Weather Mod

Is the weather dictating my mood, or is it the other way around.

It's so windy the birds are grounded.

I hear it careening off the windows,

and it's washing over the sand outside

in waves.

Those brave birds.

I've had a silent desperation all day.

To give it sound would be to hear

what I hear now.

A hollow howl,

A constant battering.

Gray static.

Despite all this, the grumpy old man who hates rabbis

Is out on a bench reading.

He'd say it's something to hold out against.

Garfield Was A Magical Cat

That's the name of the magical street too, the one I always ride down to get In-N-Out.  The street with the one streetlight.  It's funny, I'd always just notice it when I'd ride by and it'd flash, pop once, right beside me.

Not tonight.

No, tonight I think is the first time I remembered with a shocking clarity that only comes from getting hit by a car full of girls on the ride down from Claire's, such a breath of fresh air.

"Wait, what?" said the girl.

Tonight I looked down the length of Garfield from my street and saw it standing there in the distance. It flashed twice, pop-pop and when I rode by it was dark, so strange, so I looked at the street sign at Lincoln.

GARFIELD AVE.

Tonight's the night for profound revelations then.  Like depression, remember?  Yes, the end of it is the difference between seeing a red light and a light that's almost green.  See?  You just have to put your mind to it, remember.  To do anything really, but that's always the hardest part; to remember to put your mind to it, to tell it what to do.  The doing's the easy part.

Like tonight she told me she didn't want it to be emotional, (which was some small realization in itself) so I told it not to be vindictive.  Supportive, I told it to be what she needed it to be.  It's over so I gave her the ring I was going to propose to her with because what the hell else was I going to do with it.  I couldn't bear to keep it, it's garnet and opal, her birthstone and mine.  That's too much to hold on to, and she's loves jewelry.  It belonged to no one else but her, I had to, and it made her happy.

And tonight just now, I bought a man sleeping on the street some french fries, which only means something because I never get french fries, and I've never done that before, buy someone else food.  I learned that from her, my dear Claire, my fresh air.

I hope he likes them.

What Happened To The Rose

I think I'm going to start putting my headphones in again.  Fuck my ears.  The feeling's worth it, like justifying a spliff or the blotter acid.  It's just worth it.  It's marionette strings lifting my soul up off the ground.  Take a look around without the buzz, no clutter of sound, just soundtrack.

No laughter, no chink of dishes and silverware, no seats, no receipts, no words.  It's just mute animation and an unnerving straight train of focus.  It takes some getting used to again, this separation with life in the background, background music in the background and only what I want to hear whispering in my ears.

"I'm having trouble breathing in..."

Breath in.  Everyone's dancing.  They're dancing at the tables, they're talking, they're listening.  They're dancing through the crowds with aprons and dishes.  Behind the counters they're dancing, behind the bar they're dancing, selling themselves and smiling, flirting with the work day.  I dance too, I know the motion.

Warbly Barker

And so, like waking up in a bad dream and realizing nothing more than wanting to be unconscious again and away from it all, it's a sunless day on the boulevard.  The sky's a somber gray.  I hope the heavens will cry for me so that no one will notice if I can't help myself.

The movie's just about over, it's just the credits haven't rolled yet and I'm still sitting here waiting to get up and walk out, sitting on a short bench, leaning on a dark wall and just writing in my lap to keep myself sane again.

And ho! What do you know, a kind sparrow gives me hope when I need it the most.  A small sign, small white and dry on my leg by my words.  These Gjelina birds sure are getting their fiber.  Despite everything right now, I have to smile as I flick it away clean like it was never there.  I'm a lucky man.

Don't you forget that through all this.  Look back and see how far she's taken you, see how far you've come, and be thankful.  Be grateful and fill with pride, and never forget what kind of man you want to be.

I feel like a dog at the shelter today.

Quote of the Day: Smile When She Makes You Happy

El Ranchero

A terrible feeling's come over me.  I don't know, it just struck me like a bad cold last night while I was riding my bike home from work some time around midnight.  I can't shake it, this sudden anxiousness, something's wrong.  That feeling's been with me all day, the feeling that something's wrong.  Something's changed or else my imagination's playing tricks on me.  It's bubbling dread at the thought of being left in the lurch, like I'm waiting at the train station, flowers in hand, for an empty train.  I hope to God I'm wrong.  I hope it's the devil playing with my mind.  I hope I'm not losing it.  I haven't had a drink or a smoke in three days, and now dialogue's running away in my head.

