8:15PM Blue flame of the stone heart wanes. A bubbling ripple of red rage thrumming against its underbelly. I step beside it. Look beyond into it into the great blue sky, thick white wall clouds. Stopped, like I am.
I think about what to write to you. How to paint an interesting, attractive view of my reality. The blog is low-key enough I can say what I want, but public enough so not really. I hate that the bastard truth would be more entertaining, but I don’t have the courage.
Writing is a dangerous sport. It makes us hoarders of memories. Paradox abounds, because I suspect it is horrible memories which float the best. Writers are trained on the horse bits of their own suffering. Lead around by a cultural sadist, sauntering in the latest fashions. You are this because you were born here, by these people, this is your life.
You hear about this Pokemon Go business? Fuck, right? Billion dollar digital overlay of the world. Makes me think of Philip K. Dicks The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch. That’s where we’re headed, twenty years. We’ll all swim in virtual realities.
Not me. Think I’ma trade it all in for a patch of dirt. Give me some space to cultivate the blue flame of stone heart. Eat food from my dirt or die. Kill the Television.
It’s Babylon sickness, the roads, the concrete, the bad food, heat and sweating bodies. Everybody is so gassed. Rorschach tests from the sweat on the shirts of pot bellied old men. Diabetes leaning side ways, sweating at the bus stop. Skeleton chested woman in dated black jeans, and a stretched red tank-top. Three trash bags of diet cokes cans slung over her shoulder, making the three mile march to Wal-Mart, for what? A pack of cigarettes? The last five bucks she needs, for whatever it is she needs…
That’s god though, I’m sure.
Later, 10:26PM, kids in bed, post shower Dr. Bronner’s rub down. Everything is better after Bronner’s. So here I sit friends, 10:36PM, maybe an hour or so until sleep, then 6:44AM we do it again. How do we make it fresh? How do we make it original? How do we make it great again, and again, and again?
I think I’lll wake up and walk one of my dogs. Then do a loaf of bread. Made my best sour dough loaf today. Starter is about to take a break in the fridge. You could just keep feeding the starter, a little flour and water everyday. It could exists on your counter forever, I’ve learned. Fascinating when you stop to think of it. You cultivate a bunch of microorganisms that make your bread taste great and helps you digest it. Sigh. Babylon. You know they went to this ancient bread making process, stripped it down, dissected it, strained it, bleached it, reconstituted it with some preservative shit, and filled your grocery aisle with it, told ya it was good for ya.
Today I substituted honey for the sugar. Delicious. The honey for the sugar. I like the sound of the that. I love honey pots. I love bees. I like working in the field, simpatico with the bees. Pollinate these flowers. Float over here. Bring the good back to the hive, to the Queen. I get bees. Weird you can fit so perfect in one environment, so wretched in another. Seen retarded bees staggering from a shot of Round-Up.
It’s not good writing like this after a certain time, so I will sing you farewell dear reader. I hope you found your way to some Art today. The flame may spark red, but it burns eternally blue. I hope for you too. Get your words. Make someone else’s day. Stay in the space between yourself and the world.