Things On Your Mind

Avocado Hunting

The Collective Bonfire

This has to be from the finger tips alone. If there's a manifested energy to be released, it must be cruising on it's own course. Searching for the gift of another form. There are no color barriers, only a notion that the exchange must take place. There is a glance. A subtle gesture. A hint of life in bloom. Now presenting a freedom, a friendship, the coming together of two souls.

A light switch left on reveals a room only when perception arrives.

A man alone means nothing. An anguished cry in the woods doesn't make a sound. For these words to be true, the human soul would have to be disconnected and for that reason I disagree with the previous statements, but not their provocation of transactional context. The creation exists in the life forms surrounding the context, orbiting a purpose, seemingly arbitrary or intensely focused, the energy expands multiplied by these relationships. Expanding and expanding moving toward complexity, contributing fuel to the evolutionary fire, not just on a species-specific basis, but a universal one. WHY ELSE DO YOU THINK WE'RE DOING ALL OF THIS?

a gust of sentimentalism

storm waves piling on top of my deluge. the dreaded memories of foggy sunday mornings, ripening the hollow feeling that nothing can happen. we're born, we play tennis, then we die. in between, we fall in love and we cry. there are some great moments and I'm not even talking about the time spent on tropical vacations, though that amazing corona-commercial-seashore-zen felt wonderful as i laid on a hammock with my woman in my arms. i'm sure you'd agree if you could see me. sometimes my eyes are young and youthful, sometimes i get stoned and laugh like a blissful child and other sometimes I look bloodshot-tired and on the edge of a mundane precipice. my whole line was:

if you don't know what day of the week it is, you're on the right track.

Chasing Momentum and Evacuating the Void

A streetlamp like a spotlight with a highway full of blinding cars as the audience. We're subject to the whims of underground fault lines, shifting, shaking, sinking the arbitrary into the rubble. Swallowed whole by the earth beneath the concrete under our feet. I laughed, laughed like I always do, like a madman. I already told you that. I pounded my hand onto the floor looking for oxygen, I was choking, I was dying, I was high. The revolutions of the globe stopped, sending the rest of us flying off of its face. Then the momentum swung around, beginning the laborious turning for the opposite direction, causing time to move backward while we relived the past and I lost myself in chronic dreams. Meanwhile, your toes deceived the rest of your stoic body, they writhed and wriggled like caterpillars. Your feet cramped from the orgasms we made. Your eyes danced from the glow we shared. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm luminescent-enamored. But what does that have to do with a story? Well, I'll tell you. We woke up and argued and then made up and then there was that little boy screaming for his mom to calm down. Suffering in defense of the man who was the only person who made his lonely little child life happy. He said so himself. Next door. His pain recognized me and crept inside. I was getting high from his fumes of torment because I've heard that same desperate howl escape from my own lungs. I've been caught between two greater forces attempting to push and pull them together for the sake of keeping everything I've cared about intact. I've been possessed by desperation, fear and the feeling of my best actualised slipping through my hands as I watched it fall. "Ahhhhhh, big deal" you say. (Which could come off as calloused if I didn't know you better) You, you, you, you're all different Yous just so you know. One of them is even You my dear, my friend, my love, my brother, my sister, my stranger.

I'm not finished. I'll drive this train until they pull me off the motherfucker. I'll fall and descend and do all those other things that remind us of losing our shit. Then life will turn quiet

and

there's the steady undisturbed tick of the seconds symbolizing the countdown, but honestly, who has time to think of these things. We've got dreams to chase. Appointments to make. Hours to clock. Sacrifices to fall victim. Movies to watch. Books to read. Blood to spill. Towels to wash and dry, circle, wash, dry, rinse, repeat. I've done that before.

We're getting there.

Running with reckless abandon. Go. First your heart beats claustrophobic in your chest, then it loosens, next the breathing catches up, your blood begins boiling, your periphery becomes blurry and the funniest part of recognizing yourself happens. I guess that's why I've slept on floors. Eaten from trash cans. Drank from bacteria ridden pools. I guess that's why I've woken up. I guess that's why I've kept going in such high spirits despite my passive arrogance. It's because I've recognized myself from time to time, through sweat and tears, blood and silence. There,

Rewarding Kinetic

I've grown tired of making things what they're not. For a man who detests the compression of life, it would seem rather contradictory to narrow the potential scope of the future by peppering and riddling it with booby traps in the name of fear. This tried and true method of having-it-all-figured-out before "it" occurs is a defense mechanism and, as with all defense, it comes with the inability to move forward. Change the habits. Move forward. "Be here now", like that obnoxious, busy-mouthed yogi said. The inertia will implode. Reward the kinetic. Challenge the advancement. Contribute to the expansion.

Welcome

We are fucking particles. A collective feast. The magic we made is a portrait, not technology, it's a portrait. Some things never change. Try finding a bathroom in Hollywood. Scoring mercy on La Brea. Opening inspiration in the Valley. After longer than expected, I've seen them all, outliers. With any luck, so are we, along with particles. Along with a ride in a van. A conversation in a cafe. Hangover on the bus. The days blend into one. The way our bodies twist and turn together is the exciting part. The unsuspecting moments where friends discover liveliness turns the colors worthwhile. Underwater is good. So is that old-fashioned unconditional love. How lucky to be so loved. How lucky for the feelings to be normal, assumed, granted. It's valuable to take notice. My gratitude lights up the sky. A moment of reverence is fine too. In fact it's more honest than a metaphor in this case. Breathe in the gratitude. Let it go, carry it somewhere with the rest of the invisible. Life goes on, you've got life to live, precious life, so subtle sometimes.

Low Light Collection

Bad Stand-Up

Inevitable. The cyclical nature. Staring at the washing machine.

On the news there was that old man spending the next twenty years without the woman who'd been his purpose. It seems that eventually even purposes piss themselves and get cleaned by nurses in retirement homes. How strong is direction if it's cooked in a bedpan? How splendid is this masterpiece viewed with fading eyes?

The explanations become as blurry as the images.

Look, you take one meaning and plug the leak as long as it'll hold. It can be a cheap fit that lasts a few blissful hours or it can be a stronger glue that relies on fitness and endurance and the hope that, by nightfall, the body will be exhausted enough to surrender. Each are options with inevitable consequences. The first option gets pulled over for weaving in and out of traffic, while the other finds the mind wide awake with no more gas in the tank. It's an empty feeling as the water rushes onto the boat and you drown another day.

Isolation is this dream. You wake up, start again and hope for any element that holds the rickety boat together long enough for peaceful sleep to prevail.

Hey Cutter