Freak of Nature...

Small kine controversy.  Six months ago I found a dummy on the side of the road.  Home made, sturdy, about six feet tall.  He has no hands. PVC skeleton wrapped tight with padding, wrapped tighter with packing tape.  I think he was designed as a sparing partner.  Anyways, I leaned him up against the inside of the hibiscus archway, the portal to the "Office."  He's been scaring people ever since.  The rain got to him.  He started to sag.  I decided to retire him.  I needed two people to throw him in, so I just leaned him up against the roll-off dumpster parked temporarily by the drive.   Comments came flowing back to me.  It looks like he's shouldering the dumpster, keeping it from sliding down the hill.  He startled the people living up the drive, their headlights flashing across a straining figure in the night.  The realstate people found him very funny, which I found funny.  They stopped and commented on it through their window as I was working in the nursury yesterday.  It was the most genuinely congenial exchange I've had with Lucky and Marilyn in the four years that I've been working here.  They said they felt safer with that thing holding up the dumpster, ha ha.  They asked me if I made it.  No, I said.  I hadn't noticed the humor of the positioning until they brought it up.  They hear that I'm an artist.  I think they assumed it was some sort of art thing I was doing.  Later, Richy said that Stuarts wife was disturbed by it.  Richy found it obscured later.  He sat it back up. Stuart stopped today and talked to me through his window as I was working in the nursury.  He said that his wife was disturbed by the dummy and that he moved it.  Then he advised me to never get married.

The peace lillies are starting to droop a bit.  Everything else still looks good.  Not much water pressure in the nursury.  I need to hike up to the waterfall tomorrow to check the intake.

Recieved my backlogged AFTRA checks in the mail today, as I was driving down a pitcher of change to buy a sandwich and coffee.  Good timing.  Those twelve dollar checks add up after a few years. 

Recieved an e-mail from "a fan" yesterday.  Said that I didn't know who they were, but wanted to tell me that my name was on the UTL (unable to locate) list at AFTRA.  They gave me the website to check it out.  They then quoted all my inane lines from the show I was on.   They also made a subtle reference from some *unoffical bio (author unknown) of mine on a website called TVtome.  They also said that they enjoyed my blogs.  "Stalker" was my first thought.  Then I figured it might be a friend yoinking me.  I replied to the e-mail.  No reply back though.  A mystery.   

*Biographical Information

Birth Place: Earth
Cause of death: some say he is immortal...
Biography: Although much of the life of Dark Sevier remains a mystery to this day, he is one of the most celebrated actors of the 1990's. Whenever anyone reaches to grab a roll off the kitchen table, surely a picture of Dark is in their head. Whenever watching a volleyball game, one cannot forget the best net man of all time, nor can they forget his long pony tail when they think of "sly foxes". He was a lady's man, no doubt, and an athlete for the ages.

Jim Trip came across this site with the bio and fed the insinuation that I was dead on a thread.  He was excited for me, and seemingly a little envious.  "How did you get a rumor started that you were dead?"  I didn't do it I said.  I haven't seen any evidence that the rumor is true.  But it might be.  I might have died in a car wreck in Beverly Hills years ago.  It's possible that I was under the influence of some powerful mind altering drug at the time, and didn't realize that I died (I'd hate to kill the rumor and end the enigma for the four people that followed my acting career.)  Another mystery.

One sunny day...

The plants are radiating.  Red green purple.  Little rain in two weeks, but the plants are still riding on the wet June.  Another day or two of the clear skys and the hot sun, and their erect postures will falter a bit.  Now they are thriving in peak form.  It has been a kind summer. 

Went to sleep at 7:00 last night.  Long day pulling weeds, fingers sore, a couple of nics and a burn from the mosquito fire.  Was going to nap, so I left the light on, upstairs and down.  Woke up periodically and wondered what time it was, decided not to check.  Woke up at 3:00.  I knew because that is the quietest time of the day; the birds start at 4:00.  I thought about getting up and writing, then decided to sleep just a little longer.  Then the birds started and I sank into a deep sleep.  I assume this because I don't remember them.  I have a lot of flying dreams.   I wonder how much of that is influenced by this chorus of birds that seem to pull the sun over their mountain with the sincerity of their exhotations.  I must admit that I only wondered about said quantity for the sake of this paragraph. 

I'm King of Egg Sandwiches too.  Undisputed.

