The Eruption of Mt. Hood

Where were you when Mt. Hood blew it's top and the earth shook all the walls in Portland Oregon? Were you standing next to a bookcase filled with books and knickknacks, trinkets and things? Did the floor shake first or after the shock of the bookcase toppling on top of you had surprised you? All your settled things becoming unsettled—together leaning forward, tipping on dusty toes, slipping slopping flopping on top of you, taking the bookcase with them.

Smooshed by your things.

All of your things, all at once, came crashing down upon you—the one person that has been piling them on top of each other for all these years.

The cockroaches tickle your nose as they scurry across your face. They have been unleashed from their home within your home. They squeeze in between your things, looking for air. You are pinned to the floor by the weight of a toppled bookcase filled with the trophies of your life. You can't move your head. You're buried and waiting for someone to rescue you. This is your only hope, that someone will come, the sooner the better, and dig you up, free you, and fill your senses with a feeling of resurrection.

Buried alive.
Smooshed by your things and a bookcase.

- - -

I can't bear to leave you like this. The thought of it! I can write about frantically digging. I can hear you moaning! Don't worry, I'm digging! Can you hear me? Are you okay? Did I do this?

No. Mt. Hood is still burning, and the burning is flowing like a tidal wave—roaring like a lion. I can see it glowing. I can feel the heat growing. It's too hot. I try to scream but all I see is steam.


The Little Engine's Tough Decision

I don't have enough self-esteem left to make it up the mountain. The only way I can imagine reaching the top is if I climb into the furnace and burn myself up. Fuel for the fire burning water into steam, powering the engine until I'm exhausted in a puff of smoke. I think I can... I think I can... stop. Clang. Clank. Clunk. Stopped in my tracks. This sucks. It's cold and frozen up here. I'm going to die no matter what. Goodbye people that I have hauled this far. Either I unlock the coupling or burn myself up.


The Writing Montage

From across the room, I can't see what I'm writing. I can only see that I am writing. It's entertaining—like watching a movie about a writer.

The writing montage.

In a few cuts and by the end of a song, I'm done writing. The music fades as I get up from my desk to answer the doorbell. It's my book! My book arrives! I look happy when I hold it for the first time, then sad when I feel the weight of it in my hands. I don't open it right away. Instead, I run to my computer and write something down about the experience of finally getting it before it is forgotten. I only type three words, then I stop and sit still in the quiet, comparing the brand new unopened book to the worn out faded keys of my keyboard. The camera pans over my shoulder to the three words I had just written on the computer screen.

This is is.

The words stay still, hovering in a soft zoom, then a cursor blinks, and the words "by Mark Searcy" appears, letter by letter—typed before your eyes. Automatically the spell-check highlights the last name with a red squiggly line, and the scene cuts to the beginning of a flashback.


How To Make An Excuse Monster

1) On a blank sheet of paper, write down the first excuse that pops into your head when you ask yourself, “Why am I not writing anything?”

2) Crumple the sheet of paper into a ball and throw it into the corner of the room.

3) Grab a fresh sheet of paper and repeat the question-answer-crumple process until you run out of paper.

4) Pick out a crumpled excuse at random and flatten it back out.

5) Read the excuse back to yourself.

6) Flip the sheet of paper over and draw a pair of snake eyes.

7) Lay the eyes-side up on the top of the crumpled excuse pile, and voila, you have your very own excuse monster glaring at you from the corner of the room.


Cowboy, Next-to-me, Pineapple

People, Place, Thing: Cowboy, Next-to-me, Pineapple

Seriously? A cowboy sitting next to me? Fine. I'll go with it. I'm guessing that he's probably reading this while I am typing it. Yep. He just told me that he can read it. Then he told me to say boobs. I said it. He laughed. Then he laughed again when he read it. Boobs!

He fell out of his chair! He's rolling around on the floor! Ouch! That was my leg! Watch where you're hootin' and a hollerin' with those boots buddy! They got spurs on 'em!

He's starting to settle down. A dusty bandanna is laying next to my computer mouse. It's orange, with white patterned pineapples printed on one side. He covers it with his hand when I write about seeing it.

“Hey man! Quit looking at my bandanna!”
“Hey! Stop writing what I am saying like that!”
“I mean it!”
“Do I really sound like that?”



Sgt. Slaughter Sighting

I just saw Sgt Slaughter at Baskin Robbins! He was looking at the rainbow sherbet when I walked in. I stopped at the door, shocked by awe. He asked the cashier if he could taste the rainbow sherbet, then he tasted it! I watched Sgt. Slaughter put a little pink spoon full of rainbow sherbet in his mouth, close his eyes, and slowly slide just the spoon out through his lips. Then he moaned! Sgt Slaughter kept his eyes closed and moaned!

The cashier handed him a chocolate malt and asked if he would like anything else. Sgt. Slaughter said no. He took out his wallet and paid with cash. While waiting for his change, he took the tiny pink sherbet spoon and slipped it into his wallet. The cashier asked him if he would like a receipt, and Sgt. Slaughter said no and walked away. The cashier leaned over the counter and whispered, “That's Sgt. Slaughter!” I mouthed back, "I know!"


Curtain Free

There is a side door to my house. If I open it from the inside out, I can grab the outside like a curtain, and part it. On the other side of the curtain, there is a large white room filled with comfortable furniture, and the floor is covered in fur. On the opposite side of the room from the curtain is a large floor-to-ceiling window. The sun is always shining through it, basking the whole room in a perfect warmth.

I have only been able to take a few steps into it, since I always keep a hand holding on to the curtain. I don't want to drop it and lose my place. On the other side of the curtain is what looks like another door. I want to find out if this curtain door leads back into my house again, but I don't want to find out if it doesn't.

It's hard though, on days like today, when it's so cold and rainy and gray outside, to suppress the urge to push it all aside, kick off my clothes, and roll around on the warm white fur floor, curtain free.


Blood-gas Leaches

Gobbly goobly gobbity gook. Shake your flappy face cheeks and sprinkle-spray the slobbery spit-strings out from behind your clenched teeth. Now cut two of your fingers off with two other fingers from your other hand. To know which fingers are your scissors, just hold up two fingers and bring them together then pull them apart—move them like they were a real pair of scissors and see which ones do it naturally. This is your other hand—the cutting hand.

Chop chop.
Snip snip.

There is invisible blood everywhere—squirting out of your knuckles. It looks like red gas. It looks like colored smoke, but it's odorless. It's definitely gas, because it used to be liquid blood. It comes out thick, but quickly dissipates before it reaches half-way to the ceiling.

