Friday, April 25, 2014

a collection of favorite status updates

one thing about writing habitually is you observe very quickly where your faults are. for instance, i've noticed that every time i don't really know how to end a scene or conversation, one of the characters faints.
must be something in the water.

another writing habit observation: if there is a kitchen, that's where people are, because that's where coffee is.

what happens when you miss typing the s in the word doses?
little does of murder.
this is totally not photoshopped

writing is like cracking open one of those little plastic easter eggs that could have anything inside of it.
sometimes it's spiders.

- - -
last i slept i dreamed i was eating cactus and praying over it first, so as to properly receive the gifts of cactus wisdom

last night i dreamed i dressed up as an ancient woods spirit to fool a mountain lion, became that spirit (who was apparently revered by humans and animals alike), hid a woman inside my soul, and fooled her husband into thinking i'd turned her into a pea and that he could only get her back if he added more peas to the bowl before this one shriveled.

i dreamed last night that a "safe word" was a type of car

when a group of ninjas come to your house to arrest you for possession of marijuana, it's always good to have Robin Williams as your lawyer.

what involves riding in a helicopter, kyle shopping naked, and life cereal flavored "czechoslovakian blueberry"? me sleeping til 4 pm.

---

any empath would be freaked the fuck out by my knitting

someday the world will need my skill of dancing silently in small enclosed spaces. this is what reading fantasy novels has taught me.

they say not to put all your eggs in one basket. my problem is that i always seem to be collecting baskets. i'm like a case for the containing of baskets . . .

the great thing about flipping a coin to make a decision is: if it lands the way you want it to, you get to be like "oh, thank the powers that be for this divine confirmation of what i must do." and if it lands the way you don't want it to, you get to be like "i no longer have faith in your guidance, coin. it's time for a revolution." either way, you're getting that second cup of coffee.

crazy isn't sitting around for hours talking to yourself. crazy is sitting around for hours talking to yourself with your phone to your ear just in case anyone might have put hidden cameras in your apartment.

it's hard to resist the temptation to post a paper on the fridge at work that says:
Remember, everyone, this week it's hairshirt friday! Be sure to pay your dollar in advance.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

lost muse

there i go again
wandering down some shadowed trail like i'm looking for something
always like i'm looking for something
though i've long ago forgotten what
if i ever knew
there's no point writing
because i know i'll just write the same words again and again
no point taking pictures
i've already photographed everything i'm interested in at least twice
no one has time for redundancy
my creativity is a waste of art and material
a waste of thought space
these things don't mean anything to anyone
they're just one more reason to laugh at me
or worse, feel sorry for me
to say
oh, look at that poor pathetic creature trapped in the box of its own stupidity
scribbling nonsense on the walls and calling it poetry
someone should pat it on the head and give it a cookie
before it gets sad and starts writing in blood again

limited by my own perceptions of what's real
limited by my own perceptions, inherently flawed
i cannot find the thing i'm seeking
it doesn't exist in this realm
and every poem, every picture, is a struggle
to get back to the place of meaning
the place of wandering the woods as a child
of recurring dreams of secret forts
the nature chemicals from which i devised my religion
a magic as real to me as any god has ever been to you

meanwhile, i live in the land of stories
with characters i love more than family
people i can trust, people who are my own
and it's hard to rip myself away from the distraction
for long enough to find something here
and still it's hard to write these stories as stories
as things that people could read
when what i hold dearest are not the adventures, but the conversations
the times when one character tells another
everything will be alright
and means it
and these characters, they have a bit of magic
a boost in their empathy
which enables them to trust each other
in ways i can no longer imagine happening in the real world

i miss the time i was young and thought i could make fantasy reality
and now i'm lost, having learned no alternate path

what the hell else do people do all day?


Tuesday, January 28, 2014

most frequented pathways in places i've lived

crossing the st. mary's canal in sault ste. marie, mi
the rattlesnake bridge in tucson, az


crossing over the highway near my house in santa barbara, ca

over the water to fairhaven in bellingham, wa

Sunday, January 26, 2014

sunny january afternoon at Lake Whatcom

in another couple of months this part of the lake will be filled with swimmers

i just love this little tree

stopped to rest and drink my coffee, completely absorbed by the beauty of this lake


Wednesday, June 26, 2013

the beach house

One of the first cool hang out places I found here, and probably still the best. Though I discovered later with a friend that it's not always reachable at high tide (which would explain the water in the "basement," not pictured).




 I've been taking a lot of foot pictures, lately, as a way to show I'm in a place. Pretty sure I stole the idea from Pat Tillett.



Tuesday, June 25, 2013

even boring little towns can have artistic charm

there's plenty of weird around here:
why are spiders and mutilated dolls always such a great combination? it just never gets old. 

yes, let us not forget the bat man.

exactly the type of message you want to see at the trailhead.

And, just for something pretty:
scary multicolored lasers terrorizing the neighborhood, as i watch safely from my smoking spot

Thursday, November 1, 2012

here, still


there's medicine to take
to make the pain go away
but i'm not ready just yet
here, the sun is going down
here, my thoughts are burning out
like the flames in the sky
scattered by the ocean of night

still, i just want to feel a moment longer
still, i just want to sink into the subtle skin of nightmare

there's nothing to rage against
here inside this broken tomb
the walls have crumbled and
i'm left bathed in the light
i can see everything outside
but who will remember this place, if not me?

who will read all the stories on the wall?
words and pictographs engaged in their secret dance
who will ever see my footprints on the floor?

i once was a dreamer
singing stars down from the sky
i dreamed of time
i dreamed of sand

i once was a phantom
i hid with owls in the trees
i hid from everyone to save my feathered cloak

i once was a scarecrow
watching everything pass by
until a peasant came and set my feet on fire
and i knew right then that i would have to go

i am a wanderer
drinking coffee on your couch
holes in my sweater
i can't seem to fight this chill
the tears stay locked inside
i can't find where they've gone
i only know that i can't tell when something's wrong
i never thought i'd be this still

i should've apologized
about two hundred times by now
i stole this rhythm from a song
i can't be bothered, now, to hide it anymore
we lie, we cheat, we steal
and then we hit the floor

i was a dreamer
singing stars down from the sky
that's where i left one friend behind
i dreamed of time
i dreamed of sand
but i would never offer up a simple hand

i was a phantom
i hid with owls in the trees
i hid from everyone to save my feathered cloak
and when i met the ground no one was there to know

i was a scarecrow
watching everything pass by
looking no one in the eye
until a lost man came and set my feet on fire
i could've stayed and burned
instead i found desire

i am a wanderer
walking naked through the sin
and what will happen if i lose myself again?
will there still be something left for me to win?

there's nothing to rage against
here, inside this broken tomb
my heart is empty
but that only means there's room

i tried to write a poem
with a song stuck in my head
so all the lines are just repeating now, instead
and here, the sun is going down
still, no apologies are found