guday, mates. so in my quest to find peace, i've been sifting through some books given to me over the holidays- "the power of now" and "you can heal your life". gee, i wonder what the common theme in these books is. thank God for dr. phil and his endorsements. with the anxiety of everyday life, and my inability to acquire xanax, i have been attempting to focus on my breath and the very moment- not the moment 2 seconds ago, or the 2 seconds into the future. just what's happening at the moment of each breath, and giving notice to the breath, as if each one a gift. the effects of this practice have proven interesting, you see, because what has happened is that i'm going through frequent "hills" of peace and panic. one moment i'm at peace with the present, then the next i'm having a slight panic attack and want to swerve my car across a highway median, and straight to the airport. my breath has now become breathe in peace, breathe out panic.
can i find solace after 6 months in a fat camp? or a yoga retreat at yogaville?
swami asalamalaykem, please hear my cry.
i'm tired. i have homework. i have work in the morning. i should go to sleep. i don't want to do any of it.
God, i need to thank you tonight for the stars and the moon, and the music that gets me through the day. there are no words to describe their beauty.
in the words of my late uncle steve, be well.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
My rap.
in the words of our ol' school rapper, Ice Cube- Today was a good day. And I didn't even shoot my AK.
Goodnight, Mr. Cube- wherever you are...
Goodnight, Mr. Cube- wherever you are...
Friday, December 26, 2008
believe in your fortune cookie- if you know what's good for you.
i hate stopping for gas. i put it off until my gas light comes on, then i curse over and over again until i must be driving on the last drop, my eyes shifting from road to little orange light, road to orange light...then eventually, there i am, in all my gas pumping glory, standing in the cold and wind, angrily watching the digital numbers on the pump fly to the heights of the universe, dollars flying out of my bank account. god forbid i must pay first, needing to use CASH, of which the last 20 numbers on the pump drip by, like a barely leaking faucet, my impatience literally killing me. i must sell the car.
and oprah. on the cover of a magazine, standing next to HERSELF, about 50 pounds lighter and 12 years ago, in a cover-story before-and-after photo. after 40 years of her public yo-yo diets, who gives a shit about her fat ass now?? YOU HAVE A PERSONAL CHEF FOR GOD'S SAKE! tell him not to make the fried twinkies for dessert again!! doesn't he cook healthy?? wouldn't you make him?? JESUS!! go pump your own gas for a change! can you squeeze a trigger??
i'm fine. i'm listening to a new cd- "healing waters" by dean evenson. the massage therapist i can't afford anymore played it once and i loved it. it has the sounds of the ocean, and you know how i love me some ocean. finally, someone who values the water as much as i do. which brings me to fortune cookies.
i've tried over and over again to figure out this quest for peace. i fight through each day trying to be at peace with my situation(s), my environment, my job...and call me stubborn, but i'm just not happy here- well, most of the time. i know how i am blessed, and am grateful for those things. but my true happiness lies within freedom from all things which bind us, and exists near the water. i need my ocean, i need my people, i need the sun. it's just not here. simple. i keep going back to the two best fortune cookies i ever got. when someone tells me "if you're not happy where you're at..." or while i'm punching a 40 hour clock and missing rare times with my family, i think of these:
ONLY YOU KNOW WHAT IS IMPORTANT TO YOU
NO MAN IS FREE WHO IS NOT MASTER OF HIMSELF
and i think about the beach
and the people
and my smiles
and my love for life
and my passions
and look over at my tropical island calendar hanging on the wall
next to this computer
and i put myself there
someday
and try to go to sleep because i must get up early for my job because my job pays the bills...
so goodnight, all. maybe you'll appear in my dreams. where i'm not bitching. i swear.
and oprah. on the cover of a magazine, standing next to HERSELF, about 50 pounds lighter and 12 years ago, in a cover-story before-and-after photo. after 40 years of her public yo-yo diets, who gives a shit about her fat ass now?? YOU HAVE A PERSONAL CHEF FOR GOD'S SAKE! tell him not to make the fried twinkies for dessert again!! doesn't he cook healthy?? wouldn't you make him?? JESUS!! go pump your own gas for a change! can you squeeze a trigger??
i'm fine. i'm listening to a new cd- "healing waters" by dean evenson. the massage therapist i can't afford anymore played it once and i loved it. it has the sounds of the ocean, and you know how i love me some ocean. finally, someone who values the water as much as i do. which brings me to fortune cookies.
i've tried over and over again to figure out this quest for peace. i fight through each day trying to be at peace with my situation(s), my environment, my job...and call me stubborn, but i'm just not happy here- well, most of the time. i know how i am blessed, and am grateful for those things. but my true happiness lies within freedom from all things which bind us, and exists near the water. i need my ocean, i need my people, i need the sun. it's just not here. simple. i keep going back to the two best fortune cookies i ever got. when someone tells me "if you're not happy where you're at..." or while i'm punching a 40 hour clock and missing rare times with my family, i think of these:
ONLY YOU KNOW WHAT IS IMPORTANT TO YOU
NO MAN IS FREE WHO IS NOT MASTER OF HIMSELF
and i think about the beach
and the people
and my smiles
and my love for life
and my passions
and look over at my tropical island calendar hanging on the wall
next to this computer
and i put myself there
someday
and try to go to sleep because i must get up early for my job because my job pays the bills...
so goodnight, all. maybe you'll appear in my dreams. where i'm not bitching. i swear.
