Making Sense

Franks rather large potato.

2009-02-04T17:29:00.000-08:00

I'll start setting traps and spearing squirrels and birds with my bare hands before I succumb to all this doom and gloom economy crisis. I know all about it, research it everyday. But doom and gloom is a monstrous beast of a baby born from twisted rumors, speculation, gossip, feeling better or bigger than the one you're handing out advice too.
Get out of my way, I've got life to do.
And someone once tried to put a sick, hopeless thought into my head.
Over and over again.
- no matter how much you try, you never really succeed.
- everyone is out to get you.
- everyone is lying.
- no point in writing because WW III is right around the corner.

If that's the case then how have we come this far? How does anyone hook up and fall in love? How has our civilization evolved, at all? And how has anything been published, ever, while world war is always present?

It's dark and let me tell you why.

2008-11-02T15:55:00.000-08:00

It's because the sun went down in your world. And for one moment the darkness lasted forever to you, and there were many times when you gave up and curled up and the goose bumps tore your skin off. Hiding is not the answer, though.
Bring it in and reel it in like the monster it is, pull, dig in your heels, chew your pipe... fucking reel hard! Pull up! There it is.. teeth and eyes and ears all on you..

It laughs.

All your favorite moments.
Best friends
and fucks
and toys
and all those little moments They told you to keep close,
near
failed you.

The only real way to kill your darkness
is to be darker than the darkness itself.
Stalk it.
Hunt it.
Go where it won't go.
Harden yourself.
Learn to outsmart the bumps in the road.
And when you rise..
Push down your thumbs into its eyes.
And don't forget to laugh.

I have something to tell you

2008-10-26T17:31:00.000-07:00

You're going to die. Even if you try really hard.
You're death is on its way, right now. Its standing in front of you. And behind you and beside you and at places you've been and will go. You're not alone.

Don't tell me anymore that you have no future. Of course you do. You're going to die someday. One day you'll make us all proud and die.
It's all we ever wanted for you. Maybe you can die as a hero. We can even help you with that. We would like that for you.
But, please don't give up now just because you now know you're a goner.
Keep at 'er, buddy. In fact, gather steam and barrel on strong with your accomplishment. Realize at least most of your dreams. Become a great man. A great philanthropist and husband and father.
It'll make it that much better...your end for us.

Bars and then some.

2008-09-28T17:45:00.000-07:00

No, I don't mean pubs or clubs where you feel safe amongst the likes. I'm talking about bars, dark bars with forgottens in the back like those Great War lost.
So, bring out the dead.
The woman behind the bar is tough as nails. Like she's Shotgun Maud and pumps that fucker with one hand and counts the bodies with a finger writing in the air on the other.
Avoid eye contact.
Unless you think you can talk your way out of being boot stomped, scalped, robbed, stabbed six hundred times. Yeah, they're watching you, staring.
Don't return the gesture.
Fight it if you have to. Don't smile. Keep your head down, sure. Or watch one of the TVs, but even then, don't root for anything or anyone. You'd be better off moving to the back with the forgottens? Wrong again. They're the worst. You'll slowly melt. You'll be filled with a false safety net because it's dark and quiet.
They're standing behind you.
Pretend to ignore them but have amazing eyes in the back of your head. They're out for your brains. Pale as ghosts and wearing their work cloths from twenty years past. Terrible wrinkles and white iris'. Tongues out. Pawing at the air. All this while sitting there, lost in the trenches.
Watch for bayonets.
Shotgun Maud appears beside you with your unordered beer. That's the way it goes. The undead here move you to the light, where the VLT's seem to be the only things ignoring you. They all seem to want to talk. Rubbing their hands together. Finishing the drinks.
Be prepared to bolt.
A fight breaks out next to you. It's over drugs and a girl and words that crash landed on the recipient. The fight spills onto your table. Someones getting boot stomped, punched over and over next to you. Maud gets ready. The rest of the bar is a waiting frenzy.
Your eyes will burn.
Three flashes and Maud is drawing a six in the air with that hand. A man in the corner is stuffing cigarette butts in his pockets. The great war ones stir. Out come the bayonettes. Out come the dead.