I'm delaying work 'til evening.   It'll be work if I go now.  A creative act if I go later. 

I know it's unfashionable to be a king these days.  The image of the grimacing patriarch, the abuse of power associated with monarchy, the idea of one ruling over the many.   I like to think of it as retro. 

As far as I know, no one has claimed the title of King of the World.  There have been kings of nations, a King of Kings, a King of Pop, and a King of Rock and Roll.  LA has a King of Beepers and a King of Matresses.   No King of the World.  The USA has a President that likes to act like King of the World, but he's too chicken shit to claim it.  If he would claim it, then all his actions would be justified, but as it is, he's over stepping the bounds of the role he has claimed. 

So, when the actual construction of the space station commences, I'll entertain debates about wheather or not I'm over stepping (the concept of a *King of Everything is in R&D right now, but it's slow moving.  We're getting all caught up in that sense-of-scale thing).

So, anyway, yep, I'm King.  But I'm not like the Old Kings, I'm an honest King.  I'm not the King for my sake, I do it for you.   I am but the figurehead for the will of the Humans, see. 

See, I'm lazy too.  I don't want to go to work, really.  I like to do things, with people, that are beneficial for the community of humans and the world community, but I don't want to work if it means some repetitive action that yields no conscious relevance to myself and/or the world. 
I don't want to go to work, I'd rather go to a meaningful endeavor and perform work.   There is a difference (unless your into Zen). 
  
  
  
  *[Officially I have no designs on a higher office, I have my work on Earth to occupy my full attention].

 

 

 

 

For those of you that didn't know...
 
Stating that I am King of the Blogs threw some people for a loop, and I apologize.  People wondered; "How can Dark be King of the Blogs, and King of the World?"
 
Well, it's simple really.  I just am. 
 
It was revealed to me, that I am King of the World, a few months ago.  I haven't made a big deal about it.  I still work as a tree farmer, act like an idiot when I talk to pretty women , and neglect to renew the tags on my truck.  Not much has changed, really.  I have yet to announce my World Soverignty to the ostensible world leaders.  I've been buisy with other stuff.  I have yet to assemble my staff and pr team (I am taking aplications:  post submissions on the comment section below).  I decided to not do the big branding campaign.  I figure, the fact that I rule will get around eventually.  I'm easing my way in.  People freak out if you just start running around changing things wily nily.   Plus, there is the challenge of not having any money.    But who needs money when your ruling a world?  I have complete faith in the integrity of my self induced psychoses.  I just have to get ot of my own way, really.
 
This King of the Blogs thing is just a hoby. 
 
Shawzy just came by and left.  Wanted an I Ching reading.   She recieved hexagram 30, Fire under Fire (I conducted four readings in the past two days on four different people.  Each recieved 30 in their reading editors note). 
 
Wanted to look up a word in the Big Red Dictionary:  Empathy.  She didn't find it in her dictionary.  I didn't find it in the BRD.  I looked it up in my newest dictionary, and it was there.  Is empathy a new word?  If not a new concept, then it has, at least, been obscure in our vocabulary (a generic, generalized, presumptive our). 
 
Photographed each other.  Sat in silence.  Listened to Thelonius Monk.  Smoked;  it curbed the tension from not having a cigarette for the past eight hours.  She asked me if I were free.  I said yes, to a degree.  Arbitrary and fantastic.  We talk of empathy and we talk of understanding.  We talk of dread, and of murder.  The space station was touched upon.  Over tea.   Her: chamomile.  Me: black and green.
 
(:={+}=:) {:={+}=:) (:={+}=:) * (:={+}=:) * (:={+}=:) (:={+}=:) (:={+}=:) 
 

Vicissitude...
 
Haven't been writing.  Been stewing.  Soaking in my own juices.  Close to drowning now. 
 
I don't know if any of that is true.  I just start writing, a premise presents itself, and I start chasing it, like a greyhound after a mechanical bunny.   I put things in words and they seem, somehow, true.  I've known the pros and cons of this for sometime, but I forget them.  The pressure of defining my life in words asphyxiates some mind function that has to do with learning...
 
Maybe.  Maybe that is all bullshit too.  I'm restless in a wreckless way that feels very familiar.  I don't know if I'm very good at this human being gig. 
 
