the easily offended

1.15.13

Alone with my tree, a big palm gone mad and guarded in solitude behind his thick concrete walls, alone where the wind kicks mightily as it sweeps up the hills from the bay.  If there is one thing to say about this town in comparison to New Orleans it is that it has hills, vantage points where you can see the whole and take stock of the innumerable possibilities laid out before you.  You can temporarily remove yourself from the game and come to find momentary peace in forgetting that on the ground you are only a lonely pawn in the grandiose machinations of happenstance and professional assholes.  And that from this height you can spit back at your handlers without much fear of reprimand; aided by gravity.  But this will not be a lasting salve.  The tree is proof.  Inevitably they will build the earth up around you, above your high ground, with machines and wenches, industrial steel cables, concrete and other natural resources manipulated and ripped from the earth.  They will elevate the level of the playing field to once again encompass your talents as a disposable asset.  God must love relentless ingenuity.         

… Again the city lies in dreams.  And still I am wracked by my own … A little neon green something, the unmistakable feel of a gel tab on my tongue, and suddenly I am stuck in Bj's which is now a cafe frequented by the old and infirm, nice people, but I am making a mad scramble to get outside, but where is my shoe?  And why is my computer drenched in black ink?  All hallucinations of course, and once I peak I easily, eerily find the door … there was more, but I've forgotten it all now.  Damn

1.17.13

I find myself thinking over the peculiar attributes of skeletons.  Do they sweat?  Can they cry?  Is it necessary for them to shit?  I wonder if they have cares or appreciate shadowy places.  And why are they always smiling?

1.22.13

Decided to eat my breakfast this morning in the Great Hall, not far from my own cave.  The dog is in an uproar.  And from the breeze and lingering sky and fog it is easy to know that the day is going to be dank and hot.  Especially so in the city, which is why the decision has been made; today we will make an exploration of the countryside, a trek to the dunes of Monagua.  I could not be more excited.  The sound that is Valparaiso has been deafening as of late.  It is an all out assault on my good graces.  Even deep in the confines of my vast consciousness the sound penetrates with horrific precision, striking nerves and minor chords that tear through any semblance of peace; sustained thought is nothing more than a dream to be realized at the business end of a pistol …

The dunes are expansive and magnificent, a quiet breath exhaled over millennia, sweeping the landscape to the ocean, the air fragrant, brined in a salty minor chill, warmed by the hidden sun, and overcast spells both shy and vibrant within and above you, they envelope and break the surface of your bare skin; like a hug from the inside out.  And you close the eyes to hear the music, ancient harmonies that dwell in the marrow of your bones, move you through the fabric of time towards an inevitable melancholy as the mystique is broken by the roaring sounds of dirt bikes.  But in the distance the breakers can be heard, a reminder that your timeless resolve will not be forgotten, that the tide will soon return from the land of ghosts to wash all the bullshit clean. 

1.28.13

I am the chemical imbalance on top of the mountain.  I sit close to the Pacific.  And even at these heights I cannot see the necessary distance.  I am one of the privileged, but can gain no advantage.  I am incapable of the insanity and rage I so desperately crave.  I need to get myself arrested.  Or badly beaten.  There will be no redemption.  Am I wasting time or just passing the moments the only way that I am able, rolling them over one by one as I submit to every abject humiliation I can conceive, like being shit on from on high by an ugly winged rat.  Everything is good, but never as it should be; there is a greatness slipping through my fingers and instead of clinching my hand into a hard fist I am writing this fucking gibberish. 

1.29.13

A friendly acquaintance of mine lost a hand some short time ago.  He's the vociferous sort, always lambasting his cohorts with one outrageous claim or another; I imagine somewhere a line was crossed.  As his profession is similar to my own, most likely it was a debt to be paid.  It is hard for one to say, but this is the world in which we exist.  Life or death, each day is a precarious gamble composed of opposing weights, acts of danger, necessary delusion and even Truth, all of which vary from person to person and, depending on their pedigree, the company you keep can only exist to skewer the odds in favor of your opponents.  But why load the gun if you don't intend to play?   
In my dreams I attempt to reconstruct the incident, but I continue to be perplexed by the reality.  Whatever was my friend's immediate reaction to this aggression has become one of stone defiance.  Or so he would have the world believe.  But something has been lost beyond cement and bone, something once magnificent in its brash arrogance; it is a confidence surging in the wrong direction.  I wonder if his hand was kept as a souvenir?  Like a voodoo trinket possessed by lost conviction, a stone claw in the heart of the faithless; I hope it has been put to good use. 

But to hell with these diplomatic good graces.  Those guilty fucking degenerate shits, crass son's of bitches, I hope they are someday torn to pieces by something sharp like a Marnie Stern guitar lick.  Even incarnate as a pompous cement prick, who defiles a work of art?