Friday, December 19, 2008
outer space
wow. i'm in a deep zone with radiohead right now. i don't even know what to say to you people. brigette- how's that poetry comin' along? mike- why the fuck are you suddenly unlisted? dave- how can you be so good looking and so damn nice at the same time? cheri- i miss tai chi in the park.
i spoke to my friend brigette tonight. she said she put some poetry on her blog. it got me thinking about my old poetry tonight. then i laid back in my computer chair and daydreamed with my music.
i gotta go to sleep.
i think 2 hours just went by while i was going through some old shit. i found some old journals and stuff i'd been subconsciously trying to forget. i read some of the entries, some ranting, some poems. damn, i was really depressing. but i loved san diego. i loved the ocean, the bums, the bus, the inspiration. so much inspiration it was the sweat from your pores. here, my skin is bone-dry.
i didn't realize how often i used to write. i wrote all the time. i read poetry and followed it around. i was passionate about it. hmmmm...inspired and passionate. an unusual combination.
i was going to leave you with a poem i wrote in california, but i couldn't find the one i wanted. damn- it was a funny, one too. but here are a few good lines from 4 different poems out of a poetry magazine i found called "The Drumming Between Us"- a creation from Peter J. Harris, a poet among other things, then living in L.A. i met him while taking a poetry class in san diego. he's a bad-ass dude. wonder where he is now.
anyway, some pieces from a few poems, Harris' magazine, written by various poets:
in fact, its even unscientific
not to evolve
not to love, not to
grow & give back
the only humans who actually evolve
are lovers
all others
just simply fuck and reproduce
why is it that leaflets
handed out on blustery march mornings
never discuss the injustice
of loneliness?
being with you is like being high and floating into my own groove
its like living free and doin what i want without having to watch every move
touching you is like touching satin, my hands glide to a rhythm all their own
its like that feeling one gets in a small dimly lit jazz club listening to a musician play the saxophone
kissing you is like having a dream so good you wished it was real
we sat there drinking miso soup
and tea
and eating sushi
in the darkness
of an empty theater
i looked over at her
she was smiling at the film
she is lovely
even in the dark
and i realized
even if she became a toothless old gypsy
or something
i would always love her
i held her hand
and it was good
i hugged her
and it was good
She's gone now
I'm going through withdrawal
I cried for her
and it was good
this magazine consists mostly of love poems, and in the back of it there is a passage that tells of a writer's workshop in L.A.'s Leimert Park Village. they read love poetry. i think that's pretty cool. it's dated 1997. i hope they're still there.
well, thank you Peter J. Harris, for the inspiration tonight, even if i get no sleep. and although you wouldn't remember me if we met again, i think you're the shit. it was an honor.
i spoke to my friend brigette tonight. she said she put some poetry on her blog. it got me thinking about my old poetry tonight. then i laid back in my computer chair and daydreamed with my music.
i gotta go to sleep.
i think 2 hours just went by while i was going through some old shit. i found some old journals and stuff i'd been subconsciously trying to forget. i read some of the entries, some ranting, some poems. damn, i was really depressing. but i loved san diego. i loved the ocean, the bums, the bus, the inspiration. so much inspiration it was the sweat from your pores. here, my skin is bone-dry.
i didn't realize how often i used to write. i wrote all the time. i read poetry and followed it around. i was passionate about it. hmmmm...inspired and passionate. an unusual combination.
i was going to leave you with a poem i wrote in california, but i couldn't find the one i wanted. damn- it was a funny, one too. but here are a few good lines from 4 different poems out of a poetry magazine i found called "The Drumming Between Us"- a creation from Peter J. Harris, a poet among other things, then living in L.A. i met him while taking a poetry class in san diego. he's a bad-ass dude. wonder where he is now.
anyway, some pieces from a few poems, Harris' magazine, written by various poets:
in fact, its even unscientific
not to evolve
not to love, not to
grow & give back
the only humans who actually evolve
are lovers
all others
just simply fuck and reproduce
why is it that leaflets
handed out on blustery march mornings
never discuss the injustice
of loneliness?
being with you is like being high and floating into my own groove
its like living free and doin what i want without having to watch every move
touching you is like touching satin, my hands glide to a rhythm all their own
its like that feeling one gets in a small dimly lit jazz club listening to a musician play the saxophone
kissing you is like having a dream so good you wished it was real
we sat there drinking miso soup
and tea
and eating sushi
in the darkness
of an empty theater
i looked over at her
she was smiling at the film
she is lovely
even in the dark
and i realized
even if she became a toothless old gypsy
or something
i would always love her
i held her hand
and it was good
i hugged her
and it was good
She's gone now
I'm going through withdrawal
I cried for her
and it was good
this magazine consists mostly of love poems, and in the back of it there is a passage that tells of a writer's workshop in L.A.'s Leimert Park Village. they read love poetry. i think that's pretty cool. it's dated 1997. i hope they're still there.
