I keep buying more shit like its going to save me, like its going to make everything better. I have ticked off countless lists with little penciled in check marks.
And yet, truly, I want nothing more than a complete simplification of my life. I want a wooden room with a small bed in the corner, a simple desk....But right there: "want." What is that? Why is there always a want? What inside my head forces me to keep wanting anything. Why is there no satisfaction?
I would like a mountain, with a cabin, with a... but why not? Why not strive for something that I feel can make me happy? Maybe there is a connection to simple things, a beautiful stream filled with fish. Dark night full of stars. Maybe I don't need to live by factories, and power lines.
Or maybe I should just keep on. Trying to form more lines, connect more dots.
I need to read more. I want my brain bigger, but I don't know how. My focus is so all over the place. I am trying to get really into running. In the past I tried to get into music.
Music has taken one stop back, again and again. I know its there. I know it can return.
Listen:
I want to run next to lake, and thankfully here I can do that. That is something I have, that is a goal accomplished. I also want to see a mountain out of my window, or at the least on my drive. That is something I am working for.
Another goal of mine is to be within biking distance from work....Goals friends.
I wish I could type something on here that was readable.
I think i falling.

carbon rich

oh, all is lost tonight. All is gone. Minutes and hours of searching this website for pictures, only to be brought, thought after thought, from one site to another. OFten time on these quests for more information you find yourself going down one lost corridor to another. Each though represented by a vast collection of books. A library collection, with each stack, or bookshelf of books signifying just one aspect of that pre mentioned train of thought. Say the 900s for example. Lets say that that number specifies a thought on last night's dream? So therefore, of every book inside the, "900s" deal with dreams, but is also indexed according to as many subject headings can be placed on it. So, for example, last night's dream:

Placed sideways on a large iron pillar, my legs are shackled and held firm by a large chain fastened between two iron rings. My arms are tired down by a plastic sheet, and my head is free to move up and down. I am able to immediately begin to free myself from these restraints with unknown power. I feel strong, extremely strong. Yet, with this new sense of power, and it is extreme power, I also fill fear. The sky is black with extremely fast winds, there is lighting my its long, thick lighting. A giant sheet of blue...prolonged in the sky for periods of time that seem to grow larger with each flash. Larger...bigger. I am able to run with great speed due to my new powers, I am leaping over hills, mountains. Yet the speed at which the sky moves around itself, at some point churning up great dark green and black hurricanes, each in an ocean each in outer space.

So you can see with this dream there can be a number of subject headings: Dreams about powers, dreams about storms, dreams about fear, dream about hurricanes, etc...

Only to wake up within the dream. The test is real, the indexing and classifying of dreams within large shelves of cards and numbers, each representing a dream, and eaThat itself wrapped inside of mountains.


Ok...Off to bed. Good night.

August St. Vincent awoke to his blinds slowly parting, allowing golden sunlight to pour into his small efficiency.
August, time to wake up.
"Yea yea. Close blinds."
The blinds reversed their motion and began their journey back across the window. August kicked the sheet off his skinny legs and reached for the floor. The cool stones felt good against his feet. Reaching for his cigarettes, August waited until the blinds were completely shut and his room was dark before lighting up.
"Lights, red."
August stood up and made his way to the bathroom. A small framed photograph of Fidel Castro shaking hands with Ernest Hemmingway hung on his wall next to the doorway to his bathroom. The grin on Fidel's face gave way his love for "Papa." August had read that while in the Sierra Mastra mountains, the young revolutionary had read "For Whom the Bell Tolls," for inspiration.
Music slowly began to build in August's room, slow drones that had no beginning or end. The red lights would slowly turn pink, and then become duller; maroon. August stood in the bathroom for a while with the door shut. His face inches from the mirror.

"Remind me again of what it means to be dizzy."
"Well.....First of all," and like that the weather changed. The still air was suddenly whipped up into kinetic motion. The wind turned cold and the gray clouds that were but faint cirrus suddenly covered the entire sky in dense black.

