equinoxes shift . . .

She's gone right now. And I'll be gone directly. Soon the bottles in the bath that smell so good will be gone as well. And her scent will come in bursts while moving sofa cushions and cleaning the laundry trap.

We're too good to each other to kick when the other is down, which only makes this harder. I won't even really know what went wrong for months as these excuses fade and turn to dust. Love and no love lost. Lost and not sure where to look . . .

She's reaching over, and I'm not sure what to hold out

Such a pleasant day here in blogsville. Raining gently outside the windows. The low murmur of children learning. Amazing sound it is, too. I wasn't really sure whether or not it would actually have a sound, but it does. And it pushes me along through the web-based course I am taking -- I get more done on these days than most others.

What? Oh, the sound. It's generally a burbling sound that's punctuated with brief spikes in particular strands from within the braided tones. It has motion and dopplers past my ears as I circulate through the stations regularly. I see the brows furrowing (yes, they furrow for the little ones, too). I smell the young bodies huddling next to one another and wonder how some of them deal with the stench all day. Not all of them smell odd. Only a few. And only a few of those allow it to continue for longer than a day. Learning to take care of themselves, learning to be humans here in this place. I have no idea which ones I reach and how.

There is one, that is reaching. And not just in the clamoring manner of a child. But like someone who has learned that you use what you have to get what you want -- Use what you know to ease the pain. Young enough to be young, old enough to know the value of the minutes in the day. Old enough to know how painful watching the clock can become. Old enough to know confusion and pain. Too young to know the consequences, old enough to try and strive for better. Old enough to know how to cut losses. Old enough to know fear and lonliness. Old enough to know when to grab on . . .

Tired of this . . .

I'm quite ready to be done with grad school. I just can't seem to care enough not to procrastinate anymore. I had a good run for a semester or two. Stayed on top of the game, got a job, excelled as a student, the whole bag. Now I just find that I want to drive my little blue racecar . . . enough whining.

Life is good. The weather is wierd. I like it. Viva la greenhouse. . .

An actual memory

There was a woman who owned a house in West Hollywood that provided me with a room. I wondered at the time why she lay in bed most days, and why her voice was often cracking from within the shadows. I thought that she was depressed. Marney was her name. I'm sure that she was depressed now. Now that I know better.
I'm sure she wondered herself why the young guy with the fast car stayed in all day and read that huge, cloud covered book. And refused to brave the blazing LA summer. So full of life and vigor. He was wasting his life while a disease was wasting hers.
I can't believe that I lived with her for as long as I did and never knew why she was in the state that persisted through out my stay. Young, ignorant and full of piss and vinegar. Consumed with 1/4 miles and "literature" and the lie of a relationship that was shredding my innermost securities. I couldn't see past these things to accept the reality around me. I wonder if Mousse heard from her again. I'm almost positive that she is no longer among the living.
The girl in the portraits from her modelling years back in the go-go 80's when cocaine was crawling up the needle's back, look so full of life and confident of her place in this world. It was this girl's shadow that passed through the house that we lived in. We lived in while she wasted away.
The only direct quote from her that I can recall was scribbled in a notebook I found recently "some days are good, some days are bad . . . I'm just happy for the days when I can make it out of the driveway . . ."

The Day that lives in infamy

A day that once again found men using machines to tear away at one another's defenses. We give them such a bad rap, methinks. Sister and TWO exes born today. A little much when all I do on these days is hope that my machines don't choose to r3volt against the sins of man.

High Octane fuel. I dream of road ways that become razors as they pass over the horizon and I'm blinded by the heavy gravitational pull of the blacktop that is so dark that even light cannot escape. Strange how sobriety can charge ones dreams with memories and recollection. Someone in there is having a yard sale. . .

Dreamt of the earlier times, when I gambled for a living and regularly threw my cardiosystem through chemical paces. And how I somehow found it all so boring. I guess when you are caught in the oscillation, you are unable to feel those slight changes in altitude that make the difference between cruising and breaking the sound barrier.

When is my time to come?

Open a Space for My Head

This would be the intro page for my head room in cyber space.
Room to vroom. Street time is getting scarce for the rapidly responsible chap who is really just more than a little bored, and too pre-occupied to see the other side.
No tomorrow like a cookie cutter.
Easier that way.
Somehow what was once terrifying becomes a place to relax and I can feel it flickering, still.

My word today. Allele.

My shout outs. Kenniebloggins and Scarnsworth.