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I'm fascinated by desire paths. Once in while I get reminded of them, they are those paths created by footsteps aside from the paths laid out in public parks, walkways, nature trails and the like. You know the ones. Where the walk path is moving along circuitously but one a natural flowing whim you cut the distance by walking off straight across a nice patch of grass and then maybe eventually back onto the path that's been already laid and maybe not, maybe you just keep going til you discover a moonlit ledge and down below are a bunch of elephant seals barking their love calls into the crashing waves of night

the alamo

My mother taught me the ability to dream, to live inside the insulation of an imagined construct. Aside from the escape, it's worthless in this day and age. This day and yesterday it's felt like something, a core part of a thought I needed has fled. I told my brother something feels like its missing, he said something along the lines of welcome to the club.

Once in awhile I worry I'm still flitting in and out of my mother's fantasies. And when, in, trapped. That I never actually escaped. That my story of myself is a fiction only in my own mind, the one given to me that is, not the one I'm trying to write. My mind, a splintered cell from all the others belonging to the same, a few splits away from the woman whose womb I resided inside of back when she was inside her own mother's womb.

All the way back that far. I was an egg in 1957.

I had a dream a few nights ago that I helped make a baby boy of my own and he had deep dark eyes and faint blonde hair and I held him and I felt warmth wash onto me and I cried saying this is the happiest I've ever been in my life.

my giant

How to tell my girlfriend that even as I am able to see a little less beauty per blink these days it's all so much more beautiful than it ever has been due to her magnitude

the space we inhabit in the names we are given

I had a dream that I died, and I was floating around like a ghost missing people.

somnambulant

My brother has seen more naked men than my sister. He played minor league baseball for the Cleveland Indians and hit the showers with hundreds of naked men. We talked about that yesterday at Echo Park Lake the three of us having a picnic for my sister’s birthday. And I have been feeling so down lately, like about how making my own art feels futile. And I fight back with thoughts like, how I am most attracted to people who make cool things with what they’ve been given. And I tell my girlfriend that on the phone while she is in Kuaui visiting her brother who just had a baby. Creation, perhaps it’s that ultimate creation of making new life that’s been driving me mad, that I can’t afford it yet. That I’ve written so many thousands of words but life, but what about creating life. And so there we are yesterday three siblings in our 30s with the sun setting in our faces on a Navajo blanket eating Lassens banana cream pie and talking about the things we make and the walls we keep hammering into and how my brother says there is no rhyme or reason to penis size, that he has seen the most unexpected ones on guys who you would’ve thought the opposite. And my sister takes pictures of us with her disposable camera and we make fun of each other’s vanity and the time I stole my brother’s unattended laptop from his table at Stories cafe and how I took video of him thinking it was gone, and then I did an impression of him doing it, thinking it was missing. And I was feeling so much better, I have been so up and down lately, but I felt so much better because it was oh yeah, we forget about this amidst all the waves of loss and expectations and when our girlfriends are out of town, but love the divine healing power of love, it’s not everything and it’s not a guarantee but when it works on its own time on you it works its magic. I felt like sharing something about all that

daddio it's been 3 years i love you daddio daddyo

When I was a teenager, My dad had one of those illegal satellite cards that allowed us to watch all the pay channels for free on his DirecTV and so I'll never forget how I secretly cracked his 4 digit security code on the remote (2580)(right down the middle) which allowed me and my brother to sneak watch all the adult film channels.

Love - is like this thing that's not exclusive or limited - in this moment it feels as simple as a support aide to another person as we support aide our own selves while on our independent yet intertwined journeys - that get a little less lonely because of these support aides who present us with their versions of love.

It doesn't have to be forever. It doesn't have to be physical. It could be a thought, a moment, a series of seemingly mundane interactions that add up to care and profundity.

I loved my dad in that sense. He was a criminal for having that satellite card. I was a juvenile offender for covertly hacking his passcode (2580)(right down the middle of the remote). And it's been three years since he passed on, and I have this joke that it's been hard growing up without a father.

I had one. He was here then gone, a few times in my life, no one's fault. Just people being people throwing one another off course in the names of love (sometimes support aides clash) and how the grief morphs. I can't even say I dwell on him every single day now, which makes it all the more jarring when he does reappear.

I often tell the story of how I left the front door open when I barged in to see him on his last day alive (in a heroic two year fight against pancreatic cancer) (After a heroic 70+ year fight of being a human and all that it entails) and how minutes after he died a hummingbird flew into the house. And how when I am golfing with my brother (at cheap courses with Goodwill clubs) or walking around the Echo Park lake with my sister we will see hummingbirds together. How one morning I woke up in tears needing to know he was here and an hour later my brother spotted one at the breakfast place we were at together.

I see him every day as my smile turns more into his own. What a guy. What a guy. Oh the secrets we had from one another that we would have laughed at, boy did we have a lot of laughs together for a few years together, those ones where we had finally found one another, as support aides, in every way, including the forever kind of love kind of way.

Little Randy's Unsolicited But Very Welcomed Player Card on Me

Dan Choan nytimes travel section

mangela siobhanacita

It was the night of 5pm. We were driving cuz you said to drive. The sun goes behind the mountains this time of year not the ocean. The remains of its light glimmered in salt air or pollution by the time we got to the sand and it was spectacular.

Then in slowing to darkness a canyon drive with a bookstore with a Buddha in it. An overlook with a bad violinist practicing unseen nearby as teenagers fingered each other's hearts. I held you close to me like I always want to do. We made jokes about the Valley half sparkling below us, you said everything from Van Nuys to Woodland Hills was ours.

Some trace of the sun north made the sky red, it was dark but the sky was still somehow red now over the mountains. I felt inspired, what a ridiculous thing to say except for the fact that it never happens that way anymore. That inspired feeling was like a generous lighthouse in youth until I took it for granted and it became the default but as the default there became no lift from it.

A haphazard bar we swung our car back toward on Ventura Boulevard, I had spent thirty plus years missing it but with you we were found. The bartenders were part time porn stars with incredible personalities while the old ladies in heavy make up got rowdy and cat called the forgetful gentlemen sinking into their seats at the old tired but alive counter. It was so alive in that old establishment no matter how dry the carrot cake or dire the karaoke.

We played darts at the place next door. I would've paid to make that feeling stay stay stay but you know how it goes - to appreciate them you have to let them go and all that - so that they return and all that - the way those darts sped through the air and stuck to the straw or cork like bee sting arrows thrown by pleasure hunters talking in between our throws about our pains. It's like, they are only just starting to creep in here this morning in late September but it's like the Santa Ana Winds the way I love you, gentle, warm, powerful and strong right into the eye of chaos, a fire in Malibu started by them, I grew up in a trailer on a burned down lot at the top of a hill in Malibu, and I love you like a fire in Malibu.

b u n n y h u n t e r

in florida once a few years ago i met this big blonde firearms enthusiast. she had a ridiculous name on her business card just above "firearms enthusiast" and she had a nice face and some hateful things to say that she seemed to be believing less and less. She was a youtube personality but it seems like she isn't anymore. her internet presence is gone. i said she seemed to be believing her talking points less and less because i could see the way her eyes would grow dull and sad as the hate left her mouth. and i would watch as she listened to things i said that were not centered around us and them. she listened and i knew there was a soul like mine, so deep away from all the surface materials. untouched, the soul. untouched the woman. her friend was on coke and losing it and she needed to take her home. a couple weeks later she asked me to follow her on twitter, and i didn't.