113 Farenheit Before it Broke to Have Fun

I had this thought about all those ghostly souls trudging along the misty sands that night and how they were the greatest installations of all and how they were fooled into becoming art and it made me feel good about the masses and how they can arrange themselves in search of inspiration and peace and glow and how their movements can sensually mirror the ocean and how it moves so elephantine and lovely away from and toward the shore to cover the waking with energy as a blanket over minds and eyes, ears and lives.

Then there was the street fair and more warm faces and sun and it's almost scary that you can't just go through life hating the crowds when they appear so wide-eyed and well-behaved in person. certain days being enough to momentarily gloss over the inhumanities these creatures lose themselves to from time to time, day to day, all the time, only certain days they have some redemptive show.

Today the hottest day in Los Angeles happened and triple digits visited the beach for the first time in awhile and the rays of fierce light were glad for the day-vacation and the people were dancing in the water, taking pictures, and climbing and falling and laying and crawling their meaningless time away and it was sad and glorious and spectacularly similar to every other day for awhile and this context shouldn't be taken for granted and the scary thing is that it wasn't and they were moving and caressing themselves and taking part in the mystery and the fault-lines and foundations upon which their lives lay cooperative enough for a moments breath and that's positive, it's positive, it's a pro and we watch it bloom.

Ice cream and then my love rides my shoulders to feel like a bird or a giant or an equestrian and my strength finds purpose and then sushi and beer and a parking ticket that could or couldn't mean something depending on how much it gets under the skin and usually it takes more than that, and that's not a challenge, only a reminder of perspective and the Wine-o with his same stupid song and the way he sings it and it's funny. It's funny isn't it? Jingle bell, Jingle bell, help me get drunk and I walk by and I'm sweating and the air is warm and my hair is wet and I did pull-ups from twenty feet above sea level and the sun was glowing all over that grass at 7am and that's why we couldn't find that errant golf drive because of those shimmers, that dazzling, shining, dancing, charming light that bounces off of anything lucky enough to take in the light and that coyote looked like a wolf and those geese couldn't have been happier and life exists and exists and the stories can be so fucking colorful and drab and somewhere in-between until they splatter the night sky with memories that lead us to moments like victories and/or crisp cut serendipitous thank god it happened that way perspectives and blessed actualisms and the moon will calm you down and put her blanket on your shoulders and she'll laugh and listen to you like a beautiful mother and you can tell her all about your day and that dancing light, those dancing characters, broken thermometers and livesthoselives that you were surrounded by down at the seashore and otherwise.

Artists Only

Our house is in a cloud. The entire street is invaded by white. I put a fishing line down into the deep blue sea and wait like a patient man. With a towel around my wet hair, I hide in cotton and find solace in the dawn. You and I are something greater. My heart is quiet and warm. The flashing lights all look like sirens in the mist. My thinking sways between understanding and deliverance, it motions along the line between correct and flawed. My fear constantly slips and slides from the gallows, pardoned before execution, buying itself more time, challenging this life to which it little belongs. It changes it's voice, it's form and reason, playing the part of friend convincingly if not a bit self-indulgently. Fear is an ugly mask left behind by some criminal instinct whose purpose has long since been removed. There are better times to be had. Simpler emotions to be lived. Purer forces to gravitate. Seeing the bigger picture. Admiring the landscape with as few obstructions as possible. There's a lot of unfiltered joy to be discovered living within this circus, candied apple in hand, smile properly aligned.

The First Step Is The Deepest, Baby I Know

This isn't going to be pretty. There was a line that led me to the past. Finding a place that hadn't changed. I couldn't remember my childhood growing that peacefully, but sure enough it was more rustic and charming than even my most darling dreams. You know the ones, they give you hope and hold you like no one in your life has ever known. Sometimes they serenade you. Sometimes they disappear. Sometimes, they turn on you. That's right. One seemingly arbitrary night they'll twist and turn your stability until you've woken up changed and affected for the next day, week, month, or half-hour. You've felt shaken. You've stirred. I spoke of inertia. I keep telling people about this fucking artist inertia toward everyday living and sustenance and long-term planning and the blah that goes with the futile and the other blah of the living dead. It's not a wall to be busted down, it's a maze to be undertaken and can be a bit difficult because somewhere near the entrance, I'm lying on a sandy warm beach basking in a precious glow of creativity and love and freedom and activity and good fortune and just a sprinkle of self-delusion, just a sprinkle. I believe it to be necessary to the recipe. I believe it to be the common thread between all of the grand ambitious, results-be-damned, results-be-varied souls who take giant blindfolded leaps across chasms of indeterminate size and above fields of indiscriminately sharp teeth. The psychologists will have their field day. The rational minds will stomach-punch your projected purpose. Projected being only the illuminated blueprint whose fate has no bearing on the machine that provides. The machine is better likened to a root. The root is better discussed as a dream. The dream is broken down into components of who you were born to realize, what came to influence your path, and how you chose to most beautifully express what it is you have to feel and ultimately say.

When Growth Honors Entropy

The onions between our fingernails turn to tears. The sprinkler system coughs water onto our lawns. And I'm lucky to be alive. My days are spent floating in love. My days are succumbing to inertia. My days are lived in secure explosions. I chase the wind on my bike. My darling's eyes water from the howling air and my love swells for her after every turn. The quarter audit reveals the gratitude for another crack at freedom. A dinner table. Interwoven spirits. The ever-beautiful knot growing more complex, more picturesque in flaws/perfections from greater distances and from right here in the existence. What do I have to say? There's something, some greater message, some bulk of positivity that I'm trying to spread or convey, almost as a shield, almost as a sacrifice for the good that exists. You shut your eyes, face that big body of water that gives a hint of godly perspective and you say thank you.

It's Already Covered

Four Dimensional Merry Go Rounds

I already wrote something in a dream but apparently those things don't stick around when the eyes open and the brain starts spinning it's hamster wheel.

I envisioned the threads severing and the world falling apart and the strings that compose the spaces between space spiraling and twisting themselves around our arms and legs before carrying us up to the hanging gardens of this or that or some other spiderweb galaxy to which we might belong.

A few days ago I went running down the sand in the early morning and I sat at the edge of the pier and lost myself. When I awoke, my true state returned somewhat maudlin with my back tight and my mind humming it's usual refrigerator song. But those moments before, where my body went quiet and the polyurethane coating of my delusion peeled away, thinking of those moments, there was a pause that I remember calmly. There is the universe as a black sheet with all of it's mind-blowing scale of life and space existing within the thickness of the fibers of the cloth, stars, planets, galaxies and the like. There is the expanding speed warping and wrapping outward all while gravity does it's time in the weight room and the little defined constants obligingly hold their position. And here we are with everything cooperating long enough for us to give our tiny monumental cracks at these minuscule auditions for the roles of becoming gods, or less melodramatically, becoming beings of understanding, and usually we fail it seems.

And if time travel were possible we'd be looking into the eyes of a future traveller on CNN or Fox News depending on the political affiliations of said journeyman, and he/her would also be proof that the elusive search for the master of this expansion still hasn't shown his/her face and that if time marches on and people fail and fail and fail to elude the boundaries of existence, then they'll forever be at the mercy of the constants and the feeling that they're participating in one hell of an emotional existence complete with tears, love, mistakes, happenings, futility and something seemingly like optimism.