5 out of 9

late December

The tune of the heat pump screeched a friendly chickadee’s song as she happily easily leapt from person to person onto heads + shoulder + hands + head + on + on coming towards me - she landed on the top of my head  + immediately got tangled in my hair i was in need of assistance because i could not see to help free her she screamed calling in a cloud of locust swarming like a pit crew insisting on rotating the crop of ideas determined to dissolve + take back a concept that was never that great to begin w/.

4 out of 9

middy December 

Frozen rain fell at midnight + melted off of the heat thingy at warming dawn below the window making tink-tinkling of a table top mini waterfall hitting the surface of patterned bricks inside my minds dream eye reinterpreted as water leaking through a ceiling from upstairs the tap tap tap   source hunted down to the origin a cracked belly of a toilet easily patched i continued information gathering by following the meander of the leak back down down through the house + w/ watercourse converting + growing larger the farther i descended the path eventually believing it had it’s own destination + determination seeing a shut-off spigot i turned the handle strangling the water supply but it had been too late i turn to see behind the room afloat fucktangent wicking water over + over melting low walls again + again opening the line of site my stream of consciousness turned into an ocean current of the atlantic w/ a cruise ship zooming away into a ginormous which is actually 40’s military slang void i hang my head as i had been so very sill lily worried about curtains on the titanic.

3 out of 9

start of December

The heat pump’s extended off-cycle allowed dreaming slumber + revealed a night drive in a  truck w/ improved windshield framed w/ proscenium + sculpted curtains + animated every street sign every billboard every car zooming past hit me w/ surreal sharpness lit by high-beam headlights blinding blurred eyes + head swims to stage right as I hear a pop + wheeze i struggle to hang on to the steering wheel concentrating on the tires grounding w/ the road pull off safely back stage now huddled at a flat rear wheel for a time-out gaining composure til a mild trace of the mind twisting + acclimated to this new way of deciphering through my energy i hear nothing but variations of motown sounding off through a half dead walkman the flat beat boomed inside me + lost my will + obeying the air-splitting rhythm awaking a ghost inside my chest an ancestral phantom who had danced this dance a thousand years ago this morning it pulled me away from the dead tire + into the illusive  backdropped dark forest to join wantons gathered about a fire lost in a swaying trance dance i hope for nothing i fear nothing i am free epitaph written on foreheads leaping sultry sfumato + fire bits + oh then sitting dejectedly in the smoke filled air a few little sisters inside their minds of luxury glass + beamy hi-rise condos w/ running hot water + safety locks + a tv screen as large as manhattan + they saw me + oh so cooly politely rolled their eyes turned their heads to each other + pecked + clucked to keep warm re-evaluating the future every three minutes in the best of neighborhoods a heavy mist coincided w/ the fire dissolving into lucid dreaming as unexpectedly how else from up high up a tree the on-cycle fan kicked in + their flickering small hateful embarrassed eyes look up up + away along w/ the steam of water snuffed flames i think how much more interesting the dilapidated heat pump would be 100 years from this as it is easier to make an interesting picture beautiful than to make beautiful picture interesting.   

2 out of 9

further along in November

The swamp thing awoke me on its recurring cycle of heating + relaxed spinning + creaking w/ off-balanced ticking like a card in the spokes of a stingray w/ a sissy-bar like a timer on a bomb reinterpreted by an echoic gloopy dream mixed w/ a kind-of reality like a re-engineering in mind as the radio station droning traffic conditions explaining for traffic you need a lot of cars you need too little road you need someone fishing under the seat for a lost cassette upon investigation the heat pump’s metal fan box revealed a thin but hampering frozen-over casing — not loosened by a verbal cuss coaxing whoa to the legion of decency nor swinging of a rubber mallet — on the third chance to remedy a heat-gun flashed to mind i hooked up an extension cord then i hooked up an extension cord then i hooked up an extension cord to make it w/in reaching distance blasting hot air aiming at the sinister hi-pitched warbling sound that smells of cat litter + base elements holding fast eventually beginning to melt then backed away as the alarming noise pitched up + felling reduced to a low roar of a smaller scared animal easily taken + understood being less than what it had been it worked swell for a bit after that i hit my toe so hard on a table leg as to retch w/out vomiting + the bed had gotten cold but if i was given the native american name shoots-hot-air-at-her-heat-pump-at-midnight it was well worth it. 