Your fallen fingers look like worms. The nail, the tail—the bone and severed meat, the head. Don't pick them up with your scissor-fingers or you'll cut them to pieces. Use your pinky and your thumb to grab them, then stick the finger-worm's head into the invisible-red blood-gas. Hold it still until the gas stops spewing and the finger sticks. Then, when it feels right, wiggle your worm-fingers around to check for gas leaks.

Now all your fingers look like worm butts. Wiggle them and see. Happy little worm fingers, suckling at your palm.

Blood-gas leaches.


It Smells Like Beer In Here

I was just getting into a groove. I was about to write a piece about grabbing a squirrel by gripping its soft little body with my bare hands, then when it struggles and scratches my finger joints to bites and pieces, I would grab on to its tail and sling it into the air—twirling its body around my head like a lasso, then fling it forward and watch it flail in the air then bounce on the ground and run away.

I was just about to use that image to sit back at the typewriter and lose myself in the tapping typing twirling whirling, then my phone rang. Jason called to tell me that he locked the keys in the car, which was still running—he had just stepped out of the car to drop off some clothes at Goodwill, and the door closed behind him. So instead of writing about flinging a squirrel across the lawn, I hopped on my bike and raced to rescue Jason. Ten minutes later, the car was unlocked and I was on my way back home, thinking about writing again.

When I returned, my typewriter was waiting for me right where I left it, mid-page wound around the roller. I unpacked my bike-things, took a breath, and retraced my thoughts. Nothing worth writing happened. I tried going back outside to sneak a cigarette like I was doing when Jason called, hoping that being back outside would bring back the squirrel. I only had one cigarette left, so I lit it and decided to walk to the corner store and pick up a new pack, and maybe I'd see a squirrel along the way.

The corner store was a mess. A customer had just dropped a forty on the floor in front of the counter. There was beer and glass everywhere you needed to step, and a man was sweeping it all into a dustpan with a broom—liquid and glass. The man at the counter, who presumably dropped the forty, looked frustrated and stormed out. A small lady in front of me started talking nervously to anyone's attention—something about her son who was standing against the ice cream cooler, waiting for his crazy mom to get what she needed. She was the next in line, so she stepped up to the counter and into the beer puddle. She didn't seem to mind the man sweeping at the beer and glass around her feet. She got a phone call as she was turning to leave, and explained over the phone how she was just at the store and had bought a beer because she needed it after a day like today. Stepping back through the puddle to gather her son, I was next in line. I stepped up to ask for cigarettes, while a man behind me exclaimed, "It smells like beer in here."


Have to Want

It's never enough to be satisfied with what you already have when you can want anything and everything imaginable.


Pumpkin Breath

Jack was carving a pumpkin into a Jack-o-lantern. He was sitting on the floor pulling out the pumpkin guts and placing them on a platter... a cookie sheet. Anna was sitting next to him separating the seeds from the gutstrings on the cookie sheet. After he had scraped in the sides and trimmed up the loose flesh, he flipped the pumpkin over his head. The room started laughing as soon as everyone in it got around to seeing what everyone was laughing about. Jack took the laughter as his cue to preform.

Pumpkin Head. Here's how it goes.

Jack stumbled around the room with a pumpkin on his head, and Anna would yell “STOP!” as he got too close to the plants or precariously positioned drinks near the edges of furniture. He bent over slowly and picked up the jack-o-lantern lid, then stood back up and placed it on the top of his pumpkin head. Holding the pumpkin hat by the stem, he tipped it towards the loudest laughter. Muffled inside, it probably sounded like breathing and smelled like pumpkin breath.


Eagle Eyes

Eagle eyes, take me there, to that place that only eagle's eyes can see.
Open wide and blind me with the bigger picture. 

Look! Something is moving farther away than human eyes can see, but with these eagle eyes, I can see it now, clear as the sky above the clouds—sharper than a laser. Something is moving, far away.

Ah Ha! I'm going to get my binoculars and see just how much farther these eagle eyes can see.

It looks like something... no, wait... this is moving differently. This something is moving like a crowd of people who are running for their lives! And they are moving fast too! And... wow! There's something more! Behind them! Something bigger. Much bigger.

That's the thing with eagle eyes, you can easily forget that you are wearing them and everything can feel so much smaller because you are so much farther away.

The Much Bigger thing is a crowd of people—an enormous crowd of people. The smaller thing is a smaller crowd of people who all look scared—scared for their lives. The Much Bigger people all look like they are having the time of their lives chasing after the people who are running for their lives. I'm not quite sure who to root for. My first impulse is to root for the underdog, but they look so scared, and I can see it would be an unsafe bet. But I can't get myself to even want to root for the Much Bigger crowd when they all seem so perfectly happy. I don't want to root for the Much Bigger people! I just can't. Being so happy while making someone else so scared to fear for their life is just not something I can get behind.

Thank you again eagle eyes, for showing me what is coming my way. It always helps to be reminded that what you see with your eagle eyes is both a blessing and a curse. Already I feel the side effects. My face is stuck in that half-cringe you get when you see someone throw something soft and familiar at your face—like a pillow, or a water balloon. My face is stuck like that—waiting for something to make its impact—a soft smack first as the skin breaks, then what's inside crashes onto your face, splashing into your eyeballs, and up your nose.


Positive Thinking - Laughing Gas Memory

I'm telling myself that I need to be more positive, that if I am going to write, that I should write something positive, and steer myself away from all the negative descriptions I have been milling about, over and over, about how negative the description of my life can be. I realize it's a matter of language that forms the way you describe how you feel. I can just as easily pick out positive things to write about instead of the tried and true go-to negative things—all these negative things, like wet in a rain forest.

I'll try now, instead, to look less, rather than look harder. Looking too hard can strain your vision, and cause the world to appear coated in purpled anxiety. A Purple Haze. All around. I don't know if I'm coming up or down. Jimi Hendrix. Now there. See. That's a start. Positive things are still in my brain. They're leaking out like steam. I just have to keep chipping away through the layers of hardened mucus in my brain to make the steam-hole bigger, so these positive things can fill this thought chamber and choke me dead.

A positive thought escapes, and this one's a memory.

About ten years ago, I chipped my front tooth... okay I'm embarrassed to admit, but for the sake of reading something fondly later... I chipped my tooth on the sidewalk when I fell while rollerblading. I played roller hockey then, but even now, I still enjoy rollerblading, casually. It's fun. Oh whatever. I don't have to feel guilty about something I like doing. It's my positive memory anyway.