Let's roll.

2008-09-24T19:19:00.000-07:00

I'll tell you one thing about disgust. It's the look a young mother gave me when a severely drunken native with a fifth of Listerine in his hand bumped the stroller in the aisle of the train. The look also said "you got my back, right?"

Yeah, sure. I'm on it. I'm watching him. He's careful now. He has a sudden flash of disgust on his own. He's disgusted of himself, for a moment.

Everybody's watching him. They want to. It's great because we're all so much better. It'd be really neat if he fell between the space separating the train and the platform. If his head was severed. If out of nowhere a smaller, drunker native came and scooped up the fifth of Listerine as it tumbled, still in the air. He'd catch it like he's just robbed a home run ball. We'd all chuckle even after the severed head. We'd tell stories of it for months, years.

We'll just sit on the train ignoring this mad, drunken native. Some of us want to kill him. And when he leaves we're all relieved. This ignorant wave of disgust and hatred is so hard for us to bare.

And I feel like this barn

2008-09-04T19:25:00.000-07:00

Just standing around like I was built there. Waiting in time because no one has ever waited for time, and survived. Elements, as they may be, gang up; wind with grains from the Sahara and the strongest giant drops of acid rain smashing caressingly against my tired, old, facia. The welcome mat says we come. And they come... and go.
Children picking off the small flecks of paint. The wind shaking. Old, I Am.

I feel like that when I don't care.
Seeing it everyday. The same old advancing swarm.
Always smoking and clawing at everything.
A great mass of dark cloaked men and women hiding
behind our day.
Throwing themselves at us.
I won't budge.
There is certain death there.
There is friction. There is decay.
The latter falls off. The roof blows away.
Small children have large heads
impessionable
beasts.
Yet the wind blows them
coming from lies on the tube
it always reaches
especially the poor.
I stand and watch the best of us and the weakest,
come up and fall down.

Sometimes I feel like a tornado.

2008-09-03T19:24:00.000-07:00

At first calm. Then a little breeze pushes things around making them all seem clear. An electrical storm that lasts and lasts. The biggest of the darkest clouds stuck in its own mad frenzy. Gathering up energy and enveloping everything in the night. Taking even the dark of the midnight sky. Blowing a constant gust exhaust. Growing into a monster that surly will rip morning to pieces.

It's my sandwich meat that's gone bad prematurely.
It's the lack of proper mayonnaise.
It's the cab fare to work and the thirty mile long train and the meter running and the grinning face in the rear view.
It's this dusty place again.
The false heroes.
The new victims.
It's my phone company with their large paws and
all the automated voices
customer service like only I could dream it.
It's the guy who asks how your mother is coping twenty times a day and drop in next time for a visit.
I hate visits.
I've never hated them more than I do at this moment, as a matter of fact.
It's the small talk, like a dull rusty spoon digging at my intelligence.
It's the guy who pronounces it Hy-tachi and who thinks the cure for those that bitch and moan is whisky.
It's those that never cease to bitch and moan.
It's those riddled with ignorance.
It all just spirals.

chapstick

2008-08-16T23:28:00.000-07:00

Completely hooked on these chapstick products... lip balm in/on a stick.
In the morning I have these certain things that absolutely must be on my person before I set out.
Chapstick.
Wallet.
Phone
and keys.
But it's the chapstick that drives me the most. I have them strategically placed. Emergency reserves hidden at work and in the back pack. I cannot live without it for my lips will dry up and die.
Without the product they begin to chap, and stick no longer. They grow small valleys and peel and turn red as I ceaselessly lick at them. I feel as if I must find the balm anywhere. It's most important.
But when I do have the stick it's no problem. I can go a few hours without. But I'm a junkie now, for these chapsticks.

don't get the wrong clothes.

