Improvisations in Aqua

Ok, I'll admit I grew up a long time ago, a full thirty years BC (before computers). So of course all us kids figured out other ways to entertain ourselves through the long afternoons when Mom kicked us out of the house and told us to stay out of mischief. Most generally those were summer afternoons, hot and dusty, it was a given if you wanted a drink of water you knew where the garden hose was. And of course, once you'd turned on the hose to get a drink there was water on the ground, and water on the ground? Oh lord, rivers and lakes and, and dams and is that enough dirt in the dam for the Tonka truck to drive over without getting the wheels muddy? The answer to that one was usually no, but anyhow. Spent a lot of hours playing with a trickle from the water hose and some dirt.

Dodge City Lament...

A great version of a song about a cowboy, and a cam girl... who met a hundred years before the internet was ever thought of.

*chuckle*  They been doing it to us for a long time bro's... might as well smile, and love 'em for what they have to offer.  Just don't carry in what you're not prepared to leave behind.

Garage time...

Today I signed off on the kitchen, it is clean, it is rebuilt.  I've got a decent work flow set up to feed six at a time.  Wooohoooo.  BFD.  I only have to feed me. 

The living room is restored as well, still full of odds and ends going out the door to here, or there, but restored.  For now it only serves me, and the beasties.  I've discovered that dogs get addicted to television just like humans.  Several times they've asked me to turn it on for them.  They don't seem terribly picky about what they watch, but there's supposed to be pictures and noise over there, and without it they get nervous in the evenings.  Who would have thought.  Turn on the tube, the dogs relax and start to snooze.  Something for PETA to foam and fornicate about I suppose. I've often wondered if PETA ever read any of Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer to be specific, the chapter "Peter and the Pain Killer" to be precise, the one where Aunt Polly finally comes to the conclusion that what is cruelty to an animal just might be cruelty to a boy as well... Oh, well. 

Among the Ghosts of Gomorrah

I left the house tonight with nowhere to go.  I just drove around my deserted town, ended up at a taco joint on the far side of town, bought a taco and burrito, turned around and drove home.  It wasn't such a long drive, my town isn't that big, not really.  But it felt way longer than it should have.  The deserted streets, the surrealism of the streetlights laying a perspective stolen from the closed shores of limbo, the red lights... red lights, stopping what?  The flow of ghosts?  (and iTunes brings up Ghost Riders... how appropriate... how very fucking appropriate... I think this machine reads my mind sometimes) 

The drive felt so long because it perfectly reflects my world at the moment: all but empty.  The last few days I've come to realize I've been deluding myself.  I do not belong in this world, it isn't mine, it never has been, long odds say it never will be.  No, I'm not suicidal, yet, and no, I'm not drunk even though I probably should be.  It's just that there are so few who can even begin to understand how I see the world.  The deserted midnight streets of this horse and a half little town lost in the backwater boondocks of Oklahoma are such a perfect symbol of how I feel right now, riding out a case of the it's time to pack it up and move on again blues.  It makes no sense to stay when the only thing staying will do is add sin to your soul.

An open question, oh finder of this message in a bottle:  which is worse?  Suffering because you don't know why, or knowing why and suffering to the fact you seem to be the only one who does know? 

Fuck the internet.  No, don't fuck it, it might get pregnant and have more of it's kind.  Don't need any more of that, the amount floating loose is already ten times the safe tolarance limits for the survival of humanity, at least as people.  Not quite enough, yet, to put all the people in pods and release Agent Smith to go hunting, but not far shy.  So no, don't fuck the internet.  Bad idea.

I want... a Peterbuilt.  I want sixty thousand pounds riding low and rolling easy behind me, I want a destination on which ever coast is furthest away.  I want the hypnosis of the highway, I want that six hundred horse kittycat to purrrrrr me the happy highway song, that half hallucinagenic soundtrack for the waking dreams of the highway, the dreams of a welcoming smile from a woman waiting warm and willing who doesn't care that to my eyes the world bears no resemblance to the lies we were told so the shitbitch of society stays glued together with tears and pain, all she wants is a smile and a soft touch to go with a verse or two of love poetry written just for her.  Sanctuary, in the cab or in the arms of a three night woman who doesn't need to know what I am, just who.  Yea, I want a Peterbuilt.  At least I think I do.

HOS: The Art of Wanting

It is now Sunday, close enough.  And Sunday is my day for introspection, thinking about God, thinking about the world, thinking about me.  Well, it used to be, and I think it's time to reinstate the tradition.  Most usually the form of the tradition was a free write session while listening to the "Hearts of Space" weekly radio show.  The music they find and program is so well suited to closing the eyes, and letting the mind wander its' way off the fingers and onto the keyboard.

Music Hath Charm...

Put yourself into the night, do it, taste the dew hanging sweet as wine, sweet as lover's tears waiting to settle to the earth from a full moon lace veiled in streaming clouds riding half high across a silver black sky... let your eyes fall to the horizon, follow the shadows back to where you stand.  Now listen, listen and you'll hear it coming, you'll feel the earth beneath your feet throbbing like the passion of lovers who dare eternity... that sound... is it, is it their cries of passion beyond pain you hear? Or is that wail, is it eternity rejecting their plea?  No, no, it can't be... or perhaps it is.  Turn, look down the slope behind you. The wailing isn't eternity, no it isn't, but it might as well be.  Watch her as she passes, the huge locomotive shattering the silence of the night with the roar and that wail set to the beat of eight wheels driven and feel that ache in your heart wishing you were aboard the midnight special stroking it out into the abandoned night... her destination, your destination?  Anywhere, anywhere but where they are, where you once were... look back at the moon, and wish the wayward wind would hear your plea.

But for this song... for this song just close your eyes and listen.  He's singing it for all of us, really...   they do call the wind Maria ...

Tomorrow this will be me, but not tonight, not quite yet... not...quite... yet.