Ok, so, I chipped a chunk off my front tooth while rollerblading, and I went to the dentist a few days later to get it checked out. They decided that they could mix some epoxy and tooth-color together and build out the missing part of my front tooth... which is quite magical and unnatural, and the realization of how strange and fascinating living in a future where you can color-match fake teeth with dirty, old-colored real teeth must have set the tone for the Nitrous Oxide which was just beginning to be pumped into my nose, which I was told would help me relax and make my mouth feel numb.

I had never had laughing gas before, and when the dentist asked if I was feeling anything yet, I told him no... because really, I didn't feel anything yet. Even when he poked at my gums with his latex fingers, I told him that I could still feel them. He responded by telling me that he was going to turn the gas up a little bit, which he did, and then he turned to ask the assistant how the epoxy and tooth colors were mixing and matching. I laid back in the dentist chair with the rubber laughing gas cup over my nose and stared off into the medium-sized office landscape painting that was hanging on the wall near my feet.

The gas streamed through the metal valvessssssssssssssssss.
Mumbled-rumbled dentist's wordsssssssssssssss.
I felt myself moving. Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssslowly.
Sssssssssomehow floating into the landsssssssssssscape painting, wondering if thissssssssssssss is what dying feelsssssssssssssssss like, because the way I imagined dying was sssssssssssssssssimilar to the way I was unable to talk or move my body, which would explain why everything looked darker but felt more ssssssssssssssssserene, like I'm asssssssssssssssssleep and dreaming about being awake, but with my eyesssssssssssssss still open and lying in a dentist'sssssssssssssssssssss chair. I wonder what the dentist and his asssssssssssssssssistant would do if they accidentally had killed me? I wonder if anyone has ever died in thissssssss dentist'ssssssssss chair like thisssssssssss before?

Mumble. Rumble. Mark.
Mark? Can you hear me?


Whew! Good. You were gone there for a little bit. I think we're ready to start. Open wide.


My broken tooth was patched.
My smile was repaired.
Something positive. There.


The Future Feeling

It feels like nothing is foreign anymore. I can only think that the future will feel even more crowded than it does today, with millions more people trying to fit inside the last little closets of space. If somehow everything goes smoothly, all the people will just stack on top of each other and live in one vast concrete city—with food being genetically grown for lack of ground, faster to meet demand.

It's either that, or something is going to burst and wipe out a huge lot of us in one fell swoop, like a plague or disaster, or war, or a mistake, or something even more sinister. Perhaps aliens would appear much like the pilgrims on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. With them come devastating bacteria and disease and viruses and religions that kill swiftly before anyone can figure out what is happening.


The House Where My Thoughts Live

I sure seem to be doing a lot of pacing around the apartment today. I keep wanting to feel like I am supposed to be doing something else, and that maybe I should stop and try to figure out a direction instead of doing all this pacing that is beginning to make me feel dizzy. I left my typewriter out on the little wooden table in the center of the room for this very reason, so that while I am pacing around the apartment I can feel it looking at me, and be constantly reminded that I can always get back to writing. Writing is just as self-gratifying as anything else I could be doing right now. It's just as fun as a bike ride around the neighborhood, and quite the same, as I have ridden the streets around here enough to be quite familiar with where they will take me. It's the surprise of what might be lurking around the corner that makes it exciting almost every time, guaranteed.

All this pacing and talk of pacing and typing like I am pacing about riding a bike instead of pacing, I'm reminding myself of the sight I saw yesterday while riding my bike across town to meet up with my friends for dinner. There is this one house along the route where there is a circle path in the grass out front. This little circle path in the grass between the sidewalk and the curb was created by a child who walks it in circles—he paces in a loop, barefoot and talking to himself like children often do. He seems happy. He seems normal. But it's the wear in the grass that wants you to think otherwise. He has been pacing this circle in the grass in front of his house before, and before that he paced it some more. It's obvious that he had created this little place on his own, carved out of repetition with his own two feet, over and over, first on top of the cool grass, then later over and over and over until the grass gave way—with little blades stuck between his toes, he hits the ground running around and around until it is polished smoother and softer the longer he goes.

I wonder if this is the house where my thoughts live? I wonder if I have found it after all these years? And after all this time it has been so close that it was easy to miss unless you happen pass by just as the little boy is turning and turning around and around, spinning and pacing, compressing the dirt harder than it was before. I imagine he can't stop himself from turning around and around once he starts going, that he sees his path there at the end of the walkway that leads him there directly from his house, and he has to walk it at least one time more because he has walked it so many times before, and he finds that once he gets started he gets lost in the feeling of starting over and over one more time, and keep it going, one more time—walking in circles, pacing this same-old worn-out path, around and around again, because I can't stop now, I can keep going around one more time, around and around again and again and again again.



Taken on a walk to Laurelhurst Park today while the sun was shining in the few hours before the clouds increased their cloudiness.

- 01 -
An older-than-me man walking up the sidewalk toward me, holding a carpet cleaning machine, walked up to me and asked if I wanted to buy a house. I told him "Sure, I'd love to!" and that was it, nothing else was said, we both kept on walking past each other in silent disbelief. What a strange thing to say. What a strange thing to hear.

Stranger passing stranger.

- 02 -
Today at the park, the dark-green shadows of the Douglas Firs pushed all the people out into the sun. I even saw an artist among them, a genuine painter, standing in front of an easel and everything, including the three old ladies beside him, arms outstretched slowly, then down, and bend the knee up slowly doing old-lady Tai Chi. They point in unison at all the people playing in the sun on the bright-green grass—there is a painter painting over there, and there is a writer writing over here.

- 03 -
I'm walking behind a mom on a cell phone in one hand who is pushing a child's scooter with the other, making a rickety-racket and a blaa blaa blaa. Her large bag of a purse is stuffed full of her mom-things and hangs from her arm on the phone like the child helmet hangs from the rattling handlebars. She's covered all over in mom-and-child things!

Look! There's another! And another! I'm surrounded by the mom-zombies picking their children up from school! Filled with fresh knowledge, they take their children home and squeeze their brains out for dinner. What did you learn today my child? Mmmmmm delicious!

When the final school bell rings,
all the children scream,
It's dinner time!
It's dinner time!
It's dinner time for me!

And when they meet their moms,
then they'll all sing along,
It's dinner time!
It's dinner time!
It's dinner time for me!