2008-08-14T20:49:00.000-07:00

Most especially, don't get the wrong close. The tight kind. Don't get so wrapped up in it like its an idea you love more. Never think about what's next. Do not have visions of perfection, things the way you would love them to be. Little pictures in your mind. Do not entertain them. Do not stop there for too long. Press forward with your goals regardless. Do not dream very deeply in the day time of these things. Go with it as it is. Dreams are just dreams. What you do is the key. Don't change it and if it always feels wrong, never attempt at making better because it is what it is. It will end if it has to.
Never ruin a good thing. Good things will end on their own.
Do not be in such a hurry to make it as in your mind.
You're only counting yourself out from the beginning.

Stop the presses, I need a moment.

2008-08-11T18:45:00.000-07:00

In the middle somewhere. Maybe it's on the sides or in the middle of one side. In the back. Where in the mind should I break thought or not and give a little shit about the Spears kids, all the young Hollywood stars falling, which one of them is fucking whom and who has the best tits under that ugly Oscar dress? Why are you reading that? What makes it so interesting that you spend more time on these articles on these buses and trains than any other article? I think maybe you watch too much TV and your life is not even there anymore. You can only find your original thoughts through fear. Like when something bad happens, something very terrible and life altering like a deep and cold and hot death, or perhaps many hot melting deaths. And even then you're not prepared; had never let your brain feel it's own adventure and love and hate. Just copied them through that tube on that stand. How will you respond to utter defeat? The TV has completely fucked you over. All this time, while you should have been evolving, that box, that case, that flat monitor you loved pure red love for, ended permanently your next move. A very large, stinking, decaying, smoldering heap piled high. Forever to be remembered as those who became animals at the slightest hint of terror and evil in their lives. Because there was zero evidence of free thought or ideas. It was all drilled in via the shows and the news and the dangerously warm patriotic public service announcements.
And we all sit back behind the glow and watch our people embrace their deaths on the television. We watch the war on our couches and loose our Brother or Sister and get angry like the media advised in its way so that we consume and keep watching, even from the heap.
It's just that much easier for you to read about Brajolina than to think about anything remotely deeper. It's easier to go home and watch four hours of feel good popcorn bullshit than understanding that maybe, a ten year old has already shot his thirtieth brother in the head with a gun as long as he is tall. And how many of his friends and for how many generations has this happened? How many Peace Keepers from your land have thrown themselves at their duty and died with no honor from the Government or have come come back to Nothing in its undiluted form?
About the tens of thousands of the raped, the dead, the sick and hungry. Did you even notice that your freedom, your democracy has changed? That you're nothing more than a watcher of television, a consumer, a taxpayer? That it's military out there? I'm not saying that you should be very consistent in dwelling on the atrocities, but holy fuck, man.. we're all losing. We're all failing at being.
Just remember that everything is very unstable at all times and that tomorrow every ounce of comfort in your life might be ripped away. That your place of work might be transformed to making bullets and bombs. Don't be so sure that your country is all that different from the east. Or anything else.
It makes sense that you're reading that article. And that you'll go home and watch it on the teevee. No, it's not all your fault, but you could have tried.
Tomorrow you'll regret never having all those ideas and experiences you simply watched on TV when you look outside that one time and see yourself in the burning heap.

I'm making friends.

2008-08-08T20:05:00.000-07:00

These.
People.
Are always around me.
I start out at six the A.M. and they flock. A different man asking if it's morning. Answering his own question with quiet return. We all stand there waiting for this thing. Looking for it from time to time. Watching, drinking coffee and the whole while just a little insane and the gerbil in our mind finally figures it all out... becoming disgusted with the whole morning ritual. And back again.
Pretty girls and the morning crack junkies. Just distractions. I need to hurry out of this. Here comes a beggar.
The train stops and goes like a machine we fight to get aboard. It's a quiet fight. Some are eyes shut like me some are coffee like me. Some begin to talk.
We slowly converse. We become human again. We like our girlfriends and our dreams of breakfast. We ask questions about books and smell like booze. We reach out.
A little.
It's good.
It's like a constant end.

what is all of this?

