Life is easier when you want things that already exist.

IDEA: W/in the normal limits.

Fall moves in to set up shop quietly

it slips in while i ignore the thermostat

as the last of the zinnias 

negotiate + test the air for safety 

+ again are fooled into a final hurrah 

.....

other seasons’ rehearsing

are snuffed out by autumn anger 

shaking off muddy leaves

+ dirt debris of late summer

its revenge descends

on cool eves

then looking around satisfied  

that gardens have been put to bed

or not

autumn settles up

to settle down 

into a facade

of clammy cold

till the moment retires 

under tranquil 

untroubled

tender 

snow.

For me, organizing thoughts on paper is somewhat of a time waster.

Are memes simply reactions? What’s wrong w/ that word? Noun or adjective? Does each lie one side or the other in meaning? i feel like Gilda’s Emily reporting on news she misunderstands … nevermind.

+ another thing. When people say Meta, i think they are referring to Metta. So this Meta thing - how can you NOT be self aware? Prove it.

Which leads me to this idea; Immediately after a cup of caffeine, i successfully trick myself into believing anything is possible.

Kneecapus jerkum lirberaile.

The puzzllerum piece was neveum missuming buttus goaum toic usit ot withoutuc excusiumics youous nowithave twoicum. Writ lotteries requinsic tos loam hepit madders soomopic clenliness es tom eatum isys ona platters. Ic ous it au um. 

- Experimenting w/ piggish prose latin. Upon writing + leaving it for a minute, i’ve no remembrance as to the push. So will leave it to others' imagination.

The wave of easy rider songs are in my head crammed into every turn. The soundtrack playing like a documentary racing through my thoughts.

Bloody ripper of an IDEA;

No matter the why or whose doing it, sometimes all you can do is pray. 

Not w/ words, but w/ actions.

Rest on that.

 The inevitable change that burns up the present moment.

i like to say + even believe, the dadaist had way too much time on their hands. They seem to have been the  original extra. Every seven years or so i decide to channel that crew + dream that i can create collage,  —  + i am dreaming — + once again i learn that i do not like the process of cut + paste. i say, my results are awkward + contrived + sophomoric. Though in my earlier life i may have rejoiced in awkward + contrived - it being a style of its own - i now cringe at the result. i hurriedly sand it into oblivion or tuck the project away to hide it from myself. + like a cat, go about my business as though nothing extraordinary had happened. 

This is a good sentence to end. It was penned by Drew, from a character study. 

i am hoping to quote it correctly. + promising to ask if the inclusion is okay.

It was times like these that she enjoyed the enlightenment others look for their entire lives.

Be aware when there is a wolf in the next room and headed this way.

Dreaming of an arrow — with a history it would be an artifact. Has it been used? Looking for clues as to whether it has been used. Imagining i see clues to if it has been used. Lucid dream of this imagining brings me out of the dream world + plunks me in this.

Tsukumogami is a somewhat precise word describing an object that has been around long enough to develop a soul. Inanimate becoming sentient. Is this why some of us are drawn to items with a history of use? They are on their way to sentientness. Just a few more hundred years or so — how impossibly long could it take?

Every night i lie awake long enough to make a mental list of everything i absolutely need to do before i die + every morning upon awaking i cannot remember one damn thing. i have to think really hard on what day it is + what is expected of me. Sometimes i ask out loud to shake up an answer. Sometimes someone hears me + supplies the answer. 

It’s comes to this … 

Standing at the kitchen table w/ three jars open working up eats + it takes a few to figure out which lid goes on which jar. i. Actually. Must. Think. About. It. 

Extra dream pages are crammed into the corners of my mind. This thinking spirals me into connections + unable to back out. At some point i simply say that has to be it - not following the thread road any longer. There will always be another project + another day. Until there isn’t.

That’s me on the left.

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12th-6/9 entries for annual ROM / muse - How does one dissect an imaginary creature? / jkg

How much do you actually need on a day today basis?  Bravery, i mean. The question is laid bare for all to hear, w/ the possibility of anyone to answer. 

Seeing a spider up close is scary, i don’t care who you are. + they say you ingest 20 spiders in a lifetime. Imagine those creatures giving up their tiny lives so we can have such an alarming quota.

The question is - How does one dissect an imaginary creature?

The answer is - You write about it in a book.

Which reminds me to always keep a lie at the ready in case anyone doesn't believe the truth.

Which reminds me — can diversity that makes a nation great simultaneously destroy it from the inside?

And — is it composer or composure?

Reality is nothing but a collective hunch. -Lily Tomlin

In stepping away from reality bit by a bit, what i want is more reality.

i’m now icing the kicker by calling a halt to the scenario. 

