Metaphysic Storm

This has been my month, my friends! There won’t be another 1-08 for a century. I started out this month on an insomniac greyhound, spent the middle of it in the pchyc ward and the end on pirates alley. Last night I watched the King of California: now officially my movie. Michael Douglas plays an idiot genius who forces his daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) to search for the long-lost Spanish treasure. Last night I told my love that I was about to kick ass and take names in Hollywood, painting.

“Mis en place” is a French term used in the brigade system of cooking. It means, in it’s place. It is the most important element in line cooking. When a chef has 20 plates to make in the next 10 minutes everything must be in it’s place or he’ll be destined to sink in the weeds.

Kicking ass and taking names was a term my father used. He stopped talking to me recently after I told him I was the messiah. He knows I wasn’t talking about the walking on water type but rather a teacher and writer of clean words. I always found it odd that he used the term “kicking ass and taking names” because the only ass I saw him kick was us-kids. And he already new our names.

One of the last things he told me was that he was done kicking ass and taking names. It looks like it is my turn to start taking names. My kids are only going to get kisses. Maybe soap in the potty mouth though

If one starts looking for signs one is bound to find them. From hurricanes to mud slides it’s easy to attribute Natural disasters as acts from an evil force or warnings from God. Every time I see the letter N on someones shoes the word Naturalist plays in my mind; what is New Balance anyway? Two years ago I almost joined the Army.

I’ve been contemplating joining the Army. I have been in Hollywood working out, going to the recruiter every other day. I smoked pot with my ex a month ago. I have been taking piss tests waiting for it to clear. The test has been showing 99% clear. Then yesterday I took another one and it showed a complete positive result. I haven’t smoked all year except once, over a month ago. It has me perplexed. I don’t believe in a God but it looks like something is trying to tell me to stay out of the Army. Even if it an actual physical element in my body that is trying to sabotage my opportunity. I felt like an ass at the recruiters as it obviously looked like I was a liar. I am not lying.

Then I hiked Mount Runyon. I was almost to the top and picked up a smooth rock and held it in my hand. The first word in my head, “Projectile” I thought about the first weapons man used. I had a debate with myself. “Was it the rock or the stick?” No one will know for sure. Then I started wondering if the first person that used a rock to fight did they through it, drop it or use it in there hand. Then I started to wonder why I can’t stop wondering about things, especially weapons. I guess it’s part of having testosterone.

At the top I was out of wind. I was bummed because I hadn’t run across any reptiles as I love chatting with my friends. There was a small bird perched in some shrubs. It went tweet tweet. Being polite I tweeted back. I love talking to my friends. They usually don’t understand this English thing so I try my best speaking there language. I aaakkkkk at squirrels, meeeoooww at cats, and whistle at birds. Well something very strange happened when I started talking with this bird. It jumped to flight and started flying around my head in 30 yard ellipses. I thought it might be a nest issue but there was no nest or little ones to be seen. This was a tiny bird and had short parrot like wings. It made incredible sharp banks at an alarming speed. I would guess around 40 miles an hour. Then it started making maneuvers around my head. I’m not exaggerating. This bird was dive bombing my skull, literally coming a foot from my face at 40 miles an hour. I could hear the swoosh which was strange from anything that small. Why was it doing this? Continue Reading »

In the dervish tube, laced
Brain scan - inconclusive
Genius can’t be traced

Group prepares for PH>D.
I know who I am: 0ne
Do you know who you Art>:D

I know what is really mine
They’re hiding behind a scratch pad
Some one passed the flatuscents line

Drug time, poison the lung
Four times a day, Pavlov
Saint James has a raw gun

Like a rat caught in cheese
Smelly cheese, tasty cheese
The food is for the drone

There is a bee line for the phone
Daddy, daddy, why don’t you speak
Oh shit, my son is a Greek

One art project I won’t let go
I know that one was low blow

I will be the first to admit I’ve dived into the arena of masochism: Suffering for no other reason than experiencing the pain: Meaningless pointless symbolic suffering: Touching the stove because it’s hot. The pain is a reminder that we are mere animals and that we define ourselves by our senses. We define everything by our senses, even our sense of self. The scar tissue reminds us cutters of a point in time: memory that one can touch.

There is too much senseless suffering in our world: from people starving in Africa to the problem child heights of Beverly Hills, pain seems to permeate. The Buddhist wisdom that attachment leads to suffering is overly simplistic. Being attached to nothing and thus achieving nirvana is about as profound as stating that clean air is good. In fact, attachment to nothing can, in and of itself, be an attachment. I understand this thoroughly as a minimalist. I’m attached to my girl, my bike, my board, my knife and my life. But knowing reality, I know that all of these can be taken at any time. Accepting reality is not enlightenment, it is basic. Observe, Improvise, Adapt, Overcome. Wisdom is knowing that the now is all and we have a responsibility to provide more nows for descendants not yet imagined. Continue Reading »

It’s no secret that my memory for nostalgia isn’t the strongest two, in the by four, in the house. I distinctly remember toys behind one of my neighbors couches and the smell of old age. Va ugly I remember being at a families house across the way and the three girls they produced. Later those girls would become my step sisters. I enjoyed playing with them and I was more than happy to be a fashion victim for their transvestite en devours. Perhaps that’s why my father has a fear of me being gay. The lip stick was not in the right place. I was a child without even the faintest idea of sinfulness, let alone the concept of deviant behavior. Swinging from the weeping willow was just as interesting as wearing the cloths of Barbie.

I remember being in my dad’s cinder block garage and googling over his motor bike. I still have the scare on the back of my hand from touching the piping hot exhaust. I’m sure I was blamed for my crazy careless behavior. I’ve assumed responsibility beyond my years from the very beginning. When I touched the symbol of the Nation State, my patriarch took pride. But these photo enhanced memories don’t even come close to my first mental visual memory. That belongs to the craw Dad. Continue Reading »