0oO0o Prey for Rain o0Oo0


the sand is purple in Crescent Beach


the waves are pink*

the water is sugar

FRIDAY 11:00pm

If I’m writing in you now, journal, chances are I probably made it. If I’m slurring now, chances are I dipped my tongue in that wine bottle. There’s only a little left and I’m sure he won’t be rolling over you tonight. It’s done wonders for the limp too.

I’ve walked a lot further than I planned to tonight. Maybe I’ll just go all the way to San Fran, find some park and snore with the wildlife. Maybe I’ll settle down right here, look up at the sky and trace back the alignment of stars that brought us together. I could also hop on a bus and take it to who knows where, start from scratch and lug my boots to Haight from the point of unfamiliarity. Oh how a warm bus sounds really nice right now. I’m sure my feet will thank me in the morning. Is that one there, in the distance, searching for a lonely street side passenger of the night? It sure is. Lets see were it drops us off.

...get Well...

(hope this helps)

FRIDAY 10:00pm

All I’m going to say is that he keeps sliced limes in his pocket and harbors a subtle southern accent, which is hard to pick up in his poetry. His hair was also thinning out and he looked decades younger than his age. What impressed me most about the man was his ability to blend in. By reading his work you’d almost think there’s a neon aura shooting out of his body. But no. He’s no different than you and me except that he took a little time off each day to sit down and ink out his dreams. Well, I lie. A little time is probably an understatement.

Now, the moment of truth. Dinner time. I found this nice bridge and since I look like a bum anyways I figured no one would bother me under there. The stove is assembled and preheating as we speak. There is a tin bowl full of water ready to be boiled and a thirsty bag of powdered noodles by its side. Will the flame be blue or will I be cooking myself for dinner? We'll see...

...All I Have To Say...

-a culinary commentary
by Raphael martinez

One thing worse
than a Tiki Taco fish taco
is
a Tiki Taco fish burrito
(extra sea sauce)

do yourselves a favor
ladies & gents:
DON'T EAT AT TIKI TACO

that's all i have to say
thank you

PERSONALITY TEST

TAKE YOUR TIME WITH THIS, BE HONEST, AND YOU WILL BE AMAZED
BUT FIRST- MAKE A WISH:

I wish to explore myself.

PUT THE FOLLOWING FIVE ANIMALS IN ORDER OF YOUR PREFERENCE:
HORSE, TIGER, PIG, SHEEP, COW

Tiger, Cow, Sheep, Horse, Pig

WRITE ONE WORD THAT DESCRIBES EACH OF THE FOLLOWING:

DOG: Playful
CAT: Sly
RAT: Sneaky
COFFEE: Energetic
SEA: Rolling

THINK OF SOMEONE, WHO ALSO KNOWS YOU, AND IS IMPORTANT TO YOU, WHICH YOU CAN RELATE THEM TO THE FOLLOWING COLORS:

-DO NOT REPEAT YOUR ANSWER TWICE
-JUST NAME ONE PERSON PER COLOR

YELLOW: Anthony
ORANGE: Javier
RED: Kelly
WHITE: Abuelo
GREEN: lucy W.

FINALLY, WRITE DOWN YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER AND YOUR FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK:

24
Teusday

FINISHED?

BE SURE THAT YOUR ANSWERS ARE WHAT YOU REALLY WANT:

LOOK AT THE INTERPRETATIONS BELOW:

BUT, BEFORE PROCEEDING, REPEAT YOUR WISH:

I wish to find myself.

ANSWERS:

(1) THIS WILL DIFINE YOUR PRIORITIES IN LIFE:
COW signifies CAREER
TIGER signifies PRIDE
SHEEP signifies LOVE
HORSE signifies FAMILY
PIG signifies MONEY

(2) YOUR DESCRIPTION OF DOG IMPLIES YOUR OWN PERSONALITY
YOUR DESCRIPTION OF CAT IMPLIES THE PERSONALITY OF YOUR PARTNER
YOUR DESCRIPTION OF RAT IMPLIES THE PERSONALITY OF YOUR ENEMY
YOUR DESCRIPTION OF COFFE IS HOW YOU INTERPRET SEX
YOUR DESCRIPTION OF THE SEA IMPLIES YOUR OWN LIFE

(3)YELLOW: SOMEONE YOU WILL NEVER FORGET
ORANGE: SOMEONE YOU CONSIDER YOUR TRUE FRIEND
RED: SOMEONE YOU LOVE
WHITE: YOUR TWIN SOUL
GREEN: SOMONE YOU WILL REMEMBER FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE

