ramble free-write

“Keep it up son, thatta boy Richard.” My father has been dead over 20 years but I’m sure I can hear his voice jingle through the empty spaces in the house. “Keep it up son, keep this hand here and that one there. Thatta boy Richard.” He was perfect. Every instruction was detailed with every factual obligation an inspiring spine tingle should have. He spoke with such honor, such confidence. Every mission could be completed using the right set of tools, set in the right places with a calculated exact timing of every move. Chess was improbable to the man; there was no outside element, bargaining chip, possibility of an upgraded weapon attack that would ultimately level the playing field under duress. He would never kill another man or support the causes for warfare but in militant behavioral sciences that examined every known element of each variable and consistently keeping one step ahead of any opposition. I was taught exit points, tactical landmarks and recognizable influences. If I needed to ask a question, I was taught to meditate on each word of its answer as to never repeat the inquiry again.

There wasn’t a reason to know everything, rather to know everything about how to successfully acquire information about the unknown element. I was taught to keep recourses instead of friends. People were easily forgotten if their purpose was fulfilled in my growth. I was kind to computer genius that could locate the answer to literally every question on the internet via bit-torrent connections, the artist that could compliment any romantic setting, the athlete that could physically dominate any fight, the drug dealer that could get his hands on any prescription for cheaper than the pharmacies, and the girlfriends to help self-analyze idiosyncrasies to maintain a likeable personality.  They were recourses to necessitate the upper hand. He was perfect.

In the last years of his life, I never left his side. I would go out of my way to joke, laugh, and utilize every positive emotion. Those last years were his proudest. I insured a lucrative inheritance by persuading his resource. I lived out his teachings and he was proud.  After his last words, “I will always win” he left me out of his will and catapulted me into an extreme stage of bankruptcy for wasting the past few years on my father, a multi-millionaire, who couldn’t spare a breath in my direction once he realized my tactical checkmate. There always had to be an outside element and by leaving me out of his will, he insured a level playing field once under duress. 

in order to describe.

two pairs of clothes that didn’t match under any combination and some fancy curtains that were there when I moved in. This is how my dust collects. She stole my heart that used to cherish what was pure and worthy.

 I stick to fiction books in these days. They never really demand any attention to detail, just as long as the imagination is taken on the correct path toward a vague message. Stories used to be so simple, so to the point and meaningful. Now its just guessing at which word is not the shorter straw. True, there is a various collection of principles and vitalities, but what truly seems to reach vulnerable distances is the past, dust covered and weary, the past lights our mistakes. If only we were to listen to the whispers coming from the trees. Its not supposed to be this way! Nothing we are doing makes any sense as far as reasonable scholars can tell but we press forward, shoulders to the northbound wind, trying to find a way through the fog that constantly covers our imagination with its disembodied hands. We fight and follow and lead and love but we seem to be making the opposite effects on our future. Without a guideline or optimistic chemical warfare, what can we hope to press toward?

 

church?

I love church now. After going 7 hrs/sunday for a few years, it became a pretty strenuous chore but now i've discovered the true merit of the refreshing nature of a Sunday morning at church. I've for some reason always seen myself as the older man who sits in the back, enjoys every song, tithes, takes sermon notes, and leaves without really socializing or engaging in any serious conversations with fellow members. I always saw myself taking intense pride in dressing up each Sunday, since this is something i never do. I rarely look in the mirror before leaving the house for the day, the clothes I wear are just what's there (no fashion sense), and my hair/beard are usually unkempt. Thus, dressing up each Sunday would be a lovely goal for me and now i've started to make this a reality. 

I don't care if anybody else thinks I look nice, just like I dont care when other people think I look shitty, but the process of waking up a little earlier than usual, setting aside time to iron/comb/gel is a constant reminder, to me, of the dedication to which i am subject. 

I dont think God cares what I look like, and I dont really either, but this strange form of meditation has slightly opened my eyes to the requirement of being a mature, sustainable person. I figure that I will continue this routine and one day, i can be the religious man in the back that is just such a lovely image of grace and beauty. 

Plus, my beautiful girlfriend joined me today and knew when to let me worship, and when i would want to hold hands without me telling her...she impresses me once more. we talked about the above form of servitude and she agrees that the process, even though she must go through it every day, of getting ready and proper each Sunday morning rather than sleeping is a legitimate meditation. 

Glad to know im not the only one who thinks this way :)

ticking away

the moments that make up

the dull day 

Today had a few benefits. I learned a few new "sleeping positions for Russian serfs",got to spend some quality R&R with my outstanding girlfriend, and enjoyed a Corner Bakery panini with my insightful mother for lunch.
Its refreshing to see what life can be like before Art and constant third parties intervened. To not have to worry about short stories and writing styles of modern authors compared to the various poets that I idolize every single stop light or moment off would be an indescribable joy of laziness and eventual boredom. Sure, its not for me, but the simple life would be lovely. Its not my responsibility, but as an artist/ err...creative-type, i always feel pressured to preform in the impossible realms of excellence in order to (+)to or (-)from my "work" as the commonfolk man. Essentially life has become my pallet to which different areas of experience enrich my possibilities to produce some form of true art. Hello? Is there anybody out there? ....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgocE-JfWFI

squeek

Check the hinges
squeaks can let them know something
before you’re ready to tell them

When I was thirteen years old, my father gave me three cigarettes and said I had to pick my battles. I smoked the first at his funeral two weeks later and the next two on the ride home with my mother. I never learned how to pick those battles, and it took me the next 20 years to loose the one with tobacco.
My mattress stopped working right around the time that the rent was due and complimented the landlord’s new horn-rimmed glasses to squeeze out another month of two pairs of clothes that didn’t match under any combination and some fancy curtains that were there when I moved in. This is how my dust collects. The typewriter alone could pay for the apartment but she at least sings to me in the shower. My left pinky could pay for the apartment alone but she hasn’t woken up in years and my heart stopped expecting her brilliance.
Stuck in the same
Lost in the snow
it’s a lockless environmental
mistake
Jerry can roll with one hand
I cant roll with two
it’s a bodiless mass
jingle