Gone To Pisgah, To See A Man About A Dog.

Tears In Kiev

Oh that I wish I was there with you, freezing in the snow, your big fat body, snuggled next to mine, a small, skinny, emaciated frame, for comfort, texture, surcease of pain. What is pain or for that matter, the absence? Nothing? Is nothing really bereft? No pain searing yelling screaming and or passing out. Or such joy elation bliss you lose step, and consciousness too? Nothing is the absolute oblivion, the definitive null and void, being definitely without either extreme. Is it thus, we stare into the void piece by piece all along the way, that that is god or death and nothing really to fear at all but yet we’d chose grief or bliss happiness over nothing any day, because we feel. It’s something. A thing over no thing. {{From Unit # 9630}}

FEB

MON. FEB. 1st, 2010 Don’t know precise methodology for speaking here, right now. For what should be written, who knows? Can’t say as I’m of any help. There’s too much. Much too much to say, that needs relating, etc. Life is god masturbating. Just, living life, being, experiencing, in all its myriad, seemingly sourceless permutations: animal, vegetable, mineral. In the vast array of creatures’ thought, emotion, etc. That is its “essence.” Is it more important for me to control my temper, my thoughts, et cetera, than it ever will be for me to write stories and sell them? Is it more important to learn what happiness is than to get a job/career that “means” something? Will curing me of my infantilism cure me of my creativity? Will discipline to sit and read and write without missing a day of it, make me a better person or will the reverse do a better job? How will I know either way? A person knows only what they know. They go for that. Their instincts those voices all that chatter, from within from without, they take all that into account, and act, for good or ill, to for of by themself/others, and that is life. And if in any retrospective view is measured, some things worked some did not and there are other deals wanting. And that’s just about it. I was not in the mood to read or write or stay here this morning of a later start day, but here I am writing, and soon I’ll be reading, and maybe just maybe we’ll get every thing covered. {From The Handheld}

The News So Far

Obama spanks, Blair walks and vents a bit, getting heat over Iraq invasion, while the Tiger & Bush lay low together deep in the DEEP SOUTH, near Hattiesburg, MS. at a sex rehab clinic. My Name’s William and I approve of such absurd missives. (Paid for by the Make William a writer Campaign) {From The Handheld}

Waffles & Sausages

If you’re going to do this to yourself, best do it right. #1 Waffle House waffles. Something about size (thin, long, flat) and taste. #2 McDonald’s Sausages, such that they put on their sandwiches. Again, something about size texture and just the right amount of “salt” flavor. Maple Syrup (generic) from VON’S grocery store, warm. Good Luck. Enjoy! {From The Handheld}

Good Day Sir or Madam, good day. It has come to my attention that you are a business, in business, to do business. Good day to you for doing this. Good day. I want to do business with you…But tell me, why is it I can’t buy from you direct? Online you have your fancy lurid interactive page turning with my mouse catalogue, swell, but tell me, how come there’s no spot for ordering? Oh, yeah, that’s right, I learn later, when, rarity of rarities, I actually speak with a human being, and they’re nice enough to inform this buyer of piddling amounts, we don’t sell to individual buyers, just wholesale. Why is this, you know? Why? Tell me why? Tell me why? Is there a law or something or when one’s britches get too big, one only sells to big money makers? P.O.’s etc. It’s crap, I tell you, crap! Good Day to you people, good day. I wash my hands of your nonsense. Good day! {From The Handheld}

There Has Got To Be...

TUE. JAN. 19th, 2010 DEATH be not proud. Please, do not let me go messy. Don’t make me stupid, lame, and dumb. Let me be not forgotten, as we all are and all will be. Much like death, denied or life, lived in oblivion of. Think of me once in awhile dear world, yes, self-same I cursed and yelled to take me out occasionally. A flair for the dramatics, which truly wasn’t or isn’t necessary; I am not a writer or actor of any repute. I am nothing of course. Don’t exist any more, so why should I care? Once said this morning on a whim, when I’m dead, an angel, of evil or good intent, I’m sure somehow (I don’t know how I’ll know.), I’ll miss this, being alive. Now, ultimately, nothing matters. That’s what lesson is available from thinking and growing rich. The book. Pretty bleak. If you ask me. Stupid too. Lame. Dumb. “There has got to be a better way”. Thanks to screenwriter of Bill Mckay (The Candidate), Waldo Salt? ((It was actually JEREMY LARNER, who wrote in addition to THE CANDIDATE, DRIVE, HE SAID)) {From The Handheld}