Taken with a longer exposure while walking through a close-by neighborhood on a cloudy Portland day.

- 01 -
When designers lose their Lucky Strike, they switch to American Spirit. Additive-free! I believe! Pillows of smoke hit us in the face—coughed out of the advertisement manufactory.

Quitting smoking feels like changing careers and running to the mountains for a breath of fresh air. Away from the billboards and packaging that litters the forest—plastic bottles filled with piss and spit—forever remains by old degradable trails, paved with the butts of cigarettes.

- 02 -
Children walking home from school, brother and little sister, take your time getting home, rent free, for me.

- 03 -
Two ladies who look like sisters walking their golden retriever, don't mind me, I'm just jotting down your picture.

- 04 -
Pretty house hiding in the pretty trees, the one with the wooden canoe hanging in the garage that I can see looking like brand new, pristine. I see you there, empty and alone and gorgeous and huge, waiting for the ones who left you to return from their jobs in their beautiful cars with their beautiful children, and drive right up into you, right next to the brand new wooden canoe—the place where luxury lives.

Get off my lawn you strange man! Go back to where you live! Go now! Move along, and sing your lack-of-luxury song where we don't have to hear it!


Square Knot

Two ends together, holding hoop-hands with their elbows locked, intertwined. Left over right. Then right over left. The first knot a boy scout learns is the one he will never forget. It's the knot that ties all childhood memories together so they won't blow away. It's also the knot that ties two strings together to make one string reach around and hold even more.

No, I was not molested as a boy scout. The closest thing that ever happened to being molested then was when we went on a canoe trip and I was something like thirteen or fourteen, and my two friends who were brothers' father stuck his ice-cold hands down the back of my shirt while we were buying sodas at the corner store next to the river. I jumped away from them—surprised at first by the ice-cold, and then by the dripping-wet, and then by the fact that it was my friends' father's hands.

I only half-knew I was gay at the time, so part of me didn't mind, but I knew full-well that I was thirteen or fourteen and the whole situation was confusing and awkward. We just laughed it off as little more than just a joke, then went canoeing, and all things were forgotten—flushed downstream and washed away. No harm done. All dangers avoided. Returning to shore, I would never be able to look at my friends' parents the same as before.

Eagle Scout, fly away, and go camping in the mountains. Use your skills to prove yourself able to survive with only your knowledge and a pocket knife. Build a fire out of nothing and blow it gently with the words you remember from your childhood. Trustworthy. Loyal. Helpful. Friendly. Courteous. Kind. Obedient. Cheerful. Thrifty. Brave. Clean. Reverent.

Walking And Writing Of Walking

Feeling restless, I keep wanting to pull myself outside since the sun decided to peek out from behind the clouds. I don't know how much longer it will decide to last, but it looks nice. A sight for sore grey eyes.
I see the blue! The blue! The blue is peeking through!

This is how writing can teach you to stop writing and go for a walk.

I went out for a walk and made it as far as the corner of the closest coffee shop around and just up the street. A twelve-ounce americano to-go please. That will be two dollars. Okay and I leave to return the long way back home, two blocks around where the kid asked me if that was my car and I told him no because he was just-uh wonderin' out loud because the car right behind the one that wasn't mine, the one with the plastic bag for a passenger window, was his, and he suspected that the car he had thought was mine had been broken into too. He was just askin'. He didn't have much else to do. His car had the stereo ripped from it, and it's wire guts were hanging out. You could see the horror when the wind blew through and flapped the plastic back.

Money for crack! Gimmie that crack! Crack's in the corners of your mouth's tingling tongue salavation. Cracks in the sidewalks, where the mamma's break their backs, stealing car stereos in a frenzied crack-attack.

I expected that I would have walked longer and further away, but decided that reading in the sun in the courtyard of my apartment complex was still outside enough. I read like I was walking and grew tired of reading after I had read for awhile. I stopped to daydream, and dreamt myself returning back inside and sitting and staring at one nothing dot com after another. Sitting in the dark, wide-eyed, in front of a blue flickering light. A cold fire—pretty to look at, but failing to keep me warm. I'm hunching and slumping together to trap in the last of the heat before it is sucked all out of me. Look at me! I'm a frozen figurine!

A chill of wind wakes me just in time. Even my daydreams can feel cold as leftovers. I think to call a friend to save me from this electronically-induced hypothermia—to keep me warm and entertain my bones—but my phone is dead. Technology is high maintenance, but so goddamned sexy that we shove every inch of it into our bodies as much as we can till we feel like we still can't get enough, and there is still room for more and more and more.

Technology shows the hole inside us grows.

Once again I set off to walk and look for adventure on the same old streets. All over again, alone, and all over again and again. Maybe someone dropped something between yesterday and today that is still waiting there until tomorrow—to be discovered and forgotten all over again, or stepped over, without notice, at all or ever again.


The Last Americano

Take a day for yourself tomorrow. Get out. Do something other than stare at the gigabytes you download inside and into your dark and tiny 'lil room-womb. Get up early and act like you have an interview downtown or somewhere. Take your time and get some coffee for here and just sit there and drink it up. Maybe write a story about how you are down to your bottom dollar, but you were lucky enough that a friend was working at the coffee shop where you were hoping they would be, able to wave their magic decision over your cup and make your Americano appear free-of-charge. Dear friend who I only see on occasion, the Great & Amazing, in the flesh, the one and only. I write a tribute to you and the fine job you do as the person you are, not the thing you do.

Looking down at my bottom dollar stretched out on the table next to the Last Americano—wondering where to go—here, or where to go after there is no more Americano. Let it go. Leave it as a tip. Wait it out. Take another sip. There is still time. The bottom dollar's still yours. Roll it up and use it as a straw. Dip it in. Suck it in. Rake it in. Take it in—to the last drop.

Near the bottom, it tastes like pennies.


How All My Stories End

... now read this all again like I'm dead and gone forever.


Far Away Forest

Leap forward. Over the doubts and buildings and streets in a single bound. Land on the open field and look around. The grass is brown and the roads are dusty. The sky is big and the clouds are puffy. A black bird flies, followed by another. Leaping after them, they twist their feathers and dodge my feat. They flap behind me while the sun warms my face and the wind cools me, soothes me, smooths me. Gravity propels me back to the ground.