I've developed skills, talents.  I've exercised powers.  I gave up the knowledge of good and evil, exchanged it for discernment.  I've learned to accept pain as a release from suffering.  I know better than to sacrifice being on the altar of strife.  I've worked out the question of free will to a satisfactory degree.  I do not fear death.  I've found a few functions to serve as a human in this time and place.  I don't care that I'm losing my hair.  I can cause orgasm to happen for women.  I do not serve at the will of people, governments, or organizations that I do not wholeheartedly endorse.  I'm self sustaining, to a large degree.  I feed a very smelly dog.  And other stuff. 
 
And I'm still dissatisfied.  I can carry the visage of balance and still not feel it, be surrounded by love and not know it.  
 
The cult of psychology could spend endless hours diagnosing and labeling me, and still not hit the mark, still not come any closer to an understanding, at least not one that would be helpful.   
 
An assumption.  An illusion.  A concept.  A perspective.  Had them and lost them and found them again.  Know I'm beyond them.  Have a hard time with that experience.   
 
Want to rage like a dragon on fire, filling the sky with flames of  redemption, searing the web of debilitating mind dis-ease, reducing it to a fertile ash that encourages the growth of something more fruitful. 
 
Or maybe I'm just craving a cigarette.  Like a hypocrite, I want to see the perceptions of the people healed of their illusions, but I do not heal my own, for I dread the harshness of the contrast.

Hello.  I am an outsider in the blog culture... 
 
Or is it a cult?  Both I'm sure. 
 
I used to think that I was very interesting, and that everyone on the planet would want to know what was going on in my life if they had the opportunity to find out.  I think I gleaned this notion from friends and neighbors when I lived in Hollywood.  They didn't necesessarily tell me I was all that interesting, or ask what was going on in my life, but they thought that they were very interesting.  I picked it up like a virus.  A narcissistic pandemic. 
 
So, I left the personality glut for a more organic scene.  So that I could dominate it.  I want to be the blog king.  No, I will be the Blog King.  No, scratch all that, I am the Blog King, and as soon as the world recognizes this, the better off we will all be. 
 
See, I have a plan.  It's a conspiracy of sorts.  It's kind of like a multi-level marketing of the soul, meets benevolent solipsism.  Yeah.   I've been working on it for some time now.  I have it worked out in my head.  Most of it is in my head.  It's been leaking a lot lately, my head.  I don't mind.  The stuff needs to get out there.  My life is full of stuff about YOU and the world, and how we can all deal with it equitably.  Hardly any room left for me in my own life.  So I'm going to blog it out, for you, for the animals, for the plants, and most importantly, me. 

Where to start...

Always the question.

I have a new weed whacker. Very excited about this. The farm was in bad need of being tamed. Still is, but I've cut a few trails through at least. I'm going to have a ton of green waste to compost when I'm through. Maybe two.

I'm putting my trip journal on another blog. It'll be an ongoing project. Or not. So much happened today, how do I go back to yesterday?