What I Really Want

SUN. JAN. 17th, 2010 Don’t know how or why it was to me my way of thinking a bad idea to take a shower this morning. Feel so good. Cue Chuck Mangione muzak. Maybe we should just pee now and meditate. Ah yes. But really, trouble is, don’t want to do any thing, not even drive away from here. Certainly don’t want work at same place where we’ve been all this time. Don’t know what I want. Don’t know as I could have slept in much longer than I had. Don’t know that I was or am any more glad happy satisfied for any thing that I have. I am so grateful thankful indebted etc esp sic my mother for protecting taking care of me. My sister my dad as well. I’m overwhelmed by grief and hope and worthlessness. Don’t know exactly what to say or do. Maybe I can write about it, put it into a story that appears out of me soon, much like the shopping mall story where the man’s head went down with a ker-klunk, the screenplay and short work of prose out of it that is Rats With Wings. What’s on my list? Gaa, I dunno. I’ve done it, but haven’t made a full time career of writing, the arts, the movies. I’ve been in and have worked on many. Yeah. I have. And so…but nothing long term and or making profit creating nest egg, etc.

Object

And yesterday morning I did NOT kill the Raccoon coming across my path. I slowed down, flashed my lights. The smart bugger stopped, turned around and went the other way. Have I “texted” relief for Haiti yet? {From The Handheld}

STRANGE DREAMS

WED. JAN. 13th, 2010
Dateline: Anaslime, CA. A Parking Lot near the Convention Center. 04:30 Pacific, the soft sprinkling rain comes down without a sound. Just before and hours before, all was calm cool comfortable. Now all is wet. Still mellow, but all night off and on amidst strange dreams of Gangsters in south Florida wanting to blast a hole in my right foot, a family owned movie theatre chain putting me on suspension for shouting amongst customers, a family who lived in the building where movies were shown, that had as pets all these anteaters, and how one I thought was pooping off the balcony, and I caught the warm poop out its end, turned out actually to be three more pups. And not even a by your by. Two art school teachers, in an otherwise vacant place in back of the theatre. (All one complex/dream.) Tables and moveable art supply bins. One of the teachers oblivious to the rambling on one talking about paint characteristics and brush tensile strength, while attempting to light his cigarette filter end out, has a heart attack. Dammit, yeah, this is odd, very strange to say the least. I knew it was going to rain, but did not know when. Poor Port au Prince, Haiti, earthquake now after all those hurricanes! Our tears of rain keep falling down. Felt strange. Rain? It felt like voices and little soft undiscernable noises people ghosts whatever, calling my name. Something. Reaching out to me, but what could I do? What indeed CAN I do? Just a weird feeling about it all, all night long. What’s going on? I need sleep, need to be asleep. Don’t want to be awake now. Can’t afford to be. Need all my hours here/now for to be under the cover, unconscious. How can I do school after work, when I need all I have to be either at work or asleep? How to get another job? How to change? What can, what should I do? THREE hours a way? Don’t even think of it like that. Just, I have these books to read, I have to write this or whatever, go to the bathroom, sit here and meditate, take my vitamins, eat my food, drink water and coffee. The time before I have to leave this place to go to work just flies on by. It smells nice here in the rain. If only I could keep my windows open to breathe in that fresh ozonated air. The wet comes right in on my door panel, right on into my window control buttons. It’s February almost, and now, at already 05:30 Pacific, this mist drip thing rains down, with a steady hiss noise, amidst a periodic rumble of truck or beefy mufflered muscle car on Katella. I’ve opened up the cover inside of the sun/moon roof (which I didn’t want on a car I’d buy), to watch the rain come down a bit and allow more light in. Time to read some. Hold on bladder, urethra, hold on. I can see the water hitting the asphalt in reflection off the car parked next to me. It’s a steel gray van. On my right a gunmetal gray F-150 xlt Triton V8. Water from the sky has let up some. Open my window a crack. Get some air, and break open the Dostoevsky or manga or three. {{From Unit # 9630}}

That We Used To...

**************************** MON. JAN. 11th, 2010 USED to be a time way back when, we sat in a car that was paid for with one hefty check to a friend, and write. Would get out a small or large notebook, writing paper, goldenrod lined college rule, plain some times and laterally, grid, small, but not so small, at least not so much and not so very often that, usually just average sized grid. Long gone are those days? Wrote some letters then, some of these writings’d be. Now? A few snippet wings on the fly, the idealized long ago postings of a madman, which every one is doing now in so too many venues and media, who wants to pay for that? How can one make/earn a living there? That part of the dream has remained ever elusive. Always the aspect of a regular job. Some have been more fun, most short lived, like my stays in places with others. What to do? What to do? It’s a privilege, life is. A privilege, much like a job or driver’s license. You have no right for being here or having the support “system” to sustain you. It’s all just a privilege. The only way not to be a burden is not being here. But what good is that? No one knows or doesn’t know. (No one can tell us, or so we consider.) There’s no telling, no, not really. It’s frustrating. Best ignore and get on with daily grind. Breathe, move on, and not consider so much. So far as we know, we are the only ones who do consider, who know or think we do. It’s important, we notify ourselves and others, to think, consider, and to be aware of these things, that we do. {From The Handheld}