I land in a forest, next to a stream. I don't remember feeling the touch of the leaves. I must have missed them, just barely. I look down at a giant green slug slowly moving slower than any eyes can see, but I can see the direction he's headed in the shiny trail of slime leading the way back to the places he has been. Sparkling slime next to a sparkling stream, where the water is rushing, and splashing the rocks, breaking the water into drops, tiny explosions, tiny fireworks, tinier waterworks, shooting sparks carried by the wind, cooled and glowing, barely hitting my face from where I am standing. Stepping closer and over the shiny green slimy, I am surrounded in mistshowered with kisses and cooling hisses. I love it here.

Far away forest.

A La Mode

Clink. Chink. Cling-clang-clack.
Heart attack. Heart attack. That's where we're at.
Make a wish. Blow it out. Slice it up and give it to your friends.
Ask them if they would like a side of ice cream,
a la mode — a la mode.


There Goes Those Memories

Click it if you like it.
Double-click it if you like it more.

Here's what the internet is doing to your body. You write a little something on it and tell yourself that there are millions of people that are waiting there online to read it. You tell yourself until you are convinced that there are millions of people reading your little something words that will like them so much that they will pay you with so many compliments you become rich and famous.

It's an unhealthy habitan addiction that feels like you could never be the same without it. Your life is better and faster because of it when you can still remember a life without it. The internet has us all convinced and connected to the idea that we can keep up with everyone just by talking about ourselves.

When what I'm thinking is about updating my status to say something else, I no longer want to login.

The internet already reminds me of a VCRworth so much at one time, now years later, even if it were brand new, you couldn't even give one away, no one would take it. It's of no more use. Besides, I threw away all my VHS tapes.

No... Wait!!!

I still have the one of our vacation... you know... the one... when we went camping and we made that movie inside the tent... remember... you were doing that thing with the flashlight...

Well, I couldn't get myself to destroy it once I remembered what was on it... and I couldn't throw it away because what if someone else found it... and watched it...

Ah yes... I'll go see if I can find it while you hook up the VCR so we can watch it. Shit! No, that won't work. You can't hook a VCR up to my computer... and I threw away my TV as soon as you could watch a TV on a computer.

There goes those memories.

Note To Self

You have this fantastic imagination that has the power to convince yourself that you deserve more than you already have. It's like a curse that can be used to your advantage if you can only grasp it before it strangles you.


Stove Top Stuffing

This is how mad I am right now. Mad and frustrated and screaming mad. So I grounded my body to a chair and watched myself jump up with a chainsaw, swinging it down from behind my head, landing into and through the small little end table that I use as my coffee table and dining room table and my only table all-in-one move. The table is sliced in two, right down the middle. The chainsaw sinks its chains into the floor and tears it to pieces, scattering the bits all over the pieces everywhere, bouncing and throwing themselves at my eyes.

This room is my house. 
My house is just a room. 
Sometimes it feels cozy. 
Sometimes else, more like a tomb.

I sing these words louder, then scream them louder than I can sing. My voice grows so loud I make myself shrink, along with my chainsaw, it's still in my hand. I run around the gaping hole in the floor and slice right through the leg of a chair. It topples on top of meknocking me off balance and into the hole. Smaller, I fall deeper, and the chainsaw drags me faster, so I let it go and stop falling, right there in the middle, then slowly I float, and grow-up, floating and going up and growing and growing and going back just in time for dinner.

Stove Top Stuffing.


It's About To Be Fall

Tonight I can smell the trees letting go of their leaves.
It's about to be fall.



I just saw an older, soft, larger lady wobble-run across the crosswalk of Trader Joe's with her arms up in the air, held in the direction of the passing bus. The bus pulled over to the curb and waited for her, but the lady continued to run towards the open door no matter how much it seemed to hurt every bone in her body.

I just saw a small, white butterfly flapping and flopping frantically—trapped in a spider's web—struggling to break free. I thought to help it, but there was nothing I could do. It was too tangled, and trying to break it free would just trap it more. Besides, the spider was already upon it, and the butterfly was an impressive catch for such a small spider. I thought the spider should be able to celebrate such a beautiful victory.

As I sat down on the curb to write this all down, I realized that I became self-aware about where I could and could not sit, as if there were laws lying around that I was unaware.

Soon after sitting, a bearded man on neon-yellow roller-blades rolled by, and soon after that, a mom-lady on a bike that had a child-seat on it without a child in it. Both took notice of me, both looked down at me, and both smiled.

I just discovered that two-cars-down from where I was sitting on the curb there is a young-lady sitting in the driver's seat of a parked, red four-door car eating an ice cream cone—minding her own business the same street as me.

I just heard a sound that sounded like a gunshot coming from inside one of these houses! I wonder if it was, and why I even want to find out. A gunshot sound is not something that sounds like you should be poking around.

I just saw a black bird eating salsa and share it with his blackbird friend. I didn't know that black birds like salsa.

I just saw a lady drive by and shove something into her mouth—presumably something salty—presumably french fries. There's a McDonald's around the corner, and she was wiggling-rubbing her fingers together as if she were trying to free them from salty boogers.

I just heard a little girl say out loud, "I hate to see dead squirrels."


The Reason Escapes Me

Pickle. Water. Write it down. Splash some in your eyes and make them sting. It stings! It's stinging! Hallaluya! I can feel the spices burrowing into my vision, blurring and burning. The hairs on my ears tickle, and I pinch them in twos and threes and furs and rip them out completely—making the sound of dirt crumbling and roots ripping right out of the ground. Looking down to inspect them between my fingertips, the burning tear drops washes them away.

Such liquid words flower forever, covering the hillsides of the valley below—where the shopping centers are abandoned, and all the streets are empty. I've only imagined places such as this existing, abandoned, and forgotten, then discovered by chance with the lucky winner being me. Inside these places, it's easy to feel scared when where you are now looks like a place where someone else has been. It's spooky, even though they have all gone, and spookier because they are still. Gone because they had a reason to leave—leaving the reason behind, abandoned, hoping never to see it again. It's this very reason that resonates throughout the valley—silent whispers carried in the wind, racing up the mountains then sliding back down again. I can feel it on my face, and taste it with my tongue. It tastes like something happened when I feel it in my lungs. I suck it in deeper, and fill my stomach with reserve. My eyes pop open when I feel the power... Full surge! Full surge! It feels like my lungs have to pee... no... it's more like diarrhea... no... maybe I meant more like puking cause it's coming out of my mouth... and nose... here it goes...

The reason escapes me—Whoooooooosh!—blowing down the walls. I'm still blowing—the walls are still falling—one on top of the other, in vertical stacks sandwiched together. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap-Clop. Backing up the hillside, they slide up and over the one underneath—the top one sliding higher, stretching out the middle side by side together, paving a path out of walls all the way to the highest peak.