(4) ON THIS DAY YOUR WISH WILL COME TRUE
(BUT ONLY IF YOU SEND THIS TO 24 PEOPLE)

What!?! This was a chain letter. Goddamnit! So much for my personality. That’s it. I’m out of here…

-Ralph Martinez

Friday 8:00pm

Friday 5:30pm

hot sake hot
hot sake hot
hot sake hot
hot sake hot
hot hot hot

FRIDAY 5:00pm

Getting to sleep was difficult. First, I had quite the limp and looked like a maniac stumbling upon the clearing which was full of school children, bikers, dog walkers and white collared folk on break. The sun was out, full steam so I took my shirt off, inviting a host of awkward stares.

I found a nice spot to lay my sleeping bag on near a bush and did so without thinking twice. As soon as my eyes closed a nosy bee began flying around my head, stealing my z’s with its buzz. Annoyed I opened my eyes back up only to notice the giant piles of dog crap roasting all around me. That spot was out of the question.

My next choice was closer to the street on a ditch. The ground was moist but I was so tired it didn’t bother me. Well, it didn’t bother me until a colony of curious black ants started surveying my belly for their new mound site. I picked up my stuff and moved to higher ground, near a spider and a picket fence. Oh what did I care? I liked spiders.

Sleep ended four hours later when some lady started throwing pinchy pine leaves over the picket fence. They landed all over me and I growled myself awake. It had gotten a lot cooler outside and the activity in the clearing had died down.

Two hours to go. I have sparrows in my brain. They are flying around picking worms for their children. It’s hard to think of anything else. What do I tell the man? What will he tell me? Will he notice the shine of a writer in my eyes or will I be just another person in line? The questions are endless. I’m going to limp on over there and find the answers for myself.

Silly Question*

Are you allergic to red Apples?

FRIDAY 12:15pm

Well, two footsteps and seven hours away. Seven long hours. The lady at the bookstore promised to reserve me a seat, but that still didn’t solve the problem of what to do with my time until then. Some sake at the sushi bar perhaps? No. It was too early for sake. Maybe a little bit later. Definitely a little bit later. On my way to the bookstore I had seen a clearing near the street. My eyes were getting tired. I could just lay out my sleeping bag, give my feet a rest and snooze away for the time being. Yes. That seemed like the best thing to do. Snooze…

now
i've smoked
two cigars
in my life

it is it

it is
what it's not
because
it's not
what it is

FRIDAY 12:00pm

Corte Madera. For the past week that name was a mere passive image loafing around in the back closets of my mind. Now it was up close and personal and nothing near what I expected. Like Sauselito, the town was quiet and human traffic was limited to the friendly neighbor waving or the occasional bombshell taking her ass for a run. Unlike Sauselito there was no mysterious bay lapping at the rocky shore. Actually there was no real shore at all. It was just a regular town as most regular towns go.

I guess I had built up the town in my head so much and had struggled so hard to get there that anything less than a crystal palace would disappoint. What was I expecting? A welcoming party? With fireworks? Maybe a little one for my troubles. But I wasn’t there to praise the town. I was there for Tim Sparrows, poet extraordinaire. The man who bent words with an ink dipped quail feather. The man who prayed to the page, bled starlight and could probably give Dionysus a run for his money in a wine guzzling contest. Yes, Tim Sparrows, only two footprints away.

palanca

Querida Abuela:

Espero que todo te este hiendo bien en el retiro. Se que estuviste hacienda mucho trabajo las semanas pasadas y necesitas paz y descanso.

(aqui se me olvido el espanol)

Retreats are good places to get to know different people and share your wisdoms on life. Everyone there is encouraging and hopes for your well being. Approach the retreat with humble arms and an open mind and the rewards, if not spiritual, will definitely be fruitful.

I am looking forward to receiving your package, though I fear that all these chicharitas and wonderful cakes, while elegantly delicious, are making me a little thicker around the waist. Today it hurt to try and fit into the only suit I have. Either way the extra weight is a welcome side effect to the exquisiteness of your cuisine. One thing I miss most about Miami, besides the company, is the good ol’ Cuban cooking which you happen to master so well.

Thank you for all the support you’ve given me, both emotionally and physically. I always look forward to reading your letters and have been, as you suggest, been spending the little money I have wisely. Once again I hope everything goes well and that you make a lot of new friends and build a strong relationship with yourself. Though it is impossible for me to be there in spirit, I will be there in heart.

