two women

one light, one dark. tone. not lovers, just something else. extremes. new friends. my therapist says i'm about to find clarity and it's going to be large and a lot to handle. and i remembered my friend isabelle walking me through a meditation for clarity weeks earlier. it came up twice. and the two women, we both visited that same park where she did that. and one was light. one was dark. two extremes. and dark is not always bad, the yogi in puna told us we should stop using it that way. just as light is not always good. but then in westwood a woman in our circle said she was grateful for both the light and the dark. and then i brought the dark to the light and realized it's not that dark. and the light has already shown me her shadows and admirations of the absence and what a relief. and i wanna be the light and the dark, but more than that i wanna find myself tolerable and brilliant with life within this eclipse and tolerance

in my prius

what did i listen to????

i listened to a song by feist called the park. like an obsessive

" a sadness so real that it populates the city and leaves you homeless again"

i listened to it on the way over there, that morning.

i listened to it after for awhile too but i haven't in awhile.

"steam from the cup and snow on the path, the seasons have changed from the present to past"

i wrote my newest script in shock. and now that i'm not. it's tough to dig into it. but i have to get it done. it's about all that

"the past"

anyway, now i'm listening to all kinds of things, i'm listening, i'm listening, i'm listening, i have to or else i'll go crazy

so i'm listening and getting all kinds of peace in all kinds of dazzling pieces

methane noir

My publisher commissioned a piece of erotica centered around the Porter Ranch disaster. The whole thing gave me a headache. It were too early to forgive the SoCalGasCo just like it were too soon to forgive myself for banging on the cracks until they became holes. Shit, my publisher would probably like that last part.

Porter Ranch, El Coyote closing its doors, I thought of those mythical margaritas we soaked up that fiery hot day, damn, it was all over.

I brung a metal detector up to Porter Ranch. I knew it were stupid. I knew it were an excuse to make something of nothing, treasure of dust.

It sucks missing a place that the other person doesn't even know is gone

fast talkers and mexican coke bottles

I thought the signs were nowhere in this city but they're everywhere, clamoring for attention er... awareness

Trav said he is writing two at once, that made sense for this moment. 

I drove home an old man was selling junk from out of his truck bed on the long hill up Sunset Blvd into Echo Park. We talked, I got him down to $50 on a table and chairs that fits perfectly in my kitchen. His name was Miguel. He and an old Bank executive, a black guy walking his therapy dog started talking to me about the old days. The dog owner, whose name I forgot, bought his house in Silver Lake for $78,000 three decades ago.

And now it's worth millions

gurl

i want to be the one middle aged guy dancing in the Zumba class that is your heart

the who what wha

writing sucks, i think i only do it to please an insatiable void masquerading as love. comedy is the same. here, i am, doing it again now

one grain

A fresh papaya doesn't taste like vomit. Two Canadian women will invite you to sleep with them in their camping tent for no other reason than to talk American politics as raindrops pitter patter on the soft cathedral roof of the shelter. A guy next to you in a crowd will use the term "infinite crescendo" to describe the musical acts of the love fest. You will write it down in your phone, infinite crescendo. You and a girl will sit at the edge of the world calling each other things like lovely as the unnamed constellations do what they've been doing almost like this existence is not a miracle. You will write at some point in your phone "I don't know why I'm here but I love it". A kitchen cook will explode in rage that you sent an omelette with tomatoes back to him. You will get zenned out again and then be yelled at on the drive home by an angry local making a left turn in his truck while you're peeling a quick right in front of him. You will cry three times. Once on the plane there. Once on the top of a volcano summit. Once on the way down its road where it meets the trail when finally after dozens of cars speeding past your worn out thumb, a Japanese tourist offers to give you a ride back up but then a couple from Lake Tahoe stops and gives you a ride back down to your car. You will realize that most tears aren't from the sadness of loss but from the gratitude of what's had. Your chest, the one that's felt like an elephant has been sitting on top of it for months, it will release and allow the heart to open for awhile. I can travel sober. I can lose my mind at altitudes sober. I can dance in public sober. Dancing, I always said I needed to find mine. My friend said she cried at the stupid vulnerability of intuitive dancing and I understood but then I pounded the floor, jumped thousands of times, made myself move until conditioned tension all spilled out of me and I could breathe again. Then we drank a bunch of foraged coconuts. Earlier that morning, I walked naked on a black sand beach, shriveled, and glorious on this earth for a time