Let's see. At this time last year I was just about at the end of my time in debauchery, radical debauchery. I had no liege, no care and nothing to lose. And then all of fate shifted the moment I tongue kissed my friends at the end of that dirty little hipster bar. _ _ _ _ took her drugs and left. Well more accurately, made a bunch of phone calls, withheld her pills and dragged it out for another two weeks but that was the moment it was essentially over. E3 had it out too, that was it for him, don't kiss a black man in public. Period. He held on to that shit for six weeks and showed up at the office to end it. Well, more accurately, he dragged it out for another month or two but that moment was it, over. That one hit me just as hard. Hard is a good word for it - we live hard, we play hard, we go down hard, we end each other with such course certainty and drag ourselves like rag dolls over the broken asphalt, usually high on something. Quick. It's over. Whack. And then it is. All in all, what goes down is a matter of pride and certainty. Each wants more than the next. Each wants another jewel, another dollar, another fuck, another heart, another year and will be willing to give up each, one by one, until the totality of it is something like a negative sum. Letting go is good. Necessary. But sad, like toy soldiers, individually sad, empty. Then the lonely time in the empty places is spent on romantic ideology or worse, sentimentality, awful, waiting for a time to return or a new one, more perfect than the last, to begin. Or if the utter pain of it comes to bear and lays one out cold then desperation sets in and efforts are made to salvage the pieces. I'm a salvager. I believe long gone and broken things can be brought to life for the love they failed to realize. On a phone call or a wish wars can be undone, crimes can be erased and we can march forward for all of our hapless wants and actions.
I tried to make it everyday. I made a pledge to do it but once the cancer came to town I faltered and missed here and there but managed to maintain one post per day on average as some days I gave two or more. Plus the pictures. Pictures will often suffice for several days. The right ones, rightly placed. I managed to make it and to make it known where I was and just how far off I choose to go. I started this on the 15 of January and I'll carry it out until then being certain that 365 entries for the year from January 15, 2008 to January 15, 2009 are complete. I'll do it for you. I'll complete this for you and for myself because I can't give up and I won't give up and I don't give up. A salvager.
Then there are two projects on the horizon; Buttercup & Rose, all of the dirt and scars, piss and shit, flora and joy that shoves us toward perfection, and next year's project with the big camera, views of tomorrow from what made me. Stay tuned.
Stay solid in the heat of it tonight. Stay warm and look your neighbor in the eye and hold out your hand and ride, supine to the motor...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
beat
Bang the drum slowly.
Wake up Daniel.
It's Rose.
Wake up.
I'm awake, I've been awake.
What have you been hiding?
Nothing.
True. Then what more do you need?
Depends who's asking.
Silence.
I need a way to safety.
You will not get this.
I need a telephone call then.
Who will you call?
Buttercup.
She will use you.
I want her to.
She will disappoint you.
I want her to.
Then you will get more of this.
I shake my head, looking down between my knees.
Get your friend to the doctor.
Which friend?
Mack.
Mack collapsed a few days back, clear out, for several minutes, paralyzed as in a stroke. Then he came to, scared and looking for help, not mustering up enough strength with the paralysis to get the phone out. Buttercup calls.
Hey babe.
Daniel I'm sick.
It's Rose.
Babe, what should I do?
What hurts?
My stomach, on the right side.
Is this your intestine or your liver? Is it your small intestines hurting?
I don't know. I'm scared.
I shake my head again as in a yes, looking down between my knees.
What do the doctors say?
They say it sounds like gall bladder stones.
(Shit those are painful.) Fuck. Let me look them up.
Are you online?
Just a minute. (Sure enough, symptoms indicate bile.)
I'm not sure how much more of this my body can take.
Yea.
What should I do?
Wait and if the pain is too much go to the emergency room.
Why don't you come live here?
And do what doll? (But I knew I would be better off just leaving, defecting if necessary.) I'll need supplies. But I must come on my own, not for sickness.
This sucks.
Most things do.
And I can hear the voices of my children stammering about. I can hear them calling me from across the open land and hear their responses. I can hear it over the dirty pine and clanging steel of the rail below. I can hear it over the loudmouth fags near the end bar stool chucking darts. I can hear them over the voices of other children nestled in with family. I can hear my children's voices louder than the ringing of my ears and louder than the pulse of body fluid over strained pants and groans of night terrors. I hear something there. And before long I know I'll be asleep and the morning will come and I'll get up, if nothing more than, to find out what comes next.
Wake up Daniel.
It's Rose.
Wake up.
I'm awake, I've been awake.
What have you been hiding?
Nothing.
True. Then what more do you need?
Depends who's asking.
Silence.
I need a way to safety.
You will not get this.
I need a telephone call then.
Who will you call?
Buttercup.
She will use you.
I want her to.
She will disappoint you.
I want her to.
Then you will get more of this.
I shake my head, looking down between my knees.
Get your friend to the doctor.
Which friend?
Mack.