Love and Hugs

local Wannabe

*this song is on Repeat inside my Head*

Climbing up the Walls

I am the key to the lock in your house
That keeps your toys in the basement
And if you get too far inside
You'll only see my reflection

It's always best when the light is off
I am the pick in the ice
Do not cry out or hit the alarm
You know we're friends till we die

And either way you turn
I'll be there
Open up your skull
I'll be there
Climbing up the walls

It's always best when the light is off
It's always better on the outside
Fifteen blows to the back of your head
Fifteen blows to your mind

So lock the kids up safe tonight
Put the eyes in the cupboard
I've got the smell of a local man
Who's got the loneliest feeling

That either way he turns
I'll be there
Open up your skull
I'll be there

Climbing up the walls
Climbing up the walls
Climbing up the walls
-Rh

FRIDAY 11:30am

The sign must have been placed prematurely because there was still another painful mountain to walk over before I would ever set foot in town. No worries, this was the home stretch, and I almost forgot about the medical condition fermenting inside my boots when I reached the topmost part of the trail and caught a glimpse of the entire town sprawled out below like some giant bear rug on a castle floor.

I pushed my little legs as hard as I could. The trail turned into a street with a whole bunch of homey homes on either side. Maybe I’d raise my kids here, who knows? One really nice one caught my attention. It was atop a cliff and had this wooden gate with a buzzer and a microphone. I was really tempted to ring up the owner and tell him he had the most beautiful house in Corte Madera but realized that he’d probably call the cops on me without thinking twice. Instead I continued walking down the street and after a mile or so finally made it to the main part of town.

FRIDAY 11:00am

Stopping was out of the question. Not only would taking another break slow me down even more, but gawd how my feet hurt when I wasn’t moving. I had built up such great momentum that the pain was almost oblivious to me, but still, it felt as though the skin was hanging off my toes and only muscle and bone remained. Bone it would have to be. Nothing was getting in my way now. I was so focused and fixated on the trail ahead that I almost failed to notice that small sign to the side. Hmmm…What did it say again? Oh yea: “Welcome to Corte Madera (pop. 9,100)”

FRIDAY 9:00am

It was hard to tell whether Sauselito was a town modeled after a postcard or whether postcards were modeled after Sauselito. The town lay scattered picturesquely (ßwow I can’t believe I got that word spelled right on the first try) amongst the hills with a sparkling smooth bay as its doormat. Homes hung from the trees and little specialty shops lined the main street all freshly scented with the aroma of morning brewed coffee and warmly ovened doughnuts.

My toes started to sting and I was beginning to wonder if I had hidden a lead anchor in my pack as it was tugging harder and harder at my shoulders. I found a small park near a small marina and rested for a while on a small bench, watching little birds peck at the ground. Were any of them sparrows? It was hard to tell. After a couple sips of water I massaged my feet out of their achy sleep and continued down the bike path.

Soon the trail widened and became more populated with bikers and middle aged joggers carving their ideal figures. The surrounding area became wet and marshy as if the soil had sponged up some of the bay. I could feel Tim getting closer and closer with every single step. His nest lay somewhere across the mountains ahead. An overpowering feeling of restlessness came over my entire body. I had to hurry. Yes, I had to get there as soon as possible.

FRIDAY 6:30am

The spastic wind that swam through the bridge’s golden suspension cables shook any remaining sleep out of my head. Fully awake and energetic I howled at the city, snuggled in a cozy blanket of fog across the bay. Cool air entered my lungs and cleared them of bus dust. My voice became loud and powerful, and, possessed by some great spirit of the sea, I started reciting poetry at the waves swooshing below. They lured me closer and closer into their hypnotic swirls until I was nearly falling off the edge. Crazy John’s Stetson too was magnetized by the turmoil below and hopped off my head to sink into the ocean foam. My hand caught the hat just in time.

Up ahead there was a biker checking his tire for air. I cautiously approached him to ask if the trail would take me all the way to Corte Madera.

“It sure will,” he said, “You’ll pass Sauselito and a couple of other little towns on the way. But that’s an entire morning ride for me. I can’t imagine how long it would take on foot.”

I smiled and pushed my little hiking boots forward, carefully passing the mountain where the Dead take their photos. The journey was right on course.