……….

12-7/9 entries for annual ROM / muse - musing on the 7th mouse when there's no proof of the 5th or 6th / jahh

Sleep too long and what do you get? Weird dreams.

The subconscious, can work on a problem for only so long before going baroque. 

Mythical creatures escaping boundaries. Spinning. A black parrot repeating himself like a loose canon. Spinning. We build the dreams we imagine. Spinning. Ideas like locust, too much too many — 

sometimes being all scare + no substance, like a long shadow, but no one is there.

That which you mistake for madness is but an over-acuteness of the senses.  -Edgar Allan Poe

Take chances, there may not be a promised land. 

……….

12-8/9 entries for annual ROM / muse - The stones of Merlin / jkg

Merlin built Stonehenge, they say. Just because we believe, doesn't mean it was true. 

It is hard to know, sometimes, which response is a relief.

The teakettle in space thingie was written in the faraway 1940’s. Yes indeed, Bertrand, there is a teakettle floating out here somewhere. The news of the discovery has been reported by multiple news outlets including Daily Mail, Atlas Obscura, and many more. 

The question of how the mind finds knowledge is vast, and it is one I am not authorized to speak on. - Drew

i’ll add to that -  Sometimes things don’t work out, but it was a fun when it was still an idea.

……….

12-9/9 final for annual ROM / muse - When you lose the tools you use to find your way / jkg

 

No, leads me to the question on planetariums — hellhounds belong in museums not in huge domes where that god voice comes out of nowhere. Usurping all w/ cease + desist.

It took a few to get that word right: I began in this way;

Sur

Resend and desend. 

Disease and insist. 

Coinfab + confer. 

repeat + consist.

then everything fell into a hole + the end mix was; 

Cease and Desist

The moment is over as if it had never happened. 

It’s dark in here: dark + cold at the rim of where all futures have ceased to be imaginable.

But I was going to Toshi Station to pick up some power converters. -Luke Skywalker

+ now, i can end with - 

If we are all star stuff anyway, is a vacation really necessary?

-30-

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12th-5/9 entries for annual ROM / muse - Dogcatchers of Vatican City vs. the fisherman of Switzerland / jkg

Put two ideas or tangibles together that don’t go + see how they relate. Even the game Mixed Taste has rules, + though it can’t be considered to be in the reaches - except the reaches of one’s mind - they do change every time. Giant Tortoise + Punk Rock scene of Vivienne Westwood. Second year novices + the ’67 Rambler. The Dog Catchers of Vatican City + (you knew this was coming ) Fisherman of Switzerland. 

Our minds want a linear story + what we can’t figure, our minds are able to massage into a believable form. Our intellects + our hearts build, (knock down + rebuild!) what we think we believe. In our life’s exploration we have criss-crossed the path from where we have been, back again over familiar terrain + not even recognized it. This reminds me of the resolute feeling of what jet lag is — working thorough everything needing attention at one time, + being totally, absolutely, completely ineffectual w/ it all at the same time. The wayward intent, though, becomes the layman’s Shunyata. This emptiness / openness permeates, + is seen as something to work through, but in the moment, you have to accept it. 

What may seem like a waste of time to some, my skin becomes thick + sharp w/ memories yelling Kiken, Kiken!

Sometimes what looks large from a distance, up close, ain’t never that big. -Bob Dylan

It is bravery when the risk is recognized. 

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12th-4/9 entries for annual ROM / muse - Fléctere si néqueo sùperos acheronta movebo / jahh 
  
Paris is not in Italy. But it’s close. 

The dreads have made it to the door — i have to remember each time whether to keep them at bay, or embrace them fully (the whole catastrophe) to knock the scare out of me. Reckoning it is different at different times in our lives. This past year, nicely, mercifully, is over. Spring will. Time passes + what has to be done, will be done. We’ll also find the hell raising will get done, for that is what sustains our artist souls. It is a little slice of immovable heaven, since we’re unsure if it will be that or the deep end we will be facing at the finish. Wow, for the silence after work has been put to bed. Who doesn't look forward to that? Virgil had a tattoo the color of a peach pit that read Fléctere si néqueo súperos acheronta movebo.  If he did not believe it on his deathbed —  he had the reminder while he lived, + the devotion to wear it on his sleeve.

A real life fable to try on. There was a storm overhead whipping up. i could see Orion steadying himself, trying to keep from being blown away. i ducked under a flopping wing of a torn roof seeking protection. Only half afraid, i wanted to remain outside to see the stars resistance + watch others scatter to safety. 