The horses are loose.  They're on the lam, rushing towards freedom or whatever's outside of the pen, save for one still waiting, still loyal, still sure that she'll be there when it's all over and the storm abates and the skies quiet their rolling thunder.  I pray she's still there in nine days.  I swear I'll be good.

What if that's not good enough?  What if she's sick and tired of it, of me and everything bad she's built up on top of me.  It feels like she's cutting the tow lines.  That's what it is.

I'm adrift.

I can't sleep at night.
I only lie in bed,
awake,
just thinking about her,
and then
trying not to.

Que Intelligencia

I've been teaching myself Spanish and French, because really now more than anything, more than oceans and mountains and storms and sleet, language is the great divider, and at the same time, the great equalizer.  It is the freest source of infinite knowledge in the real world when you live in such a place as this.

In Venice intelligence has many forms.  The most pronounced to me is an ability to understand someone, anyone really.  Spanish is as common as a tattooed sleeve on this street.  French resonates like so many pairs of designer sunglasses.

It's everywhere here, if you just listen for it.  It's attracted to food.

I'm Not That Good At Breathing In

What warrants immortality?  How do I pick and choose what to remember forever?  Who knows.

The man today is worth it though.  Nondescript per se, I only really noticed the darkness of his skin because of the clear crystals hanging from his neck, shining bright in the sunlight.  Like black leather. I had my sunglasses on. Still, he looked me straight in the eyes and motioned towards the horizon with his.  "Look there," he said.  He had sunglasses on too.  I look.  The sky is thick with wispy clouds, miso soup blue, the sun's still high, but I catch it in the clouds, just off the blinding ball to the left.  There's a splotch of rainbow in the wisps.

"Ha! I see it!" I say.  I take my sunglasses off, and the spot disappears in the glare, but when I put them back on, it's right there. "Incredible," I say.

"It is isn't it." Dozens walk by in either direction on the choked boardwalk.  It's the weekend.  I smile at him, and he smiles back.  He doesn't even try to sell me anything.

I got to keep walking though, I'm late for work.  I turn back to him, "Hey, good looking out." I give him a thumbs up, and he beams at me.  Maybe I am going fucking crazy, fast train on old tracks maybe, but I remember this feeling.  It's a soul-flutter.  It's the presence of a mystic in my midst. Immortality?  I'm sure of it.  He's made for my words, and he wasn't the first, and it's funny to me to catch a sense so specific like that; a universal acknowledgement, a sign in black stone, a crystal omen, something that pricks the day and stands out.

Uncle Scotty's got it in spades.  What a fucking legend he is; father, fiend, unafraid, he is.  People might look at him and laugh to idolize, not me.  He knows, he's seen most of what others only assume and watch on TV.  He knows.

Fuck, I am going fucking crazy.  The squadron's taking off.
It feels goods.

Sometimes writing is hard and I pull my hair out and I stare at the screen like staring at a brick fucking wall.

Sometimes it's not hard at all.

Waldorf

I wonder how old the name is.  It means something, Waldorf.  It holds weight because of the one in New York, but this isn't New York.  The years progressed down a different path here in Venice.  They were a bit wilder on the west coast.  More callous, more crazy, more cock-eyed.  The elegance left decades ago, but the charm is still there in the dotted sun-rooms on the north wall, and in the white brick, and in the old penthouses on the roof and the old fire escape. It's a magnificent building.  I take a stroll from the property on Breeze to check up on things like a worried mother. 

The ground's wet in then night and when I look at the streetlights there's water in the air.  It's not raining though, it's not falling from the sky, kind of like the drops aren't sure of themselves, and they're just blowing back and forth and swirling in the wind.  The moisture collects on my skin as I walk through.  It feels like silk curtains.  There's two homeless men wrapped up in windbreakers staying dry under the eaves.  They're listening to a recording. It's not music, it's a something else, and one of the men is reciting it word for word, both sides of the dialogue.

It's Gone With The Wind.