FRIDAY 6:00am

Just outside the bus station I found a bum and asked him for help deciphering the directions. I told him I wanted to go to the golden gate bridge and he looked all confused at this crumpled bundle of papers I handed him.

“No,” he said, “They are all wrong. What you really want to do is get on that bus across the street. That will take you straight to the bridge.”

The thought of hopping on another bus didn’t sit well with me. I had just spent 7 hours on one and had this really great plan of walking the sixteen miles to Corte Madera, relying on no one but myself to get there. But the street names were Chinese and the Golden Gate Bridge was the real start of my adventure so I scrounged all the pocket change I could and paid my fare to the bridge. That was it though. My legs would carry me the rest of the way.

(ah finally)

FRIDAY 5:30am

Seth. Seth. Wake Up.
Journal is that you?
Sure is. Listen, can you do me a favor?
No problem partner. What do you want?
Well, I was kind of hoping you could feed me, sheet by sheet, to a shredder and make little paper wigs with my remains.
Are you serious?
No, no, not at all. Come on Seth, look at me, I still have a good 70 pages (front and back) to go. That would be ridiculous. Besides, I enjoy your company.
What do you really want then?
I’d like you to take me out of this paper bag, just for a couple of minutes, and rest me on your lap.
Why? Is the wine bottle snoring?
The wine bottle hasn’t made a peep all night. It looked as though he was dead until that sucker rolled over and bruised my spine.
Poor thing, are you okay?
I might be peeling, but it’s nothing a little scotch tape can’t cure. What’s really stirring my lines is that book, One Eye Looking Backwards. So can you please get me out of here?
I’m on my way. But you have to promise to keep quiet. Everyone’s asleep. You have my words.
Done.
Whoa someone’s got a stiffy!
Sorry, I was thinking of her.
Ah, the infamous she. I’ve heard all about her.
Of course you have. She’s scrawled all over you.
All over thirty pages I imagine.
Thirty pages in you alone. Now, what’s the trouble with One Eye?
Seth, it won’t stop chanting. Not that I mind, but it’s the same words over and over and over again.
What the hell is he saying?
We’re here! We’re here! We’re here!
Well, I’ll be damned Journal. We are here!

*Ugh*

some one tells me

devils fancy

red ties, red ties

some one tells me

devils whisper

white lies, white lies

some one help me

rockets

rain

down

blue skies, blue skies

*Nature Posing Nude*
-more Sur pics-

scraggy coastline

moO0o0Oo

down is the new up

yUmMmy

light at the end of the tunnel

b0nsai

say hello to my lil' friend

THURSDAY 11:58pm (written on Friday morning)

Every writer has their muse, that little spirit that propels their pen across the page. Sometimes it’s an experience, one that changes your perspective on the world and lets you see in ways never imagined. Other times it’s an idea that just won’t let go, or a feeling you’re trying to express or even a diamond ring or a lover. Sometimes she’s standing right in front of you and you don’t even know it yet.

I first met my muse near a portable toilet in Miami while exchanging gifts with a friend. We shot each other a look, exchanged names and disappeared into the crowd. I had no idea that she was her. Then, one enchanted domino fell upon another and another and another. Soon we were holding hands on sandy beach towels, trading secrets of the tongue, rewriting the philosophies of life, waking up nude woven in each other’s arms.

Oh, but Destiny had different plans for us. I had my plane ticket to Cali, she had her island. There was nothing we could do but succumb to the desires of stars.

However, she hasn’t entirely disappeared. She is there behind every word I stitch, behind every thought I imbue into my journal, behind every heart beat, behind every secret desire, behind every smile, massaging my mind from apathy. She’s there when I pray. Yes, pray. I pray every single night. One breath for my dad, one breath for my mom, one breath for my brother, my sister, one for my grandparents, one for my aunts and uncles and friends, one for our leaders, one for my manuscript, one for me, and two for her. Always two for her.

THURSDAY 10:00

Luck prevailed. There was room for one lonely pilgrim. I stuffed my pack in the bus’s compartmentalized belly and surrendered my license to the driver at the door, who wanted to be sure I wasn’t skipping town without paying.

I took a window seat next to a small Mexican man who, every five minutes or so, would peek at the seat in front and check on his family. He turned his head and looked at me when I wasn’t looking and I turned my head and looked at him when he wasn’t looking. This continued for the first half hour of the trip.