The frustration from the image that is underneath this post stems from the fact that when I took the picture i could tell it was going to be perfect. It was an angle maybe, the way Lauren held her head, the lighting, etc... It just seemed perfect when the little fake shutter on the little fake camera closed. We waited between paintings, as a man we hardly knew told us that under no circumstances could we take photographs (of the really horrible paintings of dogs and cats in day glo yellow that hung from the walls like sad faces left adrift in any of a countless number of outlet malls through out the country. Exhibit A, Belz Factory Outlet Mall: Between the dim lights lighting the dark tiled walkway, there are kiosks, mostly empty peddling the likes of cell phone cases, house shoes shaped like enormous cartoon sneakers, and lizards made of foam attached to a stick (the idea being that you are walking a giant green lizard). The actual stores are far more depressing. Dress shoes made of cheap leather, hard as lead; to try one of these on is to know what Loman felt every day that he crept ever so slowly, step by bitter step, out of his great American sedan and into the streets of pennies and project freedom.
But I digress. Perhaps purposefully, but i realize now that sitting here at the front desk, with people walking around madly, and those asking important questions, that I don't have the isolation and time needed to work and re work all of that thought together.
Maybe I should instead try to write when I have a quiet moment AWAY from everything. How nice to sit near open water and just write.
That is a goal. A major goal is to be within biking distance to work.
To live by mountains,
and to breed beautiful healthy children.

They are trying it out one more time. Too old to care, they finally got good enough jobs to afford good instruments, though never put in the time to play them. Johnny got a good job working at the post office, he was making money before any of them. He had a nice guitar, nice amp, a girlfriend, two kids, and a full time job. Steve, went to school, grad school, and finally got a job putting computers together making more money than he would have had he stayed in his given field. He was dating a freelance photographer who lived with her parents and ate only vegetables and tea.
Chris played piano at his grandmother's house. She would ask him to to play Bach chorals and anything in the old Cokesbury hymnal. She had outlined which pieces were Bach, which were traditional, etc. She could play most of them, he could play them all with some work.

A great red spot of a dream awoke Johnny from the deeper parts of sleep. The parts where your not working, tending to your yard, or fixing your car. The part where a black blanket folds over folds into your deep inner consciousness, allowing final rest from the day. But this red spot brought him right back into full lucid dreams. Dreams of a future city, with cars that burn invisible fuels, and criss cross back and forth through the day glow red sky. Standing on a platform over looking a city, miles and miles in the sky. He was some kind of mayor, or senator of this future world. Dressed in ropes and a hat much like that of the pope. In his right hand was a green scepter. He brought it down hard onto the head of someone sitting next to him. Not sitting, kneeling.
Blood ran thick unto the platform, covering his robe, making it heavy. He tried to run, but his robes were dragging him down. He got down on his knees, dragging his knuckles hopelessly across the ground, trying in vain to move away from the fallen. Cars whirled ahead making their believable "lululu," noises that you have heard from thousands of movies about the future. John believed this was real. He also knew it was a dream. Wanted it to be a dream. I can do this, i can make it out of here, he thought. Better than growing old, better than shoveling letters into slots, paying bills, raising a family. This is better than driving to Disney world every other year. I would rather do this than play guitar for my wine bottle, growing old, listening to the records of my youth, and fitting, still, with work, into my old shirts. The ones I should throw away. The shirts that not longer hold the same meaning as the photographs that display them. Shirts held by strings, shopped in vintage stores, placed on mantles, sold like paintings. Sold like paintings that no one wants.

He woke to the birds singing outside his window. It was time to get up. but it was Sunday, and he could read his paper, drink his coffee, and play his guitar.

at least from home
in the spirits you roam
from childhood at 9
wooden inside.

Printed on the desk Pablo's brother used to more often than not jam U2 casettes out of his jambox. A christmas present. Originally gray, his brother had used an old army knife to scratch off the gray paint, making it look a worn, cool. There was a cast iron lamp next to the desk. His brother would put in another tape. "This is called Judas Priest," and hand the tape to Pablo. Pablo would hold the casette and open its plastic case, revealing the inside cover. Shiny pictures of funny looking brightly colored animals. A bird sailing through the air, talons out. Looking around at the magic on the walls and in the ceiling. The same ceiling where years or days earlier, the card, HIS card had mysteriously appeared.
Slowly dragging backwards, Pablo's hills dragging the carpet, his white socks bunching up in rows around his ankles. The first dream of flying. Jumping further and further, over a house, or a river. The size of the jump exactly connected the the amount put into it, the floating, the falling, un falling. These important aspects of life. The same as a bike ride, the same as a trip on a canoe, the same as day dreaming about 8mm film running silent footage of a 1970s mother cradling her newborn child.

wooden walls.