well, thank you Peter J. Harris, for the inspiration tonight, even if i get no sleep. and although you wouldn't remember me if we met again, i think you're the shit. it was an honor.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
songs.
so, songs. i couldn't sleep, so what else was there to do besides utilize all of the extra shit that comes with my fancy cell phone? like browsing through artists and songs and listening to snipets of the good ol' days? i must have been playing with that thing for an hour, trying not to succum to ordering some gay ring tone that would eventually cause my phone to stop ringing. i did, however, find some old songs that flooded my mind with memories of yesteryear, and the depression began to seap out of my brain like piss in a full diaper. huh? anyway, suddenly i was back on ocean beach, camped in my favorite spot, just me and my headphones, the sun and the ocean. i was there almost every day- i'd take the bus, which was an adventure in itself, and get off in ocean beach, walk to a snack stand on the corner of a gas station, grab a hot dog and a fruit punch, and head to my spot. in miami, it was a blueberry muffin with the fruit punch- they taste so good on the beach for some reason! but i'd lay there with my headphones and my favorite cd, the one that cleared my head, and there was no better place on earth.
i came across another song that brought me back to the room i rented from a married couple in hillcrest. it was a lonely bedroom, and i had little privacy, being they were home all the time so i seldom had guests. but on the nights i stayed in, which were few, i dreamt of my military lover away at sea, and beckoned the gods to bring him home. everyone has a song or cd that got them through a really bad time, and i had mine, and it came to me tonight. the memories of those nights, with or without him, provoked some very dusty tears out of the attic of my mind. i just really missed those days, and haven't felt the happiness of the ocean or the longing for a lover in so, so long.
i miss being passionate about something, or someone. i miss the anticipation of a new day, like i had years ago. i miss the lack of responsibilty in my life, and the freedom. i miss being missed.
this isn't life. my life. being up to your ears in bills and being owned by your job and planning for months to spend time with your own damn family. it's all fucked up. it's not right. this sucks. i wanna sell my car and house, rent jet skis in miami, run a bed & breakfast in mexico, or cook burgers in costa rica. i could do that. let me know if you find my balls. i seem to have lost them somewhere in this town.
goodnight, my bloggers.
i came across another song that brought me back to the room i rented from a married couple in hillcrest. it was a lonely bedroom, and i had little privacy, being they were home all the time so i seldom had guests. but on the nights i stayed in, which were few, i dreamt of my military lover away at sea, and beckoned the gods to bring him home. everyone has a song or cd that got them through a really bad time, and i had mine, and it came to me tonight. the memories of those nights, with or without him, provoked some very dusty tears out of the attic of my mind. i just really missed those days, and haven't felt the happiness of the ocean or the longing for a lover in so, so long.
i miss being passionate about something, or someone. i miss the anticipation of a new day, like i had years ago. i miss the lack of responsibilty in my life, and the freedom. i miss being missed.
this isn't life. my life. being up to your ears in bills and being owned by your job and planning for months to spend time with your own damn family. it's all fucked up. it's not right. this sucks. i wanna sell my car and house, rent jet skis in miami, run a bed & breakfast in mexico, or cook burgers in costa rica. i could do that. let me know if you find my balls. i seem to have lost them somewhere in this town.
goodnight, my bloggers.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
MAD. FAT. MAD AND FAT.
this town is no good for me. i can't walk anywhere. and if i do, i'll get hit by a minivan. when i lived in california, florida, montana in ten feet of fucking snow...i WALKED! jesus, god forbid they start building sidewalks in this place. people might actually WALK to the mcdonalds instead of drive. maybe it's because the death rate would RISE from fat people walking into other people leaving a mcdonalds.
i see pictures of myself and want to sit on someone. or sit on myself. whatever. i'm unrecognisable. i cut myself out of them because i can't bear to see what i've become! isn't that pathetic?? now i need to add DIET pills to my list! how big is santa's bag? can my pills fit amongst all of the nintendo games and polly pockets? surely, they can!
the fact is, exercise is not a lifestyle here. it's a chore. it's not incorporated into the daily routine- we have to make TIME for it. and who the hell has THAT? (and if you do, then go jam a yoga mat up your skinny ass.) send me to a fat camp. leave me alone. i don't want to see anyone for 6 months. as for my continual pessimism, go fuck yourself. it's my party and i'll bitch if i want to.
god- i'm sorry- how was your day?
i see pictures of myself and want to sit on someone. or sit on myself. whatever. i'm unrecognisable. i cut myself out of them because i can't bear to see what i've become! isn't that pathetic?? now i need to add DIET pills to my list! how big is santa's bag? can my pills fit amongst all of the nintendo games and polly pockets? surely, they can!
the fact is, exercise is not a lifestyle here. it's a chore. it's not incorporated into the daily routine- we have to make TIME for it. and who the hell has THAT? (and if you do, then go jam a yoga mat up your skinny ass.) send me to a fat camp. leave me alone. i don't want to see anyone for 6 months. as for my continual pessimism, go fuck yourself. it's my party and i'll bitch if i want to.
god- i'm sorry- how was your day?
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