One of my earliest lessons in the psychedelic realm showed me the folly of trying to get a grip on what happened at the expense of present happening. I was crouched down in an alley way in Boulder Colorado. I had separated myself from the group I was tripping with. This was my first experience of flying solo. Without the group to provide a consensus experience, I slid deep into fear and paranoia. My consciousness had exploded far beyond my body capsule, and now I was acutely aware of the living intelligences around me, the tree, the bug, the raccoon peeking out from the storm drain, the lady walking the dog, the dog, the fog and the moon. I felt the awareness was two way, they were aware of me also. I felt like a crab out of its shell, naked awareness, vulnerable perceptions, exposed. Did they know? Did they know I was tripping? That I was slipping into their world and they into mine? I recognized my relations, with all. And then the fall from this grace. I was doing something illegal, walking down the street gawking at the beauty of everything, wondering how I had missed it before. I was tripping, and obviously so. I could get arrested for disobeying the law. The absurdity of this was missed as I began to fear punishment. My fear was then projected onto everything. The man on the porch could call the police. The lady and the dog: maybe they were the police. I was frightening myself with implications, and spooking the people I passed on the street with my wide eyed terror. They looked at me funny, and my terror increased. My fears were confirmed as random people scrutinized this odd gawker hyper aware, ensnared with his own apprehension. I ducked into an alley way, eminent doom riding me, whipping me into a brisk walk, eyes darting wildly. Some guy stopped what he was doing, he froze with a trash bag in his fist to look at this vision of mania walking overly nonchalant. I'd been seen, it was only a matter of time before the cops came and threw me in the rubber room, like they'd done to my friend the week before. Granted he was running around in the snow buck naked at 10:00am, but I couldn't take a chance. So I hid. I crouched in a doorway behind some store and covered my face like an ostrich. The trip hopped the rails and now had full rein in my reeling imagination. I began to tremble and shake, terrorized by my asumptions. Then, my emotions began to roll, or spin like a karma wheel. Fear turned primal, and anger exploded into rage and then profound sadness enveloped me before I blissed out, elated, ecstatic. I don't think I had ever been so happy. With my eyes closed tight, the inner world danced like never before. Then I began a slow spiral decent into my memories. Every formitive moment of my life appeared for me to see, all the junctures that made me me were revealed with sublime objectivity. I remembered things I didn't know that I'd forgot. Then the revelation began to rush, and I was seeing my life flash before me, rapidly. I was remembering everything, but the images and sensations were flying by faster than I could grasp them. So, I was remembering then forgetting just as fast. I tried to hang on to key moments, which created a great resistance to the process at hand, and so I began to suffer again. Like gold falling from the heaveans, through my fingers, and into a void below. It was maddening. I resisted the careening of my mind into the primal with all my might, and then there was a perceptual pop. Next I was seeing, what I assumed was, the chemical processes of my brain in this state. The images were abstract, globules and strands, yet they seemed to corelate to the literal images I had poped out of. The same process was happening, just in a different form. I marveled, then, again began to try to isolate specifics at the cost of the vision. It poped again. This time I felt I had landed on a precipice on the edge of life, the border between the known, and the deep black mystery. I frightened me. I was then compelled to open my eyes. I felt that if I didn't I would cease to exist. I was back in the alley. I was mute. I couldn't form words. I somehow made it to a friends house. It was like I floated there, or a breeze carried me to the door. No one was home. I entered and sat on the couch. I tried to write, to do something to bring me back into cognition of the life I had known before. I couldn't draw simple shapes, much less any words, or my own name. I sat back on a couch and watched a pair of bluejeans on a hanger. It was by a window, swinging in the breeze. I was like a baby in a crib, staring at a mobile, fascinated. I didn't understand how it could be moving. Then my friends came in. One guy, Bill Sharpe, a tripper from England, seemed to recognise the place I was in and sat down beside me. He coached me back gently without calling attention to my state. My friends reminded me who I was by interacting with me like they normally did. I began to respond to appropriate ques. Within a half hour I was talking and moving about again. Bill wore a knowing grin through the whole thing, a casual smile that told me everything was ok. I believed him. And so it was.

Refrigerator died while I was gone...

Sick. Cough, throat thing, nose, hacking stuff.

Would like to write the kind of poetry that spreads enthusiasm across continents like a flu virus. Would like to define the times in rhymes sublime so slick that the critics send me fan mail. Would like to be a poet on par with rock stars and drink in bars with super models that are misunderstood and genius ready. Would like to make sex a priority in my life again, in a sustainable fashion without losing the terror.

Shit. I think Alka-Seltzer is some kind of truth serum. Maybe it is the combo of it and the pepperincinis. I don't know.

Saw Microscopic Syllables perform at Indigo's last night. Inspired by this. Want to be a rock star again. To hit the groove that makes us move in unison. Wouldn't that be fun?

I think there is jello in my lungs. When I take a deep breath something jiggles in my lungs, makes me cough, but not enough to hack it up. Afflicted but not suffering.

Taking a bong hit under these respiratory conditions causes very painful coughing jags. FYI.

"What is important right now?" Griz asked that question pointedly the night before he split for Brazil. Periodically, that line jumps out and grand stands in the front of my consciousness. What is important right now?

It is important for me to not cough for some time, so that the mental images, of me killing myself in the throes of a jag, recede.

Ok, so maybe I am suffering a bit.

I resent having to maintain myself.

I like to drink in a manner that can't be done with packaged drinks and coffee house brews. Appreciation of the homemade tea, in all its originality: ginger, passion fruit and honey. Hibiscus flowers and lemon. Green and black for a little jack in the attention. It feels gratifying to taste something that I have mixed, or has been made by another with intention. But my addictions keep me busy with the packages, coffee and nicotine, an then the action of smoking as a gratification in itself. Caffeine as my woobie, my comfort food pacifier. Warm, sweet,and steady, almost everyday.