2008-08-04T22:14:00.000-07:00

I was just throwing out my garbage. This little simple act escalates into one real difficult time. There's me and my Safeway bag of beer cans and compost like items, two homeless people tearing at dumpster; dove right in there. So I didn't see him in the bin and my bag startled us both as he roared and coughed and boiled in his own stew.
Perhaps you shouldn't be digging around in there.
Yeah well watch what your doing next time.
It's a garbage bin. I was throwing out my garbage. Into the bin. There's even some cans in there for you.
What the fuck is that suppose to mean? Times are tough. You have no idea.
I have plenty idea. That's why I work. So the times aren't as tough.

I walk away toward the entrance to my apartment. There's a guy just stepped out of his car, engaging the alarm. It's dark outside here. He stops when he sees me. Waits for me to continue past. Watches me with his eyes and his mostly destroyed mind.
I'm not interested in your fuckin' car! Get over it.
Do you live here?
Yes, I do. I was throwing out my trash. Would you like to meet the couple who live in the bin? They're truly lovely people. I hear they're looking for a new mode of transportation.

Near the entrance the car obsessed man asks me;
do you live in number seven? (the young, loud crowd)
Four.
Oh. Four.

He goes downstairs. I go upstairs.
I just wanted to take out my trash. Maybe scratch my belly and roll out a nice grunt after a good stretch. Breath deeply the cool night air and see the moon. A moment of Zen. These people are everywhere.

Sixth

2008-07-29T18:52:00.000-07:00

I ran my first track and field event wearing jeans. I came in sixth place. There were seven of us. The boy I beat out, his name was Doug. He had long straight hair and wore rock tees from the seventies. He was also wearing jeans but his were tighter and I beat him. I was just happy not being last. I played long jump and shot put. Tried running and jumping hurdles. I mostly sat in the bleachers not caring about anything. Hating the whole day. I only signed up trying to be normal as they passed around the sheets in class three weeks previous. I signed up for every event. As I sat in the bleachers they called my name for the 1500, 1000, 800, and 600 meter races. I just sat there. Talking to my friends. A grade six dude in jeans and a black t-shirt wondering where all the girls were and when all this would be over.
I could have ran faster than those kids. I certainly threw the shot further but without technique. I enjoyed discus. But what was wrong with me?
I just didn't care about the rituals and I still don't. Going home with no ribbons seemed easier. I would remain the same. There would be no fake admiration. To me it was the same with or without these ribbons. I know now what my public schools prepared me for. A life that I don't ever want.

Lawn manicures and so on.

2008-07-28T20:04:00.000-07:00

I never want to have a well kept lawn. I won't ever be in my front or back lawn making sure on a constant basis that all is perfectly straight and at a uniform height, with no strays. I will not re-create a cabin of my front porch. No fake well in the middle of my Gods image of His kingdom Kentucky blue grass, criss-cross patterned, aerated, fertilized, edged, watered daily and obsessed over piece of useless shit.
I'll have three and four and five foot high wild plants and exotic weeds. Vines that choke to kill. Bohemian red, purple and green flowers sprouting from the dead grass that once was a previous owners mistress. There will be rocks and a little path that no one can find. Birds of many species will live and feed there. It will eventually evolve it's own weather system and rain will fall in there. You'll never catch me watering this beast.

The neighbours are pissed. All around my jungle lawn are these green cross stitched carpets with little men tending to them and their wives watching from behind the shadowed screen door. At the next house she's put out a painting of begonias and sun flowers with a barn wood bird house in the center. A painting on a front lawn, hanging on some old vintage easel. I shudder at the sheer, lost, stupidity of it. All over the block men and missuses tend to their little mad houses of lawn admirership outside in the heat sipping spring waters, having the time of their simple, folded up lives. Making the hedges immpecable rectangles with zero proof of outlaw growth. They're all out there at the same time of day the Jones' and the Smiths and the Buchanan's all toiling away and watching each other they begin to wear yellow and green suits to my eyes, laughing like hyenas, some crouched over with magnifying glasses to spy on any invading plant species or longer blades that escaped the initial third cut. And like I said they're pissed. I can see, smell and taste the sour, sweaty gossip and how the women want me to leave the block and die and how the men would love to burn down my lawn and make some example of me. But knowing they cannot burn such things away, being so full of life.

