the foot has come and gone

Momentary flash of the zealot. The idea of challenging the prison guards that hold in the imagination and the realization of it. The idea of making a meem key pass code that we all pass around, palming it to each other. Wink and nodding fight club style, but requiring no organization. Recognition. Of each other. Consciously maintained.

Pick up plumerias from Ant and Andy. 30 pink with yellow, 30 tri-color, 15 pink and white, 5 singapores. Driving through the pineapple fields behind a string of military Humm Vees. A truckload of flowers behind a caravan of guns. I felt hippy like, in an incidental sort of way.

Drop plumerias in Makakilo. Drop Allan back in Pearlridge. Dump the scraps back at the farm, culling a few choice branches for personal propagation.

Talk a little biz with sis. The office part of "The Office" is mosquito proof. The room where I store my livingroom stuff (arranged as I would have it in an actual dwelling) is not mosquito proof. I retreat under the mosquito tent over my bed and read (in the room where I store my bedroom stuff, arranged as it would be if it were in an actual domicile), relax, and blow off accomplishing much more for the day.

Sister leaves to return the gas can before the shop closes. I read from the Handbook for a New Paradigm, swatting occasional intruders.

Waiting for traffic to calm before I return the truck. I nap. Light dream state, not asleep, not awake. I think I was planting a vast plumeria garden. I open my eyes and the clock flashes 1:04. Power off and on again. Loll about 'til the flashing clock reads 8:23. Slog out of bed, get in the truck, Cell phone flashing blue. Phone says 3:00am. Hose out the truck and hit the highway. Back home at 4:40.

Phone just rang. 6:18am. Some guy with a San Diego area code wants to know if I sell plumeria seeds. No I don't I say. Just big cuttings for the local market. I ask him if he wants tips. Yeah sure he says. I get his name and cell phone. I ask if he has a nursery, no he says, a green house.

How did some dude with a green house get my un-published, un-marketed number?

A paranoid conspiracy voice pipes in a connection and I wonder if it is possible for someone to be reading this entry as I type it. Then I think of a very bored undercover agant of some sort, that is stationed in British Columbia (with a San Diego cell) and in the process of scrutinizing the internet for ani-american doings, he notices that I deal in plumerias. Then he thinks of his mother in law, who he loves dearly, and using that special agent hoojie foojie, manifests my number, and makes the call.

Green house, Humph. Small time. I only deal wholesale.

Just tried to publish this post. It says it's posted but it isn't. The third time I tried, it got stuck at 66% and started looping. I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation..

Just tried again. not publishing in a different way. I wonder if it would help to state that everything I write is complete fiction?

A wednesday in May...

A shakey joint, jalapeno cheddar chips, A soda, a shot of Hennesey, and cigatettes. Oral fixation fixated.

How honest can we be? Really. As a writer I pick and choose my honesty. Editing out all I don't want you to see. I can fixate on whatever thought crosses the front of my mind, leaving the back for another time. Unless you read between the lines...

Why would anyone read a blog? Entertainment? Voyerism? Relevance?

I'm writing this for me, for you to see, and for posterity. I'm so tired of seeing the vital modes of human expression and communication muzzled by commercial asperations. I have a notion that something that is vital, and real, and honest, relative to the present time, will find its audience looking for it. The truth shouldn't have to be marketed and debated.

I have hope for the geeks and the underdogs. I have much respect for the improbable longshot. The people cashing in on the sure thing miss the diamonds in the wings of the stage of life. But enough about them...

I really want to be bitter. I so like pointing the finger at them, like their not my kin and neighbors and such. Identified through division, putting off the collision of the us and them into we. Mustering respect for diversity. Educating myself in the university of life, each moment my instructor, if I care to make the grade. World view remade.

Mental flexibility as key to pro cognition.

Gecko Poop on my key board...

I look up but don't see the perp.

Sunday night. Still a little ill from the hangover this morning. Hennesey.