Mack collapsed a few days back, clear out, for several minutes, paralyzed as in a stroke. Then he came to, scared and looking for help, not mustering up enough strength with the paralysis to get the phone out. Buttercup calls.
Hey babe.
Daniel I'm sick.
It's Rose.
Babe, what should I do?
What hurts?
My stomach, on the right side.
Is this your intestine or your liver? Is it your small intestines hurting?
I don't know. I'm scared.
I shake my head again as in a yes, looking down between my knees.
What do the doctors say?
They say it sounds like gall bladder stones.
(Shit those are painful.) Fuck. Let me look them up.
Are you online?
Just a minute. (Sure enough, symptoms indicate bile.)
I'm not sure how much more of this my body can take.
Yea.
What should I do?
Wait and if the pain is too much go to the emergency room.
Why don't you come live here?
And do what doll? (But I knew I would be better off just leaving, defecting if necessary.) I'll need supplies. But I must come on my own, not for sickness.
This sucks.
Most things do.
And I can hear the voices of my children stammering about. I can hear them calling me from across the open land and hear their responses. I can hear it over the dirty pine and clanging steel of the rail below. I can hear it over the loudmouth fags near the end bar stool chucking darts. I can hear them over the voices of other children nestled in with family. I can hear my children's voices louder than the ringing of my ears and louder than the pulse of body fluid over strained pants and groans of night terrors. I hear something there. And before long I know I'll be asleep and the morning will come and I'll get up, if nothing more than, to find out what comes next.
Monday, December 29, 2008
crossing borders
I watched the border guard flip through my notes, reading and straining to read the details.
Why are you traveling in someone else's car?
I borrow it to see my girlfriend.
Where'd you meet her?
The girlfriend or the owner of this car.
The girlfriend.
Where I work, at the museum.
Why does she let you use her car?
(Have you seen the car dipshit? It's an '89 rust covered shitbox. I bought it but she registered it because it is cheaper. I don't want a car really but my girlfriend got cancer so I made it happen.)
Because I need it to see my girlfriend. I cross about every other week in this car. Is there a way I can avoid this? Is there a way I can avoid this type of treatment?
Cross in your own car.
Right.
Fuck it, I read where the guard read. The guard is a woman.
"One heel underneath her ass comes the tomb. One heel and we are sunk. An Indian (the Eastern Bunch) and a cyst, the growing kind, the ones that have a dabble, we're here, we're born. Baby I DO LOVE YOU but do you see me, can you see me? Do you have the purpose and the pardon. All of your superficial interests are gone and done. You are done. As sure as cancer has told you, you are done and we are afloat. We are the memory of you. You are the memory of we. I hate Romantics more than sentimentalists. We are cooked together in the witches stew. WE are entropimentalists." -- "Tell Z, move thru - bend the branches"
Why are you traveling in someone else's car?
I borrow it to see my girlfriend.
Where'd you meet her?
The girlfriend or the owner of this car.
The girlfriend.
Where I work, at the museum.
Why does she let you use her car?
(Have you seen the car dipshit? It's an '89 rust covered shitbox. I bought it but she registered it because it is cheaper. I don't want a car really but my girlfriend got cancer so I made it happen.)
Because I need it to see my girlfriend. I cross about every other week in this car. Is there a way I can avoid this? Is there a way I can avoid this type of treatment?
Cross in your own car.
Right.
Fuck it, I read where the guard read. The guard is a woman.
"One heel underneath her ass comes the tomb. One heel and we are sunk. An Indian (the Eastern Bunch) and a cyst, the growing kind, the ones that have a dabble, we're here, we're born. Baby I DO LOVE YOU but do you see me, can you see me? Do you have the purpose and the pardon. All of your superficial interests are gone and done. You are done. As sure as cancer has told you, you are done and we are afloat. We are the memory of you. You are the memory of we. I hate Romantics more than sentimentalists. We are cooked together in the witches stew. WE are entropimentalists." -- "Tell Z, move thru - bend the branches"
Sunday, December 28, 2008
of myths and madmen
Dear reader the time is coming where I am going to say goodbye to you again. The year is nearly over and you have been privy to most of it. I can share some and to my
extent will say that it is a precarious road, a thin line, a vaulted mirror. I see it and then I don't. You see more, that's the thing. How could I know any of it? A year. But I've got something to lose now. I always did but now I see it. There are those of you who hate it and who hate me. I think of the cowards and madmen, the whores and angels and I know I am blessed. Right now, there is work to do. And I'll do it until the blow comes that lays it low. Rise up you dirty bitches, make merry in the spotted sea and watch for the code. Your neighbor will deliver the news.
extent will say that it is a precarious road, a thin line, a vaulted mirror. I see it and then I don't. You see more, that's the thing. How could I know any of it? A year. But I've got something to lose now. I always did but now I see it. There are those of you who hate it and who hate me. I think of the cowards and madmen, the whores and angels and I know I am blessed. Right now, there is work to do. And I'll do it until the blow comes that lays it low. Rise up you dirty bitches, make merry in the spotted sea and watch for the code. Your neighbor will deliver the news.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
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