Hera is alive + well + living in Juno’s body. Her story has stained her. She studies by firelight + has learned to ignore her personal daimon. She does this because she can’t imagine not. If she were flesh + bone, one could see her mind peeling back to reach for an understanding of the mix - genius, legend, messiah complex. She believes things she will not talk about. All we have left is an early tin photo where the slow film + long exposure created a halo of bright light around her white gown of voile. The negative is seen bleeding black. i do not know how this relates to life, or this muse. It is simply beautiful, + its otherworldliness effect intrigues me compared to the sharp focus of realism.
Hera has left no comment on her married life. 

Ah yes! To Le Guin, where the rules change in the reaches.

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12th-3/9 entries for annual ROM / muse - to create, first control, to control, first destroy / jkg 

… + what comes before destroying oneself?

You destroy other stuff!

American things happen. Raise your hand if you’ve seen ridiculous screen fun called Destroy Build Destroy. Omfg — what an absolute train wreck. What an anomaly. Rough translation: Tribe of three teenage boys purge their testosterone by performing the title. Michelangelo’s Doni Tondo also asks that same eternal question. What are those boys doing in the background? Flipping each other w/ towels? Whoa to the Legion of Decency. Out of control + unaware of what, if anything, important is going on. Managing on the edge of chaos is an art, these boys are not anywhere in the vicinity the A word.

 

Where are the brick + mortar places that we played bohemians sit in a cafe + quietly revolt games? Gone. These guys would have destroyed them all. Some of the places have been gone for decades. i know intellectually that nothing lingers, + you don't need to have a physical place to exist if it is existing in your mind as a memory. But emotionally, those are memories that will follow me til i die. Mystifying. But there you go. You think something will be  around for ever-ever, but you’re just wrong. What can be built from the pieces? + then, always destroyed again.

Perhaps this is what I’d hoped for ever since that day: the destruction and loss of everything. That’s right. Destruction comes before creation, and to that goal even my own conscience must be cast aside. -Lelouch vi Britannia / Code Geass

Better than waking up to a plate of croissants + syringe of smack in a Paris hotel.

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12th-2/9 entries for annual ROM / muse - any quote by fernando pessoa / jahh 

Sacrifice feels like you’re winding up to do. + the slaughter is not the end unto itself. There are reactions of what you want to happen, + when you want something bad enough you can talk yourself into needing it. What remains is the longing for things that didn’t happen. 

It is more difficult to make a beautiful painting interesting than to make an interesting painting beautiful. Someone needs to not only understand this, but put it into practice — then, please, explain it to me. i think Pessoa could have. When he said you or they, he meant himself. + when he said himself, he still meant himself.  His switchbacks + sideways created authors unto themselves. You are excused from being my idea of you. i seem to channel him on my blank writing days. i simply cut + paste everything i think into saying, because that really is as non-sequential as i feel. 

It becomes the winding up to say something unique, + after a launch from the tongue + now almost landed onto paper — the phone bleep-bleeps because i’ve forgotten to switch it to airplane mode. Then it becomes a chase back to the idea. The time lost has severed the thread. Finding even one word to get back on the track is impossible w/ every lost moment. What is that lost time called?  Were does it go? There must be a word somewhere that simplifies this feeling of difference between unfurling + unraveling. What ever that word is, Proust must have been the inventor.

i awake excited about the day + end exhausted from it. +, somewhere in between i visit the central gardens at a distance of 6 feet. i absorb details surrounding me. Sort of like superman hearing everything yet waiting to hear the one thing that piques his interest. i land on a pair of converse shoes w/ laces tied together, apparently granny thrown to sail up + whip wrap around the electric line going from the street to the park privy. (EW! Helen! A public bathroom!) That’s not all i see. Focusing on these keds, i make out the structure of the shoes gently swinging above me. The black cotton canvas, + the work involved in making it. The fertile land in Egypt where the raw materials were grown, the sweating backs of the laborers, their homes, their families setting the table for the evening meal. i see the manufacturers in distant regions, the machines, the dyers coloring the threads + weaving the tough cloth, the seamstresses,  who cut the individual pieces, stitch them up, the shaping of the iconic stamped rubber toe + converse decal,  lacing of the shoe laces + mashing of the plastic end tips so they will not fray. The schleps that brought the pieces here + there + those truckers that connected the dots to make the product displayed above me. Beyond them i see their thoughts + hopes for their lives + their days + their next moments. The domestic lives each play out as their realities unfold before my eyes. All these hours, all these lives dedicated to the building of a pair of shoes someone has casually thrown up on wires. i become dense smoke + feel myself shrinking + implode in my seat. i’ve traveled 30 years + 3000 miles w/out out leaving my bench. i leave the park exhausted, like a sleepwalker, having lived a multitude of lives.

