Random day in Seattle some months ago:  Drunk at Sully's

I already miss the rain and I haven't yet left the state.  But soon.  Just two weeks out of the next nine months is just not enough to satiate the needs of the circulatory system.  When I'm outside my bones, my suit, soak up the rain, draw life and form from every drop and become subsets of the world's underlying rhythm.

I liked it better when I was the only person that drank on the weekdays.  But like most of my past competitions, instead of open aggression, I will simply outlast them all.  I am a veteran of attrition, a man condemned to an ever-evolving purgatory, a ocean of shifting bodies that heave forward then recede back into the depths and drown, lungs choked by time and its lost minutes.  If there is need for me to even a lift a finger in defense I will be impressed.  I dare say, I would most like to not disturb the peace and quiet that will inevitably manifest itself.  But I do wonder, how long must I wait? Where does the volume come from?  How is it projected over so much space?  Decidedly it is space contracted by madness, reason slipping out the back door without a kind word.  There are no friends, but patience.  And its just rewards: a rice krispy treat with a full strawberry on top and a beer well within reach.  It is a meditation on the Beauty of Things and the woman who carries it all in her smile. 

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Random day in Valparaiso:

The mornings are still most difficult as there is a definite weight to my being.  And my scheduling is still in the works.  I wake up and by the time I finish my morning routine I find that it is past noon and fret, forgetting that the sun goes down no earlier than 9pm.  There is always time.  I've also taken to drinking my coffee black.  But rest assured this is not a sadness, but the necessary adaptation of a natural balance.  I am positive that I sit at the top of the stairs, drinking in the vitamin d, replenishing my forgotten reserves; sunning myself like a lizard on the warm concrete steps.  I am coming to the conclusion that it is high time I graphically slip from my skin.  And in this precise moment the wind kicks up like a bastard, both for dramatic affect and to remind me that I am in no way in charge. 

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1.16.13

Humans produce so much god awful noise.  And so tomorrow I will go to Limache where you can still listen to the trees. 

1.18.13

There is a darkness I keep in my chest cavity, a contrast to my great white bones and I am becoming increasingly violent in thought and manner.  I do not know how long I can contain this within the walls.  I crave imbalance, want nothing more than to tip the scales of karmic justice against my own schizophrenic kindness.  I want the streets to burn, to drink poison and spit death back in the face of it all.  What was once sympathy, even mercy, has been replaced by war and thunder.  It is a quiet storm beneath the inverted surface, these beautiful undercurrents, opposing tides curling downwards with an effortless, orchestrated rhythm to rip sanity from the present before dragging it to rest in the peace and silent depths.