I sit down on the last one that is now the first, with my back to the mountain, I breathe in and in some more, filling my lungs up and even more than before. My eyes burst open again until they can't take it anymore, and my stomach muscles squeeze this time much harder making the wind sound more like a roar. I slide up the mountain, all the way to the top. The walls feel like glass on my bottom, as if they weren't there at all. I look down and the mountain is below me—tiny and crawling with ants. From way up here, I see the big picture that I live in, and notice that the reason that escaped me was blowing too hard.

I Can Make You Disappear

I see you, but I'm choosing to ignore you. You might be able to see me standing here ignoring you, but I don't see you, or hear you. My eyes look away from you—fixed on wherever you are not. I already have forgotten you, swept away with the passing crowd. I imagined they would be coming this way, shoulder to shoulder, blurring their faces with their fast paces. All together they look like a mass of trenchcoats and briefcases, floating past and all around me like ghosts. Standing among them, I am surrounded. They brush up against me and I bounce around back-and-forth-and-around the material and knock against-and-off-onto-another briefcase carried in a hurry—gripped tight together in ghostly invisible hands.

Cold Finger Ear Ache

My fingers are cold. The skin on the tips of my fingers all the way up to my knuckle sandwich are cold as cuts.

My ears ache. I wish I could massage them with exotic oils. Complementary oils—filled with compliments and oil—smelling sweet and musty, sour and dusty.

Above and beyond—because I'm making something special bitches.


Focused Breathing

I'm trying to relax. I'm trying to focus on my breathing. I'm closing my eyes and looking for the deepest darkest spaces to fly into. I'm breathing in... one. Breathing out... two. Breathing in... three. Breathing out... four. Breathing in... five. Breathing out... six. Breathing in and out until I count to ten. I decide I'm not relaxed enough, so I breathe in and count again.

Breathe in... one... focus on the black. Breathe out... two... listen to the breath, it sounds like wind. Breathe in... three... wait for the wind. Breathe out... four... I'm flying toward the dark, floating forward through the darkness towards the darkness within. Breathe in... five... I can still hear muffled thoughts. Breathe out... six... further now, the thoughts sound farther. Breathe in... seven... waiting in darkness. Breathe out... eight... faster, quieter, further, farther, darker. Breathe in... nine... I could go further forever. Breathe out... ten... begin again.


Now At This Moment No.1

I am going to attempt a writing exercise that is supposed to encourage you to focus on "feeling the actual." According to the assignment, I am to just let go, to sit back and relax, and for a few moments write down sentences stating what I am aware of at this moment. I must start each sentence with the word "now" or "at this moment." I am choosing to alternate between the two and see what the pattern looks like through the use of repetition.

Now I am beginning my assignment. At this moment I am listening to the sound of my typewriter. At this moment I realized that I should have used the word "now" to start this sentence, and am frantically trying to make the decision as to whether I will start the next sentence with a "now" or an "at this moment." Now I am moving on. Now I am letting go. At this moment I am hearing the music that Jason has chosen to play on the stereo. Now I am listening to the words that are trying to attack my passive observations. At this moment I am forgetting that I was trying for some structure with this experiment. Now I'm being tugged mentally.

Now At This Moment No.2

Now I am starting over on the back side of the sheet of paper. At this moment I am wishing I didn't label this as the back side of the sheet of paper, as it could just as easily be the front depending on the way you approach it. Now I caught a glimpse of my water glass out of the edge of my vision, my periphery.

Now I have my attention distracted by the computer mouse that is napping on the upper left edge of it's mouse pad that is sitting next to this typewriter, on the right side. Now I am making sure to think about my right and left to be sure that I got them correct.

At this moment I am wishing that my typewriter didn't slide around so much. At this moment I am glad that it slides because it reminds me, at this moment, that I am typing fast enough for the sliding to be noticeable. Now I am feeling happy with this exercise. At this moment, I am really happy with the sound of this typewriter—the sound of the little metal arms beating their tiny fists on this page, as hard or as soft as I tell myself that I want to make them punch.

Now I am distracted by Jason's phone conversation. I was able to move past the initial ring, but at the moment I can tell that he is upset at all the racket that is coming from my typewriter. Now I am left to be in this room alone, as Jason couldn't hear his conversation over all the noise and he closed himself in the back room. At this moment I can still recall the slam of the bedroom door, followed by the silent pause, then his voice exclaiming an apology for the door's slamming. It was the draft that produced the force, not his muscles in reflex to the noise.

Now I am lost.

Now, I am realizing that I separated the start of this sentence with a comma, and ended it with one too, it can keep going on and on forever if you only end things with a comma instead of a period, there is no end to where it can take you, now I think I just came up with another writing exercise of my own, ending sentences with commas, and pulling out of them their own guts, in long stretches, for miles and miles, until you end up dragging the body-end through their own drippings.

Now At This Moment No.3

Now I am going to attempt the same writing exercise, but instead of writing "now" and "at this moment" I will attempt to only write down what comes after I think about writing them, that way, where I place the period represents where the "now" and "at this moment" would have been.

I am ready to start. My fingers are frantically feeling the plastic keys, wondering which letters to press. I am hoping. I am at a loss.

I can't seem to stop myself from thinking about how hard it is to stop myself from wanting to write the word "now" or the words "at this moment." I am trying to find something else to capture my immediate interest.

I hear a car swoosh down the street. The car is much further up the hill than I can imagine, but I can still hear it. Cars are returning to swoosh again. It sounds like wind. I am getting the two swooshes confused with the other. The cars and the wind sound the same. I am associating the swoosh of the cars as hot wind, like asphalt, blown up from the tires into the wind above the street, and up the stairs of my apartment complex, through the screen door, past my living room, and through my ears, cooling my arms and neck before it is blown past and out the back door, the screen door in the back of the house. That's where I prefer to smoke my cigarettes, on the back stairs, at the foot of the screen door at the back of my apartment.

I am thinking how I was just back there smoking a cigarette a few minutes ago, and reviewing the previous writing exercise in my mind. I got distracted by the leaves that were growing between the cracks in the concrete by the stairs that lead themselves down into the basement underneath my apartment. I think the leaves are part of a dandelion that got trapped there but is making the best of it.

Now At This Moment No.4

I see that my water glass is empty. The only water that is left in there looks like tears clinging to the side of the glass, with a little puddle on the bottom that looks as if it makes up the shape of a country, or more like a small cluster of islands trapped inside a glass ocean.