The nub above his middle joint itching like crazy. It is all he can do to keep from living that moment when as a child he got it caught in the big machine his father and grand father used to turn hay into perfect rectangular cubes. He always wondered how the nub was actually larger than his finger. Good thing he didn't keep a ring on there before hand. It would be stuck forever, as his hand grew, the ring would slowly be enveloped by his finger. He imagined the tender feeling of red skin around a splinter, this is how his finger would feel around the ring.
He slept under his bed for a full year. It was an old bed frame, high off the ground. His mattress wasn't much more than a flat pillow stuffed with cotton anyway, metal ribs, cutting straight into his back.
He would drape sheets down from the top, creating a perfect cave to dream in. Black waterfalls engulfed his senses. He was swimming, he was flying. In the winter cold air blew in from the electric socket. Six tiny holes of air, constantly blowing on him. It turned his dreams into painted windmills.

*****
***********
**** &&** %#

I climbed the latter a few steps to make sure that it was sturdy. Not that I knew anything about latters or how well one should be secured before climbing. He was already busy tying a weight to the end of a rock, which we would throw up over the limb so that we could thread a larger rope up there. The idea being that when he cut the limb, I would pull on the rope and keep it from collapsing onto the neighbor's fence.
I sat my beer down, "I got this."

I threw a perfect strike up between the limps over the one we needed down. After hoisting up the rope, my dad, the knot expert, but some kind of knot on there and we had a makeshift support rope in place.

"Now I am going to climb up there and cut the limb, you keep pressure on it so it will come off this away," he said, pointing towards our yard.
"Got it."

I remember as a kid, walking our dog through the highschool football kid, around the soccer fields and playgrounds. Always fall in my memory, steam rising from our breath, him insisting I wear a hat. We would often let our dog get a little away from us, and then hide; maybe in a dip in the earth, or behind a bleacher. Lucy would be so damn excitd running around smelling the smells of highschool trashcans that she would be lost in her own thoughts. She assumed we were there. She would lok back, and we were gone. An athletic dog, she would start jumping around to get a better look at her environment. The best was when she would be 50 yards or so away before she noticed we were missing. Because once she did spot us, the speed that she reached in getting to us was amazing.

sports

I want to try to start writing about sports. It will probably be a lot of failures, but I have to try. and i need to start somewhere. I plan on doing some research tomorrow about good sports writers. I know of a couple, but do not have extensive knowledge. There is an author of a Michael Jordan biography that I highly recommend, and may read again. To be researched more tomorrow.

4-1-2010

I can only count so high and so far back. Lately I have been sleepy in the morning, its probably something fatal. I feel rather fatal sometimes. Maybe its something I am doing to myself. Maybe my mind is not working right, there are certainly kinks. I suppose that is normal.
Things are missing.

In a dream I had the other night I was walking across a lake of ice. It was crystal clear and I could see deep into the ice. Inside the ice, about 15 feet down or so was what looked like the floor plan of a house. Where I looked down I could see a refrigerator, and a little bar with a few plates and drinks lined up or left out. In the sink was a pile of dirty pots and a colander; perhaps used for pasta. As I continued to walk I was over a living room, with a couch, an old Easy Boy recliner. I saw reflections of my youth, curled up in the tan colored recliner; in a ball. With a wool blanket over me. The ends of the blanket were I had braided the little pieces of wool rope that hung out the side for decoration. If I squatted in the right angle I could just make out what I was watching on television. As I glanced back down at myself, I had greatly aged, or I was not there at all anymore. The blanket and fallen off to reveal decrepit gray legs.
"Its not you." I looked up to notice a giant hawk standing on the frozen lake staring at me.