My original intention was to crack open a wine bottle and slip into a velvet sleep but the Mexican looked so peaceful and I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression of me. Instead I twirled my hat in circles and smiled that the bus had finally rolled onto the freeway. San Francisco was getting closer by the second. I could almost smell the bay.

A good hour into the ride the Mexican asks me if I speak Spanish. It was my native tongue and he was surprised that I did.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” he said, “you don’t look latino.”

“Haha. I get that a lot. It must be because I was born in Ohio.”

“Is that were you’re from?”

“No. I lived most of my life in Miami. But now I’m giving California a try.”

“Ah si si. I’m from Mejico. A small town on the West near Acapulco. We don’t have cliff divers, but the beach there is beautiful. What brings you to San Francisco mi amigo?”

“My favorite author, Tim Sparrows. He is having a reading in Corte Madera tomorrow and one near Haight St. on Saturday. I’m going there so he can sign my journal for good luck.”

“Do you write?”

“Yes, I write. I write every single day. It’s a difficult line of work, but it’s the only one I care for. I mean I do have to take various jobs on the side to support myself, but you will never see me as happy as when I have a pen in my hand. Well, when I have a pen or when I’m with her.”

“Hmmm. So there is a chiquita?”

“You can call her that. But she is a long ways away. Unless, of course, I’m writing, then she is right there, in every single word. One day, my friend. One day I’ll look up from the page and see her standing there with her emerald eyes and wise smile.”

“Why aren’t you with her now?”

“Circumstance, my friend. Circumstance. But, enough about me. San Francisco is quite the ride from Mexico, what, pray tell, brings you this far?”

“It is my son. He’s had complications since birth and the hospitals in my country are not that good. We take him to Los Angeles for treatment once a year. I figure since we are already in California then we might as well visit our family in Oakland. We see very little of them.”

“Well I hope everything turns out okay. In a way it always does.”

“I hope so too mi amigo. And good luck with your chiquitica.”

With those final words the small Mexican man looked over the seat to make sure his son was warm. What a great father. I said goodnight and placed the Stetson over my face.

THURSDAY 9:31

The punctuality of Greyhounds could either be a blessing or a curse depending on which side of the pendulum you’re swinging on. The bus would make it there at 10:00 sharp, there was no questioning that, but the station, its locks were clamped at 9:30. No plead or puppy face could get me to the ticketing booth inside. I’m sure the Stetson didn’t help in convincing the attendants that I wasn’t some homeless junkie trying to run off with the cash register.

Jason was long gone so all that was left to do was sit on the curb and hope the driver would let me on with promise to pay. It all depended on how full the bus was. If my luck should falter then it would be a long walk home with a heavy pack and an unfulfilled dream.

Beside me there were two Swiss backpackers who noticed my plight. They had been to Miami and New York and were now shuffling their shoes up the west coast. One couldn’t stop talking about how materialistic America was and how she’d never raise her kids here. How everything was superior in Europe and how there was a better developed sense of community across the Atlantic. How overrated Miami was and how filth coated the streets of New York. How…, well, you get the picture.

In a way her complaints were true. Here in America we are always after the bigger and better fix and we parade our ideals as if they are the only right way of doing things. But that isn’t true of every American. How restricting to base your entire views of a country on the character of just one type of its people. Eclecticism is at the core of our values. We are a country that, despite several misrepresented taboos, are open to just about any method of self expression. It is true that recently people have taken advantage of this freedom to impose their own philosophies on others. Even though our country gives them the right to, by them doing so they are contradicting everything we stand for. America is a sanctuary in which people can be themselves no matter who or what themselves may be. When you take that away, and force people to follow your beliefs, then you are no better than a run in the mill tyrant. Be who you are but don’t deny others the right in being who they are.

The other Swiss was more soft spoken than her fiery counterpart. Actually she didn’t speak at all and just sat next to her pack, cradling her legs, smiling. Her skin was white chocolate and the blue was bursting out of her eyes. Not a bad looking girl. Pretty fucking beautiful if you ask me. We shared these poetic glances and I would have handed her my heart on the spot were it not bobbing on a sea turtle’s back near someone’s Caribbean island.

My cock, however, that was a different story. She could have that wherever she wanted: on her face, in her rump, between her clenched fist. She could speak into it with her tongue or warm it between her breasts. It was all hers and she didn’t even know it yet. She would never know. The bus had arrived.