Let me tell you about the birds and the bees.

2008-07-27T18:22:00.000-07:00

The heat. It was 38 celsius out here working up a thick lather of sweat. I could see the sun spots and arcs of flame burning the clouds, steam and clouds like eyes rolling to the back of a head. A sudden, sick, hot wind blowing, decaying the leaves of trees. Paint peeling off. Hair falling out, I seem immune. A static radiation, a hum, setting cars a wild, sending walking things to self destruct, metal birds falling hard. Eardrums blowing out pods. The streets I'm walking on, there's clouds here, pushed down by fire. There are the dead, like a wasteland movie. The skyscrapers have caught fire. Yesterdays newspaper blows across my shoe, smoking, and saying the oceans are boiling.
I wonder for a moment why I am so calm. The People, the alive, at least, are inside a juggernaut of fear. Killing, looting, suicide, melting. A huge jet engine crashes to a dumpster in my path, sucking, then exploding. All in the sky are flames and shooting balls of metal. I light a smoke.
On my street of trees and houses I bend over watching these creatures. Birds tearing off their own feathers, convulsing and bleeding. The bees turning inside out, stinging themselves and their queen.
Home now I crack open a beer and run the cold water bath. Sure is a hot day out here.

When to quit at the starting line. Part I

2008-07-21T18:14:00.000-07:00

If you never wanted to be there in the first place. Drug through twenty years of shit and abuse to get there. Only to find that, after those twenty horrible, wandering deceit filled years, theres a race. And you'll be racing against stupid assholes, alcohol fueled drones, the likes Bob Barker himself would cringe at.

I remember always seeing beer bottles, wine glasses in the hands of my family, including Uncles and Aunts, all their friends, and their friends. Everyone drank. Everyone wasted everything washing all they could be down the tubes. I remember house parties while my Mother worked nights; molotov cocktails, drugs, more booze. I remember moving around the same small city quite often. About 15-20 times we packed up, by now just my Mother and I, and off we'd go, a few blocks away or across the city. New boyfriends houses, my Mother was just trying to make it easier. But there was always the booze. It would always ruin these comfortable living situations. How many new places and new schools could there be? Alone for a while at a new apartment and another new school where I'd make friends with the bad kids sometimes, and other times it would be the outcasts, the losers that I would befriend, because I was a loser.

With the bad kids I sniffed glue from sandwich baggies. Shoplifted at lunch break. In grade five we would beat the shit out of the grade eights playing football in our field. We'd try and steal their girls. We always hated the grade eights because they were popular. At lunch when we didn't shoplift, we went under the abandoned bridge that was falling into the creek near our field to drink the beers that one of us would steal.

The outcasts and I were nothing like that, although I was always a bad kid. I'd trick one of the losers into believing I was his long lost, slightly older brother. I was kicked out for being bad when he was a baby, and I still sometimes snook out at nights to walk over to his house and look into his window at night when he was sleeping, just to make sure my little brother was still OK, these days. I had one girl believing that we were cousins, until she kissed me one day. And I learned early that it was hard to lie to girls, that they just played along, for fun, to really fuck you up because you kept lying for so long. And of course we played D&D and some kids had lots of lizards and fish and toys that replaced friends. Even their parents had zero social skills. I would hang out with these kids; outcasts because they were ugly or poor, or both. I could fit in because I was poor, didn't care because I knew it was almost time.

My Mother would meet another man. Soon we'd move in to his house. The drinking would start up again. Things would break against the wall. Shouting always filled my ears. Once, I remember a thing that broke, was bones.