I wonder what I would feel like if I finally stopped jacking my system with nuero chemicals and stimulants, and depressants, and emotional joy rides.

And the wondering wanes...

Returned to the rock...

I'm back. Three weeks of adventure, travel, and more. So much more. I will be posting nightly for a while till I throw down a respectable telling of the journey to the mainland. I'm curious to see what it was all about.

Stay tuned...

Honesty and objectivity...

Ok. Where do I start? The entry I did last night, the one below this one, was seriously truncated by technical difficulties. I'm making an effort here to embrace the people and land that I was born into. Effort. I would like to connect, really.


Had a nice talk with mom today. Yes, she has a bumper sticker on her cadillac that says "WE LUV YA DUBYA!", and she says that Kerry is evil, and Reagan her favorite Presedent. Fashion. A style of mental attire. I can look beyond it. She's a good woman, loving, wants for her famaily what most everybody wants: health, happyness, success. Our ideas of what those things mean, and what it takes to manifest them, are disparate.

My dad is running for State Rep. Wears the name "conservative" like a freshman pledge wears his greek letters. I went to see him speak at a monthly meeting of the Great Lakes chapter of ABATE (Assosiation of Bikers Aimed Toward Education).

I went with him and sister Kim, We walked across an alley way, through the bay of a muffler shop. In the back door of Joey's cycle shop. Bikers. Drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, socializing around lifts with hogs in various states of repair. My dad is wearing a light blue shortsleeve taylored oxford, dark slacks and shiny shoes (unbuttoned at the collar, casual). Most of the members were flying their colors. It was a whole thing, minuites from the last meeting were read off, upcoming funraisers and charity work, announcements, etc. A council of five sat on stools in the retail section of the shop behind a long bar that separates the members and the guests seated in folding chairs in the repair shop. In the room was a Sherrif, a soon to be elected Court Clerk, The Democratic opponent to my dads bid for office, a bank employee, a cattle rancher, A web designer. At least one convicted fellon, etc. Before the meeting, I went through the front door, through the Highway 69 Diner, and out front, smoking a rollie in a lot full of Harley Davidsons, looking at the neon lit Indian Smoke Shop, a drive through tobacco store across the Highway. I think, "I should write this down." So I do.

I have to give my dad credit. A conservative Republican doesn't get up in front of a room full of democrat bikers to give a stump speach unless he has grande cajones.

I cant say that hanging out with my family is a relaxing time, nor a time of deep connection. But it is damned interesting, no doubt. (to be continued...)

I am a creator...

I'm "creating" another post for this blog, for you. Create a more appropriate word than write.

I'm back in the flatlands, with the flatlanders.

To:blogger@trakken.com

Help me. Was writing. Then got some internal error scenario. Need to write. I'm on the road and I need to write. Especially now that I have arrived at my folks house. Help me, please.

The error occured @ 12:20am ish. Central Standard. Oklahoma. I'm in Oklahoma. I was in Honolulu, but now I'm in Oh-klahoma, and I don't want to have to transgripe from a notebook later. I have the fans of my blog to consider here (both of them).

Please help...
Dark Sevier @
www.undeadwords.blogspot.com<

Damn it. Just created a nice cliffs notes on my journey from Honolulu to here, then some internal error at Blogger zapped it. ...Supposedly.

I'll have to hit it again tomorrow.

Computer was Zapped...

So, is it a common notion that Microsoft and Norton are paying hackers to screw with the machines so that their programmers have job security, and the national economy gets periodic tech spikes? Or am I paranoid? Or both?

Sister uploads a Microsoft update and moments latter my machine has the sasser virus. What the hell do I have Norton for? Protection racket in its most recent incarnation? I wasn't through ranting about the auto insurance companies in cahoots with the state legislators using those well meaning cops as their enforcers.

While I'm banging this drum, let's take it a step farther back...

I was born on this planet here, and I've been told since as far back as I can remember that I have to pay some damned land lord to get in out of the rain, which means spending most my month engaged in activities of some labor or another just to keep out of jail. or off the street. Which is looking better and better, only because I live in non threatening weather.