Bon fire on the farm last night. Squirrel, Blake, Chris, Adam, Caroline, Zoe, Karrie. Big fire. Burning all the trees that didn't make it last year, the massive albezia limb that crashed the racks, the invasive fiddle woods. Energy transformed into a good show of heat and light.

Work party yesterday. Charged the hill on level three, pulled the vines, stacked the rocks, piled the trash, planted lauhala. Sweat it out.

Salvia sessions after the flames died to coles.

Smoking a shakey rollie. Wondering what my writing would be like if I hadn't peeked and cheated in my high school typing class. That part where we were supposed to not look at the keys. So, I've been hunting and pecking for fifteen years. I consider what I write before I type; break it down before I put it down. Little time for being glib. Poetic composition the natural result. To say the most with the least ammount of strokes.

Wondering why I'm writing this, why I'm blogging. Some kind of unreasonable urge to get it out, to articulate a perspective, to share my point of view. With you. My gift of hubris to the world.

To be honest, I'm calling myself out here. I'm a liar. I do it well. I learned it young as a survival skill. I rememeber being three years old and getting busted for lying to my father. The worst crime imaginable. I was spanked with a leather strap. Enraged, he was. I was bent over the bed, taking the penalty, when my mom noticed that the blue bedspread was turning red. My nose was bleeding profusely. I wasn't smaked in the face, the blood came on its own, not directly provoked. It stopped my father in his tracks, he paused. The sight soberd him down from his outrage. At any rate, I knew that I had to pick up the game.

Early on I realized that telling the truth, sharing my truth, caused adverse reactions in my folks and others. Conviction and dogma ruled the roost, and the mystery of life was hunted down and split asunder, into aspects of good and evil. The good was like an oil slick on the waters of the unknown, affecting the depths, but not connecting. But being a kid, I knew better than that. To express myself truly was to slap my parents in the face with the sting of the god-honest truth. The wailing and gnashing of teeth was to be avoided at all costs, so I learned to evade the truth without telling a lie.

Now those mad skills are mostly used on me. Decieving myself for convienience. It's a gig.

I've no intention of pulling off a Cretin paradox by starting off an introduction with a confesion of being a liar. Just setting the stage for an honest attempt at being genuine, if not completely honest. A loud whispering of a secret world.

I'm going to beat around the bush first though. Necessary to build dramatic tension in order to peak interest in my personal perspective of the Scheme of Things.

This blog serves as a journal/confessional, soap box/bullhorn. A travelogue. An inadvertant threat to the myth of separation. A conscious articulation of something other than.

I can't imaginge anyone going to the movies and wanting to know how the movie ends before the drama has made them care. So, I'll stop there...

Signed out to go crash under the net, but found myself lurking about in the kitchen looking for something to put in my mouth. Tasted the split pea curry I'm simmering for lunch tomorrow. Had some raspberry granola with almond milk. Thought about another cigarette. Then thought about my oral fixation.

Cigaretts, coffee, candy, kissing, pencils, talking, joints, or fingernails. or whatever. Not enough water. Or the right kind of food. Two avenues to depression.

Been feeling it again. First time since I left LA, six years ago, or so. Watching it. Aware of it. Embracing it if that's the case, and thinking about drinking more water. Don't want to be a mental health consumer. Would rather work and write and rest more often.

How much time do I spend not actually working physically, and not actually resting mentally?

Aware of the fact that I could be yanked back into the ineffable from which I came. At any moment. And what am I doing in the meantime?Signed out to go crash under the net, but found myself lurking about in the kitchen looking for something to put in my mouth. Tasted the split pea curry I'm simmering for lunch tomorrow. Had some raspberry granola with almond milk. Thought about another cigarette. Then thought about my oral fixation.

Cigaretts, coffee, candy, kissing, pencils, talking, joints, or fingernails. or whatever. Not enough water. Or the right kind of food. Two avenues to depression.