We were turned backward

2008-07-17T22:48:00.000-07:00

We walked in the sun. We looked like two up and coming young lads but our eyes were set ablaze. We played fetch with your dog. We made faces at your children. We ate your given cupcakes and pretended to listen to your stories. And off, again.
Walking and laughing, grinning in all the right places. We were talking to cops. We were at every new and important scene.. playing the tambourine and snare.. sipping cans of beer.
Old ladies squeezed our cheeks and every waitress we came across, fell in love. Bad, angry dogs would wag their tails and jump to us.
We laughed out loud the loudest. We shone the brightest.
Gathering rounds and hugs and kisses and love. We helped the homeless. Gave beer and smokes and listened to the problems mountain.
We jaywalked in the sun beating down on us. We ran tabs all over the city with no money. We took photos of everyone with no camera.
And then we had rubber legs and fell away from it all.

The Gandi's and Douchebags.

2008-07-16T23:32:00.000-07:00

It looks like something is stirring up in the "Old Mind." Some kind of New Future. I've got all the old memories I need to continue on. Shitty memories and memories of glory. Moments of gratitude, pure self loathing, and inspiration.
Met some people who have inspired me greatly. Some very acute meetings. People I'll never forget. People who I wish to see again, starting with the first thrift store shopping experience, down to the ones I'm with at this very moment. People who I wish to see always because most people I couldn't care less if I ever see again. And people who I see everyday, all walks and all lost; forms of pods and think-inside-the-boxers.... I never really wanted to see them. Although they too inspire me.
Almost enough inspiration to continue on.

The man with the beautiful eyes. A Bukowski poem.

2008-07-16T00:32:00.000-07:00

Some of us may relate to this. Some of us may still feel this way.

Sleep is not something I'm interested in this eve. so I thought I'd watch this again. Take a look and listen to the man with the beautiful eyes.

Google vs. Jesus

2008-07-15T19:20:00.000-07:00

I noticed that my posts have taken on a dark style and maybe a little of social commentary. That's the way I write, I guess. But today I want to tackle other things.
How much do I love Google? Somewhere between hot, naked girls and diarrhea. So, right in the middle. But Google is great. I can type in a question, anything, and most times there's an answer on that page. I even use it when I become a complete boob and forget how to spell the simplest of words, like 'permanent', which led me to finally learning what the permanent press function on the washer is all about, leading me to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Permanent_press
and then to the periodic table and halfway across the world and back, and one third of the history of the world. I must have had thirty tabs open.
I googled Google and it came up with this many: Results 1 - 10 of about 2,750,000,000 for google. (0.32 seconds) That's pretty.
Then I googled Jesus: Results 1 - 10 of about 258,000,000 for Jesus. (0.16 seconds)
Jesus looses again.
And another thing I learned today was that the word 'googled' was chosen by the American Dialect Society as the most useful word of 2002, and that googled is now in major dictionaries.
It makes sense. It's where we're headed. Where ever that may be.

I wish I was a simpleton

2008-07-10T19:32:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't think about everything as much, anymore. I wouldn't see how sick it is going to the 9 to 5 job everyday, doing these little things all day, and after, doing more simple little things until death. Everything could be a little tune that I whistle on the way to unforeseen doom.

I could drive and slap in the CD marked magic moments and all my simpleton problems would melt away.

I could put on my old high school football uniform, go to the pub, and bust a few bar stools.

I could fool myself all the time. Thinking I'm living my dream. Succeeding with all my stuff and credit, good deeds gossip. Being satisfied, only.

I would just go about my life as if it were perfect. In love with the Idea of it all.
Being blind to everything that really matters. Having no real courage.

But, I'm not a simpleton. Sometimes that's the worst.