I know at least a dozen people living commando. They are not "street people" as the stereotype goes. They live in the forests in tents, or caves, working two or three days a week to cover necessities. The rest of the time they are playing music, or listening to the wind, or visiting with friends. Living, in other words, not just surviving.

How long are the humans going to put up with this land based power scam? Some old nobody once said, "people acting 'sanely' has brought the world to this sorry state of affairs. Acting 'insane' may now be our only salvation."

When I was working in La La Land, I actually had a hope for The Media to enable people to wake up to the Con. But instead of Electronic Acid, we have Techno Heroin. We put up with this new and improved age old scam because we're addicted to the abuse. "Please tell me how far off the mark I am from the clothes and the tan that will make me a man..."

I went to Hollywood because I wanted to have my finest attributes exploited into fame and fortune so that I could maximize the primal urge to spread my superior seed into as many groupies as possible. A flashy ride, a bitchin' pad, good bad food, and a world view that confirmed my most narcissistic fantasy. I went to LA to be a jester and ended up a fool.

The basic urge to dominate the gene pool was fun-house-mirrored into submission at the feet of the most degenerate of the race.

But I know my place. As did the gate keepers, unconsciously.

If the vital minds of the time were allowed to find their place in the race of brand name recognition, the game would be over and the party would begin. And the life outside illusion would be a hard to take contusion for the overblown egos of the status quo.

The real work of living, of giving, of sharing ourselves with each other honestly has been eclipsed by this profanity.

Aint it fun? I like it. But I don't love it. And I was meant to love and be loved. Damn this glove of trendy interaction that insulates us from each other. We're all spies, undercover, undermining each other with our self definitions as "upper middle class" and "Catholics" doing mass and "left and right wing" fans rooting for their victory over the others. Who will be the heart that beats back this mental virus of separation? Who will be the nerves that send a signal to the muscles that we're not getting off the ground until we get our head together?

"They" are not guilty of reducing this amazing species to material servitude. We are. All of us. All of us that buy it, consume it, and shit it out into the mouths of the next generation, again.

So, I'm venting. Turning this plastic rubbish of inequity into poetry so that I can get a grip on it. This is the shit, the fertile compost that fosters the growth of something far more desirable in this garden we live in. Nothing gets wasted here.

Have no dread about what may be if you can see that it is you. Say the end is near and fear will be the harvest that you reap. Sleep in fitful nighmares that you are "their" victim, or burn the midnight oil creating a viable option. Or don't. It's a free world.

Full Moon this eve...

Wa'ahila ridge. Liberated space, kind of. Been going to most of the full moon gatherings there since they started, well over a year ago. Been dealing with the Honolulu police almost every time they showed up. I must say that the police here, that I've encountered, are far more tolerant than any others that I've encountered elsewhere. In LA we would have been hog tied with zip strips and dragged out face down.

The people at the gathering more peaceful that most disobedient civilians. There always seems to be some one who wants to vent at the cops: "C'mon man" that kind of thing. Generally, we liberate the ridge for the full moon until the Law enforcement come to do their duty on us. They don't bust anyone, we don't give them a hard time. Game over. 'Til next month.

We might be able to keep this up indefinitely if the police would learn to enjoy the opportunity to get paid to take a moonlight stroll through the towering ironwood pines. Their shoes aren't made for that kind of thing though. So, they're usually irked at having to respond to the monthly "noise" complaint. Manoa Valley hears the drums and whoops.

The cops admittedly don't want to do the paperwork involved in a bust. Good for us. The enforcers of the law draw the short straw, and still remain, relatively, cool. As we clean up the party favors: hammocks, kava bowls, and wine bottles, we small talk the cops as we put out the coles from the fire. We don't resist, they don't have to insist. I see a bottle of wine being poured onto the coles and leap to grab it. It was a bottle of Ravenswood. I hold onto it and step on the bed with my slippers instead.

On Joels request, I escort Aunt B out of the park. Her Djimbe drum under one of my arms, she holding onto my other, each of us with a bottle of wine in our hands, stubbing our toes on the trail out. The wind moaned in the tops of the trees howling at the moon in their own way.

Before the gathering I facilitated another edition of The Mean Time at Studio 1. I've been lax in promoting the event, so the turnout was small. The special guests slated for the event, pro-Palestinian Christians, didn't show.