I reposition myself, folding my left leg over my right. I can feel the thigh stretching itself, the left one, as the rest of the leg spills over the right one, with my left foot being pulled down by gravity. My shoes feel sticky because I'm not wearing any socks today. It's hot and my feet are wet-cool, and the insides of my shoes feel cool-moist. Repositioning my legs now, kicking my feet back and under the seat of my chair. My toes are touching the floor, and my feet feel folded in half, with my heels up in the air doing a headstand—a toestand.

Stretching my back off the back of my office chair that itches my bottom and underneath my thighs, my chair squeaks when I move and sounds like a fart. I lift my left butt cheek up, and tilt my right shoulder down, and out escapes the chair-fart that is actually a squeak—the sound of plastic and metal releasing the pressure that I place upon it. The office chair holds me up. The office chair supports me.

I breath out a breath, realizing that I tend to hold it while I am typing. I might just be unaware of my breathing while I am typing, like I become aware after I use the word just to justify something that just happened. Using the word just is just something that I have become aware of lately, and I'm trying to keep myself from using it too often.

Scratching my neck. The hairs on the back of my head still feel like they are moving, unsettled, itching still, but in a pleasant way. My knuckles ache for me to crack them again. They are practically begging. But like my craving to stop and smoke a cigarette, I realize that I take to cracking them more that I should. It is a bad habit that feels so good. Sometimes I don't realize that I am doing it until I hear the cracks popping all at once, or in little rows. It sounds almost exactly like the clink of my Zippo lighter... no... the little ding of the bell on this typewriter that tells me when I have gotten to the end of the line sounds more like the little clink of my Zippo. My knuckles are definitely more of a cracking or popping sound. All my joints seem to crack and twist as I bend them out of my sitting position. I bend my elbows and the muscles in my arms feel as if they are tearing at the back of my skin—louder around the joints where things have been worn thin.

Pushing my hair back, I see my reflection in the glass of the computer monitor that I have put to sleep behind this typewriter. I pick at my eyes and rub my nose. Scratch my beard. Shift my weight. Now my right leg has found itself crossed over the left. I push my shoulders forward, and tilt my head back, watching my reflection lean in and lift my chin towards the ceiling. My mouth opens and my breath escapes. "I'm watching you."

I tell myself "I'm watching you" without even having to move my lips. I can understand what was said because I said it to myself.

I hear the second hand on the clock ticking in between bursts of tapping on my typewriter. I wonder how many words I am making appear in between the clicks of the clock, but I can't hear the clicking once I start typing.


Blue Eyes Close

We spent a warm day out on the lake,
isolated and alone.

Just us.

Nobody else knew we were even there. No boats passed. No hiker’s foot was to be heard. It felt as if my wish of having him all to myself had been granted.

The lake was so calm it felt unnatural—smooth on top and crystal clear all the way through to the bottom. I asked him if he had ever seen anything like this before, and he looked at me and smiled—his eyes reflected bluer than the water’s reflection of the sky.

He took off his shirt—peeling it up his chest with his forearms, then over his head by lifting his hands toward the sky. I watched the sun rise gently up his navel, then across his chest, and appear to slow down suddenly as it reached up his neck. He smiled when the sun kissed his lips, and closed his eyes while the last of his shirt passed through his hair.

I took off my shirt—lifting it slowly in front of my eyes, so I could still watch his movement through the tiny holes in my clothes, slowly peeling them back until the sun would bleach them close.

Shirtless, he appeared closer. I stood still to see if he was approaching. His eyes seemed to grow bluer and closer, and closer, and bluer, and bluer.

I felt the hair on his chest touch mine, as he leaned in to tickle my ear with a whisper. “This is beautiful.”

He kept his head close, and breathed gently through his nose, brushing my neck with each breath. I counted four warm, and five cold before he leaned back to show me his blue eyes close.


Lung Hole

Taking a drink of water.


I made that sound after the water slipped past the lung hole in my throat.

I left out the the little gurgle that escaped before the AAAAHHH! Then I put it back in once I remembered it was there.


What Just Happened

Cleanse. Cleanse. Cleanse your thoughts. Clear your mind of the things you did today. Let go, and write down the first thing that you happen to hear in the back of your thoughts—something trying to escape and surprise you. Words of wisdom or even words of a ridiculous nature. Making sense is not the point. Making something happen is happening as if it just happened.


Danger Zone

I am drawn to the power of words for their ability to create images that you can only see with your imagination. I see it as a challenge to make reading worthwhile, even if you only read the first couple of lines.

I stand on this stage singing my heart out, hoping my friends will at least show up for support. I can instinctually tell that most of them don't like the idea of friends who ask if they would show up to an open mic night in a venue they have never even heard of. Most will forget based on the unfamiliar name of the place you are trying to tell them actually exists.

I sing this to the crowd of one, and since you are the only one who decided to show, I'm dedicating this one to you.

Laaaaaa, la la la. Whatsoever.
Whaaaaaa, whaaaa, whaaaa. Whatsoever.
Clap-clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Danger Zone.


Two Weeks Notice

Damn you internet! Damn you for the unnatural habits you have formed in my thoughts. Damn you for the false sense of entertainment that beguiles me into checking up on you constantly—like a newborn child—you whine, even though you do not have a voice to call your own. Your very birth into existence fell from heaven unexpectedly, when I too was still a child—too young to know any different, without parents for a guide. I thought it was the right thing for both of us, to embrace your innocence, to feed and clothe you, to coddle and take proud pictures of progress along the way. We're family, with a relationship as neurotic as any other.

I existed before you. I had a whole life without you, full of friends, youth and good-health... well... what I'm getting at is... you need to get a job and start helping out around here, or... let me make this clear... you need to move out. Consider this your two weeks' notice. That means you need to figure your shit out, or... well... I'm changing the locks.


A Spontaneous Moment

I saw you pass by my house and seem startled to see me sitting outside. I waved, but you had already ducked behind the neighbors house. I went to chase you down, but alas, you were not to be found. I roamed the streets wondering where you had been, where you were going, and where you were headed. I wanted to think that you were remembering how we had only had known each other for a few days, yet those particular few days seemed a bit more interesting than the few days before, when we had not yet known the other. I wanted to think that you had to pass by where I might be today just because it would make the day feel more interesting—that since you happened to be in the neighborhood, you decided to take the route that was guaranteed to provide a jolt of adrenaline—and with the rush of chemistry, induce such a fantasy to make your heart caress the back of your breast and cause the hairs to tingle your lips.