DOM #10 / 1 out of 9

The winter of my discontented heat pump. 

A dream seems like reality as long as we are in it. -Carl Jung

somewhere in November.

Waking this morning i vaguely remember dreaming in darkness the sound of the heat pump invading my consciousness having noised off every half hour or so + the paying of the dreaded utility bill came into my rolling mind condensed along w/ vivid memories of an iron maiden thump thump thumping w/ bruised tar laden lungs w/ distorted breath triggering + shuddering  — oh my — this tactful conditioning we have of a sound modifying itself into our mind that will plummet whatever hope of leveling the playing field for the coming day + as it is barely cold enough outside to leave a watery frost on the inside of the windows that i have quilted over opaque for the rest of the wintery part of the year yet still needing to plant a bit of spring when there is a break to 41 degrees on saturday. 

One should say before sleeping, I have lived many lives. I have been a slave and a prince. Many a beloved has sat upon my knees and I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved. Everything that has been shall be again. -W. B. Yeats

It was as though we all took a suicide pill, but it’s not very strong so we all have to live one more day - what would you do?

Thanks, that's all i got.

Cross-training keeps us growing.

Circa '94 - Caught cross-training, bewildered 
somewhere in Hong Kong... 

Fire-ready-aim; go ahead. 

inscribe an epic poem with a burned carrot

smear your favorite cookbook with marinara

scribble your heart on your sleeve with your new pen knife

forgo supper for a marathon dancing onto wet paint

go ester williams swimming within 30 minutes of eating a huge meal 

Who said that? i tend to blame the devil on surrealist’s influences. They had way too much time on their hands. Pretend you do, too.

... with these folks.

Is art-form a learning, amuse/ment, or escape? Why is it important to have fun or forget all this worldly world. And, really, should we? The compassionate response is so fleeting, when there is so much to be done. How large does a hole need to be to crawl into it? Meher Baba was silent for 40 years — until his death. He believed there had been enough talk, it was time to live it. Thinking this is only impressive if you make that decision, + then live for 40 more years. Would it have been so great if he had taken the vow of silence + then got hit by a truck two days later?  Oh wow, he didn't talk for two days before he died!

May be Bushido training is what we all need. 

Altar / medium

Alchemy / technique

Spirit / inspiration

It seems there is a place in my memory bank for kb. i can't  pick out one index card  to reference, finding the entire file when assessed + opened. A flood is washed over me w/ memories like scalar wave of ferocious intensity.

trying to play 
along 
alone

If it's not killing me, it is helping me. - Shohaku-san

Again i am reminded how well i can cover up my last mistake w/ the next process.

Taking a lit candle into a smaller room creates the illusion of a brighter light. The glow of  illumination becomes stronger in a more limited space; brightening the space for inspection + introspection.

Work that's neither pretty, nor thoughtful. But pretty thoughtful.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing. 

-Macbeth - through Shakespeare

Kind of like:

The moon in the water; 
Broken and broken again, 
Still it is there. 

~ Choshu. 

My eyes are squeezed shut, blinking inwardly. What am i doing? 
Shhh, i'm researching.

Has it become thus - when someone needs to be either a harasser, or a victim to get attention?

Bashō … Later that year he left Edo on the first of four major wanderings. What a wonderful way to separate the chapters of a life. The meander separating chapters can be tissue thin.

At some point, we need to stop looking for invisible scars, + take our freedom. 

i do not know where this stuff comes from. It comes to me + i report. Wether i believe it or not, is of no consequence.

... and we laughed how our perfection

would always be denied. -Joni Mitchell