I told John that I was ready to give it up, being that the joint loses money on it every month. He and Jack agreed that it was worth keeping on. This is amazing to me. A space that can hold five hundred people hosting a dozen or so to show and break it down for each other. Purposeful impersonal conflict. Love it. A place to challenge and be challenged by others ,where no one walks away with their feelings hurt. Phenomenal.

Could not make this stuff up if I tried.

Yawning. Stoned. Jonesing for a smoke...

I smoked cigarettes today. I decided I would let myself smoke the rest of my pouch and then quit. So I did, mostly. Ran out of papers. Little snipes of cigarettes ring the ceramic ashtray, like the butts of sticks left around the perimeter of the fire, after it has died.

Shawzy just called me to go to awa with her. I have never refused a request from Shawzy, how could anyone? I smoked a fat bowl with Louie in a parking lot after leaving Magoos with a double shot of Jack in my blood. I told her I wanted to go, but would probably vomit if I drank awa right now.

I was supposed to go to sisters and check out her new pad, but the smoke stirred the mix in my head and chuncks began to surface from the mental mire, surfacing, stewed. Tender. Easy to digest.

Like a crocodile I leap from just beneath the surface and snatch a moment from the day, drag it down into the depths and throw a log over it. It will sit and tenderize while I bask in the sun. I'll come back for that later.

But I had the drive home so, I forgot it all. Happens. Still tenderizing maybe. I don't remember what log I put it under...

Oh, wait, here's something...

Kissing. It happens a lot here, in the world I live in. Hugs and kisses are regular here. If I leave my house I'll probably hug and/or kiss someone before I make it back. Lucky to get a stiff handshake where I came from.

Different kinds of kisses come to mind. The how-are-you peck on the cheek, the I know you well enough to not purse my lips so much so you feel the tenderness of my lips kiss. The Surprise right on the lips kiss. Levels of intimacy socially acceptable in the circles I find myself. Same with hugs. Arms superficially embracing: pat pat hug. The longer, excuse to touch the opposite sex hug. The our hearts are beating as one full chest press.

My personal space parameters have mutated since I've been here. If I moved back to the mainland I'd have to get married, or, at least lock down another long term share the same dwelling kind of scenarios. I would perish without the regular contact with other humans (or mentally herniate for spending too much time with one in particular). It was always sexual before. Our cultural polarization makes human contact illicit, or certified (with a license and all). Crazy. It's crazy.

I'm not as free and open as those around me here. I have mutated a bit, but still insulated more than need be. Lack of mindful presence. Each hug and kiss, as many as there are here, could be a full experience, if I were to allow that to be so.

Obvious oral fixation...

Writing on the flip side...

It's 6:13am. It stopped raining. The tin roof records the afterthoughts of the nights rain in drops jarred loose from the flora fawning over the shack.

Went for a hike yesterday. Was going to hike up to Kaau crater with sister, but the mud from a weekend of intermittent showers added an additional challenge that made the hike something other than leisurely. We took the low trail and cut down to Wiaomao stream, slip and sliding down. Rock hopped down the stream, collecting iliili stones (roundie roundie rocks).

Walked down Waiamao road to 10th, then back up La'i. Home again home again. Sister left to eat and recover, I made dinner from whatever I could put together: refried beans, onions, potatoes and cheese.

Fell asleep at sunset. Left the lights on so I would get up when I woke up. Woke up at 1am. Went back to sleep. Woke up at 4am. Went back. Woke up at 6am, pulled myself out from under the mosquito veil, stumbled around the place. Fed the cats after barking at them for not getting out of my way fast enough. Reheated dinner, ate it for breakfast. Looked for a cigarette. Half smoked rollies, jungle damp. Nicotine the reason for being sluggish and grouchy. The place is a mess. Ready to end the relapse.

With the web as my witness, I vow to drop the nasty habit again. Planning to be extra irritated for a week or so, coughing up the toxins, displacing the habit, looking for another...

Weather permitting, I'm loading a 40ft container with trees to be shipped to Big Island today and tomorrow.

Another Mean Time at Studio 1 Wednesday. Special guest this month: Friends of Sabiel. I think this is a group of Palestinian Christians. We'll see.

Mean Time on Wednesday, Clean up my life Thursday and Friday, hop a plane on Monday. That's the plan: Trip to LA, Arizona, Oklahoma, Kansas, back to LA, then home again.

Raining again.

Going to the bank to open an account for the new business name: Monkey Works Hawai'i.

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...