A spontaneous moment.


Cloud Vomit

This morning I went downtown to pick up some more tobacco, and during the train ride there my stomach felt like it contained a small pool of acid that was stinging its way through my insides. I wanted to puke, but didn't want the stinging to spread to my tongue and cause my teeth to fall out. Ironically when I got off the train and began to cross the street, there were two piles of vomit on the curb at the crosswalk. It seemed that I might not be the only one that feels the bugs crawling around inside them. I wonder if something is going around. At least on the vomit front it feels like something is happening. Nothing much is happening outside of my sick stomach.

I picked up some more coffee, which I thought was going to be a bad idea, but it turned out fine, and actually soothed my stomach with its warmth. It is unusually cold this morning for July, and overcast with the threat of rain lingering just below the clouds. Not hard rain, just a few sprinkles. It feels as if the clouds have a burning inside their stomachs as well, and would splash us with their vomit if the right combination of smells wafts up from the streets and tickles their nostrils.


String of Thought

I can get thoughts twisted up so tight, that they feel clogged in my brain for days, and the simple action of writing them out can be all I need to untie them. The thoughts just have to be pulled out in whatever tangled mess that are in and laid on a clean sheet of paper, then I can start to work on the knots until the string of thought feels untangled.


Vintage Photos

Vintage photos represent forgotten moments being remembered again.

And all the people pictured in them are either dead, or completely different people than they are today.

And all the photographers have no names, but are very much present... often in shadows... and always in reflection.

And the photo itself... the wear of the paper spills layers of liquid history between your fingers.

And the smell of dusty things reminds you of treasure.


Why I'm One Of Those Artists That Starve

It seems absurd to foresee a museum containing a digital archive for Interactive & Digital Art. And even if it were so, a museum would not be paying for the pieces they decide to store on their acid-free servers when the very nature of the digital medium is duplication.

The digital medium is the mass-medium.

With just the click of a button, an artist can be seen by millions... in an instant... hanging their art on electricity inside millions of plastic frames.

Making art with a digital medium is this.
Helping you recognize this as art is design.
Making no income from this, while being compelled to keep making this, is bad design.

This is why I'm one of those artists that starve.


Stuck On The Plane

:: Originally written 29.6.2009 7:17 PM

Stuck on the plane, typing a way out of boredom.

Hey neighbor. What do you want me to write about? How about an alternative to waiting to get off the plane? How about a chance to wait on what words might appear next on this screen?

Being bored is pretty much the state of most of our lives. It’s the being confined part that crawls under our skin while we are waiting for a plane to land and unload us all into tubes and ports—where we will wait some more for our baggage to be unloaded next, so that we can take it home with us.

People on the plane. Listen to this. The lady that is walking down the isle, "stretching her legs," is looking for leftover Frito’s. She loves them, and is waiting to glean them from the seat pockets. She puts them in her large Frito bag of a purse. She is anxious for a taco salad.

People on the plane. Listen to this. The television that grabs your captive attention is feeding you the dreams that you will have tonight. Beware of the three dogs and the fat boy with the fro. They will only keep moving their lips and telling you nothing.

Only two more hours of the five to go. Only two more. Just keep the fingers moving in the case that they will speed up time as they tap out the minutes.

People on the plane. Listen to this. We were all fed chicken wraps for dinner, and we ate it. Don’t we all feel better?

People on the plane. I am typing this to you. We are all party people. Old and young. Shaking our asses with the turbulence. Bobbing our heads to the rocking of the wings. High above the ground… above the clouds… trapped in a party plane. Crawling through the isles waiting for our turn to go pee. Some will shit and flush it away inside, stored below our feet.

Born That Way

He was born without the ability to get wet. When you spray him the water bounces away from him just before it touches his skin. When it rains the water looks like it is falling around him. And when he goes swimming he glides around on the surface as if he were on top of a giant water mattress that was made of a skin so thin you could not see it once it was filled with water. Surprisingly, without being able to take a bath, he never gets dirty. His sweat leaves his body without ever touching his skin. Yet he can drink normally, because “once the water’s past the skin, it can go in.”


Daydream Day

Either I woke up tired, or I’m still asleep and dreaming that I am tired. If you go to sleep in your sleep, would you dream in your dream?

Face Guts

I will peel your face back and watch your eyeballs roll around in their sockets, and listen to your crooked teeth click as you try to express how you feel without your lips.


Your face looks like guts with eyes and teeth.


Everything Must Go

The week after she died in her sleep, her bed was sold at the estate sale.

- for Mary

Writing Gives Me Bad Posture

My back is folded in half and my neck hangs to the floor. Slowly, in inches, I touch my toes to my nose.

Inside Guilt

I am getting nowhere. I am still inside.

I should be outside right now. I should be soaking in the sun and covering my private parts with the clouds. I feel dirty inside.


Voyeur is me

I don’t have much sun left. The sky is a pinkish blue, which technically is a shade of purple, but what you see are pinkish shades of blue, which are fading fast too.

I want to try and tell you what I am seeing through my window. For those that have seen it, I wonder if my words will be able to construct and accurate image?

The apartment that I live in stares across a grass courtyard at the mirror image of itself. There are six units attached to each other that look like six little white tents in a row—with the window of each unit located where the tent flaps would meet. All six white tents look like they are covered in a large, black rain blanket and are huddling close together for warmth and safety—staked down at either end by a brick chimney, because the ones on the ends have fireplaces. I live in the one that is in the middle of the row on the left—where there are two blue doors facing one another. My door is the door on the right—the one my back is facing, with the window to my right—the one where you can see the guy inside who has been staring at his reflection in the window ever since it turned dark outside.

No, wait… it looks like he just closed the curtain. I didn’t say anything about it to him. I just kept my mouth shut and kept typing. I am guessing he thought it was getting dark enough outside to begin seeing inside—and being that close to the window, he might frighten the people outside.


Unbecoming of Us

Enemies become neighbors
neighbors become enemies
what is ours
is part yours,
but also part mine.


Yourself versus Myself

When I write to myself, you can read it for yourself.
When I write yourself, you will read in yourself.
When you say yourself, you are talking about myself.
When you ask yourself, you listen to yourself.
When I ask myself about yourself, we both get confused.

Ultimately, finding a meaning for writing this is ridiculous, when the meaning to what I have written can only be interpreted by yourself.