Been feeling it again. First time since I left LA, six years ago, or so. Watching it. Aware of it. Embracing it if that's the case, and thinking about drinking more water. Don't want to be a mental health consumer. Would rather work and write and rest more often.

How much time do I spend not actually working physically, and not actually resting mentally?

Aware of the fact that I could be yanked back into the ineffable from which I came. At any moment. And what am I doing in the meantime?Signed out to go crash under the net, but found myself lurking about in the kitchen looking for something to put in my mouth. Tasted the split pea curry I'm simmering for lunch tomorrow. Had some raspberry granola with almond milk. Thought about another cigarette. Then thought about my oral fixation.

Cigaretts, coffee, candy, kissing, pencils, talking, joints, or fingernails. or whatever. Not enough water. Or the right kind of food. Two avenues to depression.

Been feeling it again. First time since I left LA, six years ago, or so. Watching it. Aware of it. Embracing it if that's the case, and thinking about drinking more water. Don't want to be a mental health consumer. Would rather work and write and rest more often.

How much time do I spend not actually working physically, and not actually resting mentally?

Aware of the fact that I could be yanked back into the ineffable from which I came. At any moment. And what am I doing in the meantime?

Addendum
Signed out to go crash under the net, but found myself lurking about in the kitchen looking for something to put in my mouth. Tasted the split pea curry I'm simmering for lunch tomorrow. Had some raspberry granola with almond milk. Thought about another cigarette. Then thought about my oral fixation.

Cigarettes, coffee, candy, kissing, pencils, talking, joints, or fingernails. or whatever. Not enough water. Or the right kind of food. Two avenues to depression.

Been feeling it again. First time since I left LA, six years ago, or so. Watching it. Aware of it. Embracing it if that's the case, and thinking about drinking more water. Don't want to be a mental health consumer. Would rather work and write and rest more often.

How much time do I spend not actually working physically, and not actually resting mentally?

Aware of the fact that I could be yanked back into the ineffable from which I came. At any moment. And what am I doing in the meantime?

A Note From "The Office"

In a shack in the back of Palolo Valley, Honolulu, island of O'ahu, Nation/State of Hawai'i, middle of the Pacific Ocean, Earth, etc.

Nose is cold, feet are cold, craving a cigarette, going to roll one.

Done.

Lightheaded from the rollie.

Spent a few hours in a tree this afternoon. Wraping air layers on a Rainbow Shower in the yard of the Holy Nativity Church, Aina Hina. I was the show for the kindergardners waiting for their rides home. Every branch higher elicited a chorus of whoas and wows from gaped mouthed young catholics. I don't think I climbed higher than twelve feet off the ground. A good visual for sure though: 6'9" barefoot monkey man walks with no hands around the interior of a tree.

Slept in 'til 9:00am before the day pulled me out of bed. @Studio 1 last night. Served as segue between the poetry slam and open mic. Stood up and talked shit for half an hour to a room in transition. Read some poetry someone (?) culled from Donald Rumsfelds DOD news briefings.

The band kicked in and I laid out a piece from a couple of years back. Vance on bass, Vic on drums, John on guitar, Jaime on keyboards, Adam on sax. The band jams on and I compile the list for the Open Expression Night thing.

Read Check contents before opening. New dude on sound last night. Obviously deaf. I don't know if he's damaged from doing sound too long, or forgot that he was wearing earplugs, but it was painful. No room for the subtle on the stage.

The drummer tried to kill Squirrel, who was dancing to his beat. Speed freaks.

Andrea was there. Flew out to LA today. Gone away again after just having returned. I heard someone remark, "Andrea makes Janice (Joplin) look like a wimp." It was a compliment.

Ears are still ringing from 24hrs ago. Quiet otherwisese, save the stream trickling outside the "Office." Leftovers from last nights downpour. Water catchment system doing its job, inside. Rusty tin roof not what it used to be.

Work party on the farm tomorrow. Must go to bed soon.

Dogs on this side of the valley are barking.

Note: The time on this blog is two hours later than Hawai'i time.