stability in the flux

The days have been ablaze with a passion for a new night but with no conviction for a direction... and the grownups are drunk kids again as the chorus of yesteryear rolls by as the cheap DJs dream becomes a reality for one more song... Dan finally got his own computer. He threw his ancient college contraption that had a power unit hanging out the top and groaned like an old car into the green monster.
-I had a tough time getting rid of the case. Four years worth of solid sticker collection rested on it. It had to be done. A crazy friend in my freshman dorm ordered the parts for it and we put it together on a Friday night. I was dying my hair cherry red while the geeks descended on the new machine like flies on shit. They aped around but failed to make it work. In a haze of decaying alcohol fumes, I pushed enough buttons to make it go when I fell out bed the following morning. No idea what I did but I did it anyway. Goodbye old friend...--
It cost me more credit debt but ain't that America. Break up with your girlfriend, get depressed, buy new stuff.

gotta get a lil done

What a night of doing not a damn thing. I guess I walked halfway across town to have another uncomfortable dinner with my mom. I wish I had a place to do steelwork in my backyard. Low and behold, I feel more comfortable in a loud cave of grit and fire than just about anywhere. I could lose myself in doing the work I enjoy. Why I have not admitted to this reality of self, I don't know and won't bother trying to figure out. As I was telling a friend, I am me and fuck you world. I don't give a damn about politics, so I'll avoid that useless self discussion. I'm pretty fed up with most everything I know these days and am ready to just move forward in my life. I feel like a number of people my age have been thinking of their life in the future and living in the present. I've about given up on the future since I will never know anything about it.

look how happy he is

That is the car that hit the car that hit my brother's car. The driver's bullshit insurance won't pay the claim on three totaled vehicles because he was delivering food without their knowledge. People are now telling my brother he's got to get an attorney to get the money to fix his car. I thought the whole point of insurance is so we didn't have to get lawyers involved every time their was an accident of typical living. Insurance companies are to me as advertisers were to Bill Hicks. I am not, will never, comparing myself to that genius. I am only comparing the distaste. On to the story.
My brother was hit as he was driving to pick me up so we could go visit with our mother. I walked down to see what he needed and brought along a camera in case I saw a pistol packing tow truck driver's son steer a car in jubilant joy. The momma of the family was there, as well.
It was a touching scene.

It was night and I get uncomfortable taking pictures of people I don't know.

it's all about the energy, man.

o
One thing that is mildly vexing about this modern day of devised efficiency, why do nations starve, why do so many have so little when we should all have plenty/enough. Maybe we evolved realms of the new society take waaay more than our fair share, or we are a grossly dumdass being if we have to work more and have less, or greedy rich-bitch tard sleazefuck-balls are pimping the system for themselves, or some combination of the above.

The past few days have had the weird in them. I would almost describe my life as a psychedelic experience, not in that it has more pretty colors and sounds but people are strange and events are unsettling. We have had floods, earthquakes, the ATM gave me an extra 20 then I run into a person from a diversive past. I guess god is reminding me that it runs my world. Such uncanny energy makes for more tenuous times. That leads me to commenting the obvious in that life is getting expensive. It seems that energy prices have fucked everything else up. I'm glad we've got our prioties straight in Iraq. We sure as hell wouldn't be there if we were answering to god. We should all boycott our cars for a week. Screw the man and his oil.

this is from way back.

It's difficult to read this english up to down but that is the was this goofy stuff works. This is the finale of something mistaken for a novel-in-progress from earlier times. I actually have much of the front end of a big story written but I 'm a lazy puke pile of rancid chicken shit and can't seem to get past myself and find some kind of other motivation to finish it besides just myself struggling to complete one thing in my life. jesus, I am tired of reading my own words. I see it and how much needs changed and become overwhelmed by the mind-fuck(I tried to think of a different modifier but could not, none replicate the force of that word) it can be to choose ideas and images and all that other crap I want one day to end up in a piece of writing that I do.

Epilogue

Calvin sat on the Arkansas bank of the river and looked at the Memphis skyline a half mile across. The pyramid, a few miles north started the jagged line of steel, concrete, and glass that ran down to the trio of bridges a half mile south of Calvin. The thick brown water swirled and gurgled in front of him and he thought of diving in and being dragged under by the legendary Mississippi undertow. Every year someone would get sucked under the river and maybe show up miles downstream.

Calvin jerked the pole back and he could feel the triple hook sink into the fishes jaw. The rod bent over and the drag whined as the fish swam for its life. Calvin knew it was going straight to the bottom where thousands of years of humanity was stuck into the mud. Boats, people, cars, trash, DDT, shells, boots, cans, bottles, planes, bales of cotton, cannons, heroes, cowards, and everything else that made history was being preserved by the deep water. The fish was trying to find some kind of cover to get away from the triple barbs in its mouth among all the refuse of mankind.

As soon as reel slowed down its backwards spin Calvin started to pull and wind the fish in. HE pulled and worked the fish for about half an hour when he could see the water swirl around its sleek brown skin. Then he saw a paddle move the water around and the hook sticking through it. He realized he caught a spoon-bill, a rare breed of catfish. Calvin couldn’t see the rest of the fish but he could tell that it was huge, upwards of sixty pounds. Then he saw the tail pushing water as hard as it could and almost yelled at a the sight of a five foot catfish. Calvin reached for his net when “Snap!” He watched the front foot of his pole fly into the water and swore not at his loss but in sheer amazement of it all. The big fish went down to the bottom of the river, dragging the stick of graphite behind it. Two hooks went through his bill and would take a while to get out. The fish rested in the mud for awhile and then continued its never-ending journey for food. A Volkswagen Beetle sat sunk in the mud to the windows. The fish swam through it and the rod caught the roof, after a brief struggle he had snapped the line that had tangled around the rod and swam only with the two hooks sticking through his mouth and the third hanging below them catching nothing but water, sticks, and a boot. The fish had the boot stuck to its head for almost a week when it got wedged between a rock and the drive shaft of a paddle-wheeler. He struggled to break free but the two hooks in his mouth made the fight almost impossible. With one last shake and flare of his head he ripped his mouth from the steel barbed bait hooks and left the boot for some poor fisherman to catch.

my nonsense existence

That's a whole lot of something I forgot where I was going and that is one bad sign. Writing on the computer is so much more difficult than on paper. It's less transcendent in a modern sense and more in the tactile element of putting letters together to form a concept and not just flashes of one's sentient-animal being.

I must say, every day I have tried to write anything I find it more not good. I have in an odd way grown in my ability to speak and that development of language is reflecting itself in my writing as I try to feel comfortable in this skin.

I have a story partially written that starts with these lines, I like them

“The room smelled like puss, stale piss, and bandages. The only light was an old T.V. flickering on a milk crate (something about tampons and out of business rug stores). A shaky box fan brought sanity into there but it only muffled death’s footsteps a little.”
The rest is written on a scrathpad somewhere in the world. It's not a very happy story. I use to get tired of all the depressed tales I read. I remember challenging a friend to write positive poetry. For some reason, I forgot to listen to mine own advice of yore.