As late as it is

I am still posting. Posting what you may ask. Ask you may for I have no say. But today I am tired and stressed and feeling a little on the downside. I feel that sometimes I say too much and maybe I am pushing people in a direction that they should not go down. Whatever.

The muse, the vision, what is this incision?
goodnight, sleep tight, i forgot to fight.
my head, it's dead, i need to lay it down in bed.
to rest, to test, what is this i manifest?

dizziness.

Cold feet

We are down 3-0...the Astros that is...and to be honest with you, my finger tips hurt when I type. Why, you may ask...because over the course of 5 hours, I bit my nails to the bones.

I am still happy.

The Astros are in the World Series. This is the ultimate baseball game. I am even keel right now, I am having a hard time being angry or sad about losing yet another game in the greatest series on the face of this planet. Am I not a good enough Astros fan? Do I not care about their fate? I can't see that being true, but I just realized, I shouldn't care. One of my favorite teams in baseball is getting to perform under all of those dazzling lights. It's not about winning or losing...being a baseball fan is about admiring great plays, regardless of who they come from. I must be careful now, I shouldn't confess myself to be a very knowledgeable baseball fan. I am a good fan. I love baseball because baseball is one of those things that came along to save my life.

There are very few of these things. May I make a list?
Baseball, The Fountainhead, The Miracle of Mindfulness, my guitar, my ex-girlfriend...and maybe this is where I should step off the rubber. I must admit, I did not expect her to be one in my list, but *bang* there she was. I guess I forget sometimes where I was at and what that place did to me (FU ABX!).

The somber mood has now set in.

She saved me from myself, and baseball helped me save myself from her. And in the end, I feel like I need to say, "Thank you for letting me come back here to experience baseball."

emTheory

I like breaking my body. I like the pain. I like seeing it heal. I like wondering if the scar will be permanent. I like thinking that the scar will be permanent.

In the same, I've started enjoying the mental healing. I like it when a new understanding comes about and trickles down thru all my memories...justifying my actions, or feeling regret because I felt no regret at the time.

Soon...it is always soon, like the end of the world is always in "our" time.

Permanent on most surfaces

Just thinking, it has been a long time since I've written over here. Things are happening again...I suppose things are always happening. But this is different. It the different between driving and then taking a turn. I can tell that someone has the blinker on. Teams are being formulated, scores are being tallied. The next game in this series is about to start.

I'm trying to stay away...I've always said the best way to play the game is not to play at all. Being nervous that you are the last out in a failed come back never helped the team come back. Just be yourself, just do what you love, and the pieces will fall to the right places. I can tell that I am being sucked into the drama and I'm putting up a decent little war to keep that from happening.

Success is measured by the love I have for what I do.

Interestingly it seems that being aggressive sometimes requires me to be passive. Sometimes I have to let people walk over me so I can achieve what I want. Power is far from what I want. The beckoning call of popularity is something that I honestly to do not yearn for. Money...ah...money...I do want money. But for what? So that I can spend when I want, where I want. Would I like to go snowboarding? Yes, alright, no problem with the right amount of money. Would I like a new tent? Yes, drop an easy 185 and I've got it. 300 a week does not cut it...or does it?

I am rather happy right now. I can feel the walls closing in on me...but I am happy. I don't think about the money much...I know I am making enough to stay afloat. But the work I am doing, it is grand.

Here is an important "writing" for your time spent reading over my vile words:


Pastel Grease - 3.3.98

Resenting your hands as they run over my freshly drawn
still life. Now look at your hands! You have mixed and
smeared my oils and the residue plagues your tips.

But all i wanted to do is to touch your emotional expression,
your raw colorful meaning.

No, never touch. I can't afford to put your name on my art.
Me and whoever has touched it, that's bullshit. Just because
I have touched a Van Gogh, do i deserve to have my name on it?
I have forever changed a master, corrupted his inner
self, long after his death. I suppose greatness is achieved.

I'm sorry. (biting the tongue)(fuck you.)

The word "sorry" can't and will not erase your degrading finger prints. I wouldn't
go around erasing and revising your poetry.

(what's wrong with me? To allow a person I love to reject my oil and residue.)
(don't i make up a part of this person? Aren't their words
contaminated with my signature?)

Not only did you think it was cute to touch my drawing, you tried
to highlight the objects with a grey pastel. I've lost,
contrast

Geez, I hate the people in this. Particularly the visual artist. This never happened to me, but how close has it come in so many different ways. It's kinda like me saying that I have never watched the Godfather...but I'm rather sure I have seen the whole thing, tho in parts.