footwear disclaimers

An Orgy of Convenience without a Single Orgasm.

One must imagine most beasts as lonesome scavenging things. Trying to find what comfort can be found in scavenging. In turn ourselves finding some comfort in the idea that beasts too are lonesome.

A giant cat, forty feet tall in a large wood. It laps at a pond. Poor cat. They do not make catbeds that are forty feet tall.

A tiny mallet, hidden in my palm. I brandish it only when I am unwilling to. I thwack! Only in jest.

A pinball in a pinball machine spending an eternity hovering the distance between the two paddles at the bottom before it drops through and everything ends.

One must imagine a shepherd. Pastures growing, sheep’s bleating. Tentative in my disagreement. Tensing up. James Baldwin in truth is the only writer I have truly felt beholden to. Much like Kurosawa. I have not read a single word Baldwin writ that I did not agree with, that I do not feel my very soul shifting to align with, a feeling that I cannot denounce, revoke or turn into anything it is not. I read quite a lot of Baldwin and I realized that words are truth. I watched quite a lot of Kurosawa and realized that film is truth. His words at least. His films at least. There are very few people who have ever been truthful and each time I sit down to write I think a little of Baldwin and feel lost.

I find myself in a great wilderness, most wilderness is great yet this wilderness is great in its size and not its contents, it’s contents are chilling, makes my compass shiver. Spiral.

In this great wilderness I find myself in I look at the cresting treetops where I know that village lies, the village strangers end up in. I know that the only way to be honest is to write. It is awfully difficult to convince myself to start writing but I find that once I do, once I open my mouth; my paper mouth that is, it is very hard to justify doing anything else. All of my free time could be taken up by writing, all of my free time could be taken up by reading. All of my free time could be taken up by watching movies. All of my free time could be taken up by traveling. All of my free time could be taken up hiking. All of my free time could be taken up doing any old thing and it is. It is. All of my free time is what makes my writing worth reading. Drat.

Perhaps we give each actor a different script with each one having a different scene for who has what hand. Or telling Harrison Brown there is more to life than reading novels. Telling Winthrup Hums that he must do more than walk.

Unshorn, tangled knots in bramble, mistaken for bonsai.

I miss an open city.

The world is not new, the people are not kind, all architecture is hostile architecture; all politics, disaster politics. One must imagine resentment like a kernel of popcorn between your teeth in the dark of the cinema. Grating, easily handled in the light. One must sit with it before the overheads come on.

Ironing the board, wondering why the clothes don’t get any kinder.

1. It is incredibly hard to make anything worth while from a gash other than a scar.

2. I know I can change because I already have

Day of service as absolution. Fill a bag of trash, watch your soul birth anew. Some people have boring dreams. More people live.

When I was a child. I wanted to be like Shaka Zulu when I grew up. Now I have grown and I.

For a great while nothing was meant of anything and now people want the inverse and try to do the opposite but the opposite of nothing is not something, it is more nothing.

Un-Circumstantial life, doing whatever you want whenever you want. Catharsis. Endless miserable highway. Unchecked conformity, same face, same ears. Who cares? When you dine alone there is no one else to foot the bill.

New fanged, emerging. biting itself, finding it’s own meaning from the forms that it draws blood from.

The Rising Tide. All boats.