Monday, June 26, 2006
Writing brings out ideas and memories when done right, and the stars line up to dance punk rock underwater ballet. Thoughts race by in vehicles whose propulsions systems hum lights years ahead of their time, crazy kids. Aloofness abounds, gets belligerent, demands war. Scalpel & I retreat to my labyrinthe of Martian canals, dissecting Bradbury's brain while he cries "I CHANNELLED it all, NOTHING to do with me!", painless through yellowed paperbacks, rolfing, and acupressure. Ah, to just write, free of judgement or cohesive expression, whistling up & down country roads on moonless misty nights, the double-yellow line glimpsed once every three or four minutes, the sound of gravel underfoot steering legs back towards asphalt, miles gone by, miles to go, dozing while ambling, whistles at fears forgotten in a rusty dinosaur that drank it's last gallons of gasoline in the land time forgot, cold ears & nose numb. Sure, this may read like rough draft drivel but it's endearing snapshotz ruff-draft drivel to me, and Abraxas knows a repressed memory could slap half my vocabulary out of my head any moment now, now, now, well, maybe soon. All seriousness & idiocy a side, we had a kriller birthday party for the boy last weekend. Humble gratitude clarifies itself as an powerful ally.