Seven

2008-07-09T21:11:00.000-07:00

Even at 7 A.M. the crackies and the junkies and drunkards are all lined up at the same spot. All along a fence in a bad area of town where just below them hundreds of thousands of lower, middle, and upper middle-classer's are riding a train, entering their first or last tunnel to work. Everyday, I see them all there. The crackies wearing hoodies, sitting on BMX bikes. The junkies sitting on the curb chatting behind dead long hair. They all look a darkish yellow, skinny, dangerous... almost like all us classer's left them in the 80's and once in a while see one of them through the warp and... they all move about brainsick. You can't look them in the eye.
I look up at them every morning, 7 A.M. wondering, why are you all there? just before I go into that tunnel. What is it I'm missing?
After work I come back through that tunnel, looking for them. On some days I see police cars, a large taped off area, and a body under a white sheet while the sea gulls circle above.
Everyone has their work.

The twisted side (a nightmare)

2008-07-08T20:24:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the twisted side. Where your feet bleed with every step and your mind bends from being normal. The women are ten feet tall and there's elevator music playing through loud speakers on every corner.
No cars, just malls. Everyone is 25-35 years old. Some freakish, some fish like faces and ohhh the large ones.. but the ones who look average, the ones that make you feel not so terrified, are insane. Love is defeat. This place has no sky but a painted one. Mostly just mall which closes down during a fake rain the freaks lurking back behind doors rolling shut, doing god knows what.
Where you keep seeing your best friends just a little ahead but can never quite reach them.
The Mother's all have rosy red cheeked glass faces and giant fake painted on eyes and the Father's have rubber crew cut's, plastic eye glasses, noses and mustaches. Where there's a lot of big, tall dumb and dangerous looking twins wearing plaid jackets and suspenders.. keeping to themselves. Where there's no stray animals, no birds. Where everyone's eyes eventually turn shiny black and where you finally catch up to your friends and they all line up and decide to stay here on the twisted side.
Only finger foods. Only straight alcohol. Only waking up screaming every morning until the twisted side is there in your dreams forever.

(I used to have that dream back when I was writing poetry about society. Imagine seeing a good friend from behind and running up to her to get her out of the twisted side, and she turns around with now a china doll head in place of her old head. I screamed in my dreaming also waking up this way. I've tried to make sense of these dreams. Maybe it's how I felt of where we live.)

I like the way it sounds.

2008-07-07T09:51:00.000-07:00

All the birds in the morning. My neighbours shouting at one another before saying love you. Doors slamming. Cars honking. The hip hop. The washing machine downstairs. The voice of people I love. Thunder and hard rain. People yelling at me. Laughter. People who hum. And people who whistle. My Father. Jet engines. Turbines. Dogs. Cats. Tractors. The best of noise and the worst of it.
I like it all. What if I couldn't hear. Or even worse, see. Perhaps some of us should take inventory, here. Be thankful of the noises. Embrace it all.

Another Reggie Post

2008-07-04T02:40:00.001-07:00

That's Reggie up there, again. I feed him flakes twice a day. Once in the morning and once in the evening. I said before that he swims around twenty hours a day. Now I'm wondering if he ever sleeps at all. I'll wake up at 3:40 in the morning and there he is swimming around, showing off. He does this always. Swims around up and down and across trying to look good because he knows I like it. He swims madly about trying to get me to notice him. Every eight seconds a new plan.
"I see you, buddy. But I can't feed you more." Goldfish are renowned for eating and eating and surviving. The way he acts on like that, he wants to be fed 40 times per day.
"Dude, really, I see you. You look nice. " I guess I could work something out. Look at him. Swimming around the pipe, sideways and quickly around the fake plant that he keeps uprooting. Pretending to get stuck behind the filter looking for food. A few more flakes, then, Reggie, but just this once.
What am I suppose to do. Break up your daily food allowance?
The next time I go away and someone else takes care of you I'll say, " he requires two flakes, forty times per day." Let's be realistic, Reg, no one is up for that. Not even me.
At least you're getting exercise. The say swimming is very good for you.

After reading that I realize that perhaps I should go outside and talk to a human being for a while.