In order to understand, I destroyed myself. -Fernando Pessoa

It is what has happened in the shadows that will remain w/ me forever.

 

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12th-1/9 entries for annual ROM / muse - hellhounds in the museum / pk

The picnic that is River of Mnemosyne. 

Where anything can happen + will.

Already, my life is a shaky substructure teetering on misunderstandings, hearing half truths, + damn if i can’t think of a third to make this a well rounded sentence. 

Hellhounds in the Museum sounds like a regret. Or a challenge. Or perhaps, a regretful challenge. Why are these damn muses always so damn obtuse? Damn. + again. i can’t help but think they are made for a creator of one. Someone whom picked a muse essential to their own story, an offhand MacGuffin to move someone’s single pointed plot along + simultaneously chosen to throw everyone else off their creative slipstream current by turning every other table upside down along the way. Hellhound on my trail. But, i do go on. Yes?

Hellhound in the museum is a contra flavor of elephant in the room, or perhaps - I can’t find the correct lipstick shade.

The hellhound most defiantly is in the Natural History Museum. (+ likely designed, painted + built by a friend who knows no hell). An extended Hellhound family captured in any number of ways — all illegal, + any number of places — all private property, with any number of intentions — all anti-Peta. Gutted + stuffed into a cyclorama. Minding their own businesses + refusing the fourth wall, the red eyes of the pups peer out from a dark den w/ an imagined tunnel to inner earth + intertwined w/ roots of a faux Balboa tree. Their cockeyed painful look of painful taxidermy is carried over, belying tameness in the state of frozen time. 

One member of the family is noticeably missing - perhaps this hound is employed as a docent in the Rod Sterling wing, aptly named the Other Night Gallery. Peering into hellish paintings w/ hellish themes, darting here + there around suspended frames. This floating feature mesmerized me. Where my 20th century mind said how is that? Today i laugh haha! The hellhound is at home + looking quite natural wearing a this is not a tour tee, grappling w/ a megaphone + queuing the horror foley w/ a condescending drawl.

On the other hand, maybe she's belying a peanut farmer, w/ chicken feathers stuck out the corner of her mouth. Is she the goody-two-shoes cousin from the other side of the tracks? Mules on her feet + diploma clinched in her paw, glasses balancing way down on her nose, as she searches for a brood to teach the dangerous ways of the deadly forefather hellhounds. Or, posing as a derby fox type character? Dapper + charismatic in a bell top hat + knickers holding a riding crop, to ward off the ferrel dogs that would pursue her. Shapeshifting into kitsune or his twin of the Inari Shrine variety. 

i’m imagining the drawing of the dutch classic blurring the ape form into human merging into frog. The morphing of animal farm that shape-shifts into + back from. Where the entire animal kingdom, including humans, don’t land far from the same tree. This could all be an irrational notion. Though empirically, the tracked mud + indelible foul breath proves this character is real. On the other hand, from my lips to gods ear.

The Greeks called Cerberus was a demon, but i say not. He was no Black Shuck of East Anglia, but a three headed sweetheart that was misunderstood, left unattended, + neglected at the gate — how could he not be a little defensive? As the saying goes, (okay, yes - i’ve viewed the film Fiddler on the Roof three times this week) deviation from the norm will be punished unless it is exploitable.

It is the preverbal hellhound of the mind — second cousin to the monkey mind we all know so well. We are the hellhound enclosed in the museum; our virtual mind. The visiting character is masked up + sashaying around dull thoughts + puny sparks. Perhaps she wears the PPS mask begrudgingly, because when the muse was imagined it was not necessary. She had another mask in mind. The mask behind the mask, where no-one is the wiser. A Hell Hound of Baskerville by any other name. Seen in Bulgaria, Turkey, Vietnam, Siberia, Romania, Russia, Chile, Lithuania, Sardinia … you get the picture. Or in other words, the big dark harbinger of death is inside us all. Peering around wildly w/ red eyes that illuminate our fears.

Though they are buried in opposite ends of the earth, one dog will find them both.  -Djuna Barnes

As the good book says; someone wants us to sacrifice something.

What i learned today:

• It takes just the right warm pink + just the right cool violet to make a peach hue. 
• When my eye balls become cold it is time to turn on the heat.
• Domestic skills have more to do w/ survival skills.

This isn't Peaboby + Sherman improbable history — this is the real thing!

A small, in the works work. Ode to Crow. Will make an extrapolated booklet of its ten pages.

Working + building color my mind went to the phrase - Color Scheme.

So, what i’m thinking today:

This makes color sound dishonest. Who can take a dishonest color seriously? i like colors to tell true stories. That’s it, True Color Stories.