November 16, 2009

Not writing again today. Just had troube spelling…see just there spelling trouble. I was going to write that I had trouble spelling again and today but…fuck…just so raw and un-creative for what seems to be months and months. I started to write a moive I got hired on but in my opinion, messed that job up with being over anxious and under professional…anyway (just took me three tries to get, anyway spelled correctly and if I am developing dyslexia, god help me.) GOD HELP ME ANYWAY!

I should say. Any which way but not. I am sitting here in my office in Topnaga. It is cold in here as there is not heat in the house. It has warmed up outside as I see the slats of sun on the porch beyond my window and it looks warm. Well, I’m no….AND THE FUCKING LANDLADY LIVES RIGHT UNDERNEATH US AND I HEAR HERE TALKING ON THE PHONE ALL THE TIME AND PLAYING BAD NEW AGE MUSIC AND T V SHOWS AND I FEEL LIKE STAMPING ON THE FLOOR AND TELLING HER TO SHUT THE FUCK UO BECAUSE I CAN’T CONCENTRATE ON ANYTHING UP HERE!!!!

But I am not writing much and no I have to put on some of my own music to drown out her droning voice. Well, got some hard bee-bop playing now. Lee Morgan’s ‘Sidewinder’. Very cool. Makes me wanna put on a shark skin suit and sip a martini and do a little twisting around with some mini skirt mama.

So, yeah, it is warming up outside but my hands are clod on the lap top keys because there is no friggin heat in this house. But we have a pot belly stove in the living room and that is great because when I put in a few logs, it warms up the whole house. So what kinda money is in this one? Nothing. No one to read it to for some sort of adulation? You are so talented! Fuck. Is that where it is really at for me? I can’t write because I see no money in my current useless musings. Like this one here. What the fuck? What the fuck is it for.

There is a crack in the window on the lower left corner. If I concentrate on the tiny squares in the screen, I can’t even see past to the porch where those slats of sun lay soft and warm on the light gray deck. What is it made of? I don’t know. Gret material. I meant grey material. Or gray. Not capotolized like I just made it, like Gray, because that could be somebody’s name. Gray. Yes, Gray. No Gray. Gray Macy or Macy Gray. Which came first? The black or the lady? Lady sunshine softly on my deck of gret (mistake on grey again) matter. Great matter? Is that what I really want to say? Or grey matter. Matter or fact. Looking now to see I am still on page one. Must fix that with double spacing later. So back to the deck. There is an old wooden ammunition box out there that looks as if, well not really because I am making it up…but as making it up, the antique (changed from old) wooden, okay faded, brushed faded ammunition box…or maybe splintered box makes me feel this is civil war times and the box is filled with bayonets or muskets and I don’t know a goddamn fuck the difference between muskets and muskrats and I know bayonets stab or better yet plunge. Plunge. Plunge. Plunge. Plunge and produce. Just there I fixed produced that started off as opiates. And please don’t let me back track to that past. Past. Past. Past. Am I past it? Is that what I am dying to tell myself? That I am past it. Past it so I can die? And as the suicide seducement sets in, so does a new tune by Art Blakey, called ‘Splendid’. And it is so splendid. Got me boppin’ in my chair. Yes, Art Blakey did like his opiates. And where the fuck did that come from? Before the fact, because the song did not even play when I imagined the word. Prophetic? Me? I would hope so but I can’t deny, I am not. And speak about in the moment, we are going from Opiates to Splendid to prophetic to an add for acne medication Proactive. So glad I could afford acutane when my son was going through that phase, know what I’m saying? And that he had no suicidal reactions to it as it sucked the poison ego crushing out of his skin. Ego crushing. That wasn’t really it. No really the right word…for him anyway. For me it is an everyday affair with the crushing. The crushing. That kind of crushing. Because I am not where I am supposed to be in the professional writing world. Am I? Say it. Or can I have an amen to salvage me. Save. I close my eyes and slowly…fuck that adverb shite….I close my eyes and slow down my mind for the vision of save to seep in. I do need saving. I need. Needy. You needy little cunt. Spoiled needy little whiny cunt. Surf a porn site right now as cunt seeps inot your mind. And that wasn’t slow. It came fast. I came to fast. That’s’ where the heroin came in, way, way back for the super human six hour long fucks. Stop. Don’t be cruel, self flaggleating…cock sister gotta spell check on that one. Stupid! See that’s where it comes from- way back. Stupid worthless illiterate. Wait. Flagellating. There. See, ask for help and all is well. HELP!....Well? Well. Well, well, well. Jump in and hope there is some water down there. Down. Down in hell where I belong. Okay. That sent some revealing fear into the room. God, please remove the Devil within that is holding my dear, sweet creative soul from flourishing and writing with ease, vigor and passion. Please, God, do it.