*Variations on the Haiku*


ex-plosion
uuuuuuuu
Yea!
There it is

****
WARNING!
Smoking Aluminum
&
Laundry Detergent
is
BAD!
Don't Do It!

****
"reality"
eyes nose
ears mouth
skin smarts

****
-Choices-
Life
or
The Knife

(not mine)

****
EGO
I
just do
it
for my self

****
Bold Statement:
KILL THE GOVERNMENT!

****
The Truth:
i suck at art

****
Mysteries (in life)
Where does one
throw away
hot (wet) wax?

****
Random Assignment:
Light is Sound
in
its own way.

****
Reasonable Inquiry:
Where have you been
in my life
sugar pie?
****
Elemental Euphoria:
Tell it to the Clouds

****
To a Bird:
Why are you
so high
all of the time?

****
Goal in Life:
Unadultered
Extasy

****
Chameleon:
Something
as it's not
supposed to be

or

is it?

****
Questionable Advice:
Be critical
on yourself
or
get nowhere
and die

****
Microwave Reality:
interstellar UFO abduction beams
common in area
cross-breeding may result
wear plastic helmets
before proceeding

****
DEA:
Bringing Guns
to the Drug Trade

****
Conceptualized Insanity
I just
do it
to myself

****
Really Good Compliment
Hey man
you got really good toilet paper, man
really good toilet paper!
Now, I didn't use it, man
nope, didn't use it at all
but boy did I see it
and let me tell ya, man
it was real good toilet paper
really good toilet paper
man

****
All This Nonsense:
Long
but
short!

Nostalgia

to crazy beautiful

so lovely

to hear your voice

that soothing jazzz

sung by warm waves

ebbing through backdrifts of time

...it carries me back
it carries me back...

way, way, back

through treasured doors

yearning to be reopened

even, if just for a moment

THURSDAY 8:30pm

The pickup guzzled through the starless canyon fast and determined. No dark curve or hungry pothole knocked it off course. The windows were rolled down and my Stetson wanted to lasso the breeze and hitch it to the dusty mountains where it belonged tumbling amongst the brush. But no. The hat wasn’t really mine. I was merely its caretaker. And a caring person had to draw the line between giving a hat its fix, however noble it may be, and preserving it for future return to its rightful owner.

Hat secure between my clasp I turned to Jason, my ride to the Hollywood Greyhound, and inquired about the stove’s proper usage, just in case I had gotten it wrong on the first try. Unlike him, whose backpacking experiences were unequalled by any other, this was my virgin voyage and a little advice would help in keeping me on course.

“First you want to preheat it,” Jason explained. “Let gas seep into the priming cup and turn the valve off.” So far so good. “Use a match or a lighter and ignite the fuel. Fire will be going everywhere for about two minutes. Once the flame dies down into a weak blue color, open the valve as much as you can and let her rip. It’s kind of like an art form and may take a couple of tries before you get it right.”

“Blue? The flame was yellow when I tried it.”

“No! You absolutely do not want the yellow flame. It could drop into the gas tank and set you on fire. My friend lost his eyebrow that way. It grew back, but all crooked.”

I ran a trembling hand down my face to make sure it was still there. To think, one tiny error in judgment could have lit the entire trip aflame. Oh, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. Raw or extra crispy I was getting my journal signed.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Jason said, “It happens very rarely.”

“Jason? Do you think I’ll look like a weirdo walking all over the bay area with this giant backpack and funny hat?”

“Well Seth, that all depends on your definition of weirdo.”

THURSDAY 8:06pm

-Whisper Lite 5,000 portable stove with fuel tank .....................-> CHECK
-Crazy John’s dead grandfather’s hat.............................................-> CHECK
-Journal and folder full of half completed manuscripts................-> CHECK
-Spare shirt, spare briefs, & the thickest socks in the drawer.....-> CHECK
-Powdered Thai chicken noodles and BBQ beef.............................-> CHECK
-Hardcover copy of “One Eye Looking Backwards” by Tim Sparrows -> CHECK
-Wash my wanger for the last time in 3 days ................................-> CHECK
-(Rub one off too) .................................................................-> CHECK CHECK
-Lighter, fork, sleeping bag, disposable camera & aluminum pot -> CHECK
-Two bottles of Yellow Tail cabernet at half price...........................->FOSHO
- Steak knife & condoms (for protection against bums & the clap)> CHECK
-A total of ten toes on my soon to be beat feet................................-> CHECK
-Water thermos in side pocket of hiking pack..................................-> CHECK
-Directions from the Frisco Greyhound to Corte Madera...............-> CHECK
-Are you sure you have your journal?->What do you think you’re writing in?
-A nice rip off the bong for the road.................................................->Ha I wish!
-Time to go..................................................................................-> CHECK MATE