Breath in

Breath out

Take the gift

And give God thanks

We have a wood rail around the porch deck that los kind of like a fence but it is suspended. 1”by 2” by 3 feet wood, nailed onto 2”by 4” by 10 foot….Miles Davis now with ‘Pfrancin’…make me not care about planks or rails or wood or…but Miles was an accomplished to the princely degree, who DID GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ALL AND EVERY NOTE…SO WAKE THE FUCK UP AND IDENTIFY!

So the wood rails or planks are nailed into the wider ones and there are a few 4”by 4” by 10 foot tall beams that hold up the roof, only I can’t really see the roof from the window unless I bend over the computer and peer out. So the fucking pint man, (mistake again in the spelling) not pint man but, point man, the point is that the suspended fence around the deck has the soft winter silver sun cast upon it, thus producing the shadow on the grey deck of the very same fence and the antique wood box, glows golden now, with the sun stronger than when I first started this silly but necessary rant of words. The golden box on my grey deck. Trees behind. Pepper and Oak and Eucalyptus. Oh, a cute little birdhouse hanging from a spruceling, for lack of a better way to describe a tal thin tree from which I do not know the name. Fuck. Gotta spell check sprucling. Fucking Spruce ling, separated like Cod ling on Ling Cod. And why does that bother me so much? Look in , look way, way in deep as deep as you can go on that, mien friend. Friend. Trying to spell the German Fru..end…but had to separate that because the naturally occurring Microsoft spell check keeps changing it into, friend.

Miles again. ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’. So hard, looking so easy. AND I SAY AGAIN, REPETITIONS OVER AND OVER AND OVER. PRACTICE AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN. WORKING EVERY, EVERY DAY. EVERY, EVERY, EVERY DAY TO GET IT RIGHT. GET IT RIGHT AT LEAST…for yourself. Don’t worry about the rest. Money. Where will it come from, if not the writing? What more do I have in my mind? Recycled old ideas. Puss. Blast. Blasted Horses with fox tails and diamond eyes, cocks to eternity, cussing the she-male leaders of the universe, to high hope ultimatums and dad died with two thousand penthouse magazines in his closet. Donkeys. Grand Canyon. Serialize. Serious. Murders everyone. And that woman so haunting and evil beautiful, destroyed, pimping out her five year old daughter. Insanely perverse. Why, why oh why oh why are there customers for that without psyches exploding before impact? Or contact? Sideline..just made another mistake by absentmindedly hitting some key on the computer that brought up the option to double space. Some unaware shortcut…that I took…thus and not the adverb thusly…just thus….this…hiss and hip hip hooray, now I have my double space…while the morality of the world crumbles, well crumbles off the whole pie, I suppose. I mean, the five year old girl, pimped out by her Satanic, disturbed beyond comprehension mom has to be offered another dimension. It says she was murdered by a sixty year old customer and left in a field somewhere. God, I can’;t even swallow how wrong that is with tears dripping now. Mommy taught me what to do. Give her a queendom in that next dimension. And Queendom does not exist in the dictionary but Kingdom sure does. Kings. Sorry but I am an thoroughly embarrassed man at the moment. Boby Shew playing, ‘When my Lady Sleeps’. Coincidence? What? Just convienience of mind. Cock shit sister piss all over tree bark in the wind, I have to spell check convienience. Convenience. There. Again, help comes if you ask for it…but it is so damn hard until you ask. Do ask.

The yellow paint on the window here is chipped on the bottom I see. Quite obvious, paint chipped off down to the wood in a few different places…but I missed it for the past there months until I saw it right now, right in front of me. Clues? I would think so. I have post-it notes all over the desk. There is an empty tea cup of green tea. The phone, an older version Panasonic, wireless kind, dull gray, rests on an open notebook, open to a page where I have taken some scribbles down for a movie idea. “You seem to know a lot about what I’ve done for the past 15 years,” it says. And Then there are single statements written. Drinking again? Smoking again? Aggressive sex with wife? Or no sex? There is a dime and a penny on the desk under another paper with my friend’s (can’t do the German translation, sorry) wedding date I am going to attend. Almost said, have to attend…but I don’t have to. Well, looking closer (to avoid the adverb, closely) the dime is a 2007 printing or minting or whatever the government does and the date on the penny is a mystery because I ma not going to move the paper from it. Maybe I an make it a game and guess the date. No, fuck it. Shinny copper, kind of…well must be at least a 90’s or later printing minting. Woah…or whoa…or whoha…however you spell that word…woha is right because it is not underlined in red. Fact. I hate when I bullshit. Forgive and continue. Yes. Thank you. But the framed photo of my wife in her white wedding dress, holding the bouquet of red and white and green and bue flowers with the Maine forest trees behond her and the sun shinning on the ferns at her feet and her sweet beauty of a face, cute like a button nose ans the long light cotton veil…almost spelled veil, vile, thinking of myself once again…could be inner hatred, do ya guess? A few more tears for my wife’s beauty that I only recognize on the rare occasion. Spend a moment with it. There is a big Pine tree to y right out of the other window.

I will have to keep up taking journals.