Meet Seth Hollow

(don't worry, he's a good boy)

THURSDAY 8:00pm

It was the prettiest yellow flame. One plucked straight off Solomon’s menorah. The type of flame that warmed you up more than it should, after all, it was half the size of a newborn’s pinkie nail. Nevertheless it burned and the cold burned away with it. Not that it was that cold in the kitchen. But it was nice to think so.
The tiny flame, waltzing round and round with the sparks in my eyes, not tiring one bit, didn’t sprout from a candle or a lighter, nor a match, but from a stove. A camping stove, portable and compact, ready for guerilla warfare in the wet jungles of Peru or an evening slooze under a bum’s bridge, or even a christening ceremony on the kitchen floor in the company of an oven and a microwave. But alas, this was only a practice run; a way of getting intimate with my new toy. Nothing was being cooked. And, when I was confident that I had mastered its use, I shut the fuel valve off and watched the flame take its last gasp before disappearing into the kitchen air.

ps. doing nothing is fun

Tentative Schedule (for now) Until it Gets Done:

04:50am -jala neti
05:05 -cumulative yogic sadhana
07:00 -chant AUM/ read scriptures/ eat light breakfast
08:00 -class :(
09:00 -study?/ reading assignments
10:20 -class :(
11:20 -study/ reading assignments
-eat well balanced lunch (including crispy green apple)
12:30pm -chant AUM/ analyze evil flowers
01:30 :(
02:30 -finish reading assignments/ complete evil analysis
03:30 -read prose critically
04:30 -dissect troubling public policies
05:30 -write in journal
06:00 -shower/ eat light vegetarian dinner
06:30 -do absolutely nothing, zip, nada, nada3
06:45 -write! Write! WRITE!
09:45 -blogosphere ;)
10.00 -relaxation/ awareness exercises
-whole lotta prayer
-read scripture
-dick around with Ishtor
11:00 ZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZ
04:49am Beep Beep Beep

It's time to get back on track. I tried something like this out a bit ago and it lasted for two weeks. Those two weeks were some of the most rewarding two of my life. I felt involved, free and most importantly happy that I was finally putting everything I've been trying to accomplish into practice. UNfortunately one tiny distraction led to another tiny distraction, a beer here, an outing there, a television program here, a little smashing of the alarm clock there and before i could even understand what was going on it was back to the same ol' debaucheries and mishaps- putting off those dreams to when the time was right, always making excuses for myself to act tomorrow when the right time to act is NOW! I'm the type of guy that always needs someone beside him to push and motivate and thats really hard to come by when you're all alone (probably another excuse of non-performance, we all know the true power is inside each and every one of us). So i post this silly ideal strategy of my life in hope that it always existing right there afront will keep my engines running at a nice cruising speed towards those end goals which now only exist in fantasy. Hopefully this time around two weeks turn into three and four and in no time BAM! an awakening of sort, a self actualized world of wonder exposed for the exploring, the rip tide of hapiness developing before these bright eyes, and all that nice stuff... ah, where's the motivAtion...somewhere in these words i hope...

*Snap sh0ts*

It's funny how just this morning I woke up with the entire right side of my body (clothes and all) dripping soaking cold wet with black tailed deer peering through my battered tent; and now i'm warm, showered and all cozy infront of this laptop which only exists because there is a plug in the wall. I went to the woods to gather my thoughts and learn a little more about the way I am and how i interact with my surroundings when unencumbered by the hassles of civilized life. The learning went well, the thoughts, however, were so rich, fluid, explosive, almost like lava, that they were very difficult to gather into anything coherent. I remember interweaving plots of natural formations, a mountain man with alot of empty plastic bottles who believed (and almost got me to believe too) that a green tree spirit was at the core of our existence, lots of motion, everything's always moving and nothing is ever the same as it ever was despite our senses fooling us into thinnking otherwise, lots of sex with lots of invisible people, i remember summoning a forest god named Ishtor* who was half exotic stripper, half bobcat, (s)he appeared under the stars as cracked twigs and haunted the outskirts of my vision since the incarnation. what else? what else? tons of things to be told at the appropriate moment... but in the meantime, here's a snap shot of what's to come as soon as i get my responsabilities in order...

*NOT REAL NAME