As I Walked By...

I was working today...

Listening to Tool's - 

Lateralis.

When I saw something my dad commissioned to a brick layer.

Fate worthy?

I think so.

 

Final days of serenity.

As I approach the last days. The last days of an experience that has moulded me into a person that I have become. Something is static with fear in leaving such an awesome direction. 

In the past year and a half my life has gone from turmoil to turmoil. Like all good books that follow it's set story line. I have found myself in a different disposition but one that is just as chaotic as the one I went into this venture. I remember when I signed up for this path, a scattered and obscene character, darken with addictions that were inevitably tearing my clutch on reality from with under my feet. Something had to give. 

Joining the forces of understanding I gave away a lot of what I considered in a past life to be real. A lot of the friendships that I formed on my previous path were soon transformed into dust. I was no longer a spiral with a crew of bubbles to call my self emptiness. I was actually the empty bath. 

Through out the period of forced isolation I wooed and fondled with the extreme madness that only pure isolation could put on my plate. I moved through it. It was a little task I wanted to see what was to be of.

It was like the first scientist that discovered an atom. You really just want to know what the extension of this knowledge will entail. The thing with such volatility is that the dangers and discoveries that can be found can often lead to unfavorable outcomes.

This is an exploration into life.

Everything that I have learned in the last 18 months, the new people that I have met, the old friends I have kept, the new ideals that I have learnt and the new me that I have created... has only left me with searing fact that we are usually alone on this mortal coil and that if you choose to embark on such a chaotic horizon then we must forgive and forget the people, things, knowledge that we once held so closely too, to just fall away.

Fall. Away.

The idea that I would make friends or thoughts... never occurred to me that the art of doing so, often meant I was having to say a long an often private goodbye to what I saw so steadfast.

In a digital social medium, where friends and connections are the sure fire way to grab a perspective of eternity, we forget that there is a much deeper mission.

The exploration of oneself.

There is a term that usually is commended by the man on the field, the man in the forrest and the man with the nets set cast away to absorb the fish to feed the families and communities in which they are destined for, and that is... sometimes darling, you must extrapolate the dead wood from the existing and the living in order to move forward positively.

The aforementioned has been one that is, in my mind, considered the last bastion of my own personal discovery.

If a man digs a hole on his 18th birthday, should that man be still considering it as part of his personal portfolio on his 58th?

I fear the direction of social connectivity has mad us to believe so.

But, in a personal and often very very very painful exploration into human existence is that mostly, the person we spend 3 weeks with, the person we spend 3 years with and the person we spend 3 score with... are completely different.

With the ability to scour my headspace for anecdotal evidence of how I have tried so desperately, through lack of inability to forget, to hold onto the people that were arrived in my earlier years and try and place them on the board of a modern life table. I have realised that while it is exceptionally futile, the sheer act is down right destructive.

One is one. One must move in a way that one is intended. Evolution has pointed this out in many instances i.e. from the simple monkey that out grew the clan and walked on to start the new generation of monkeys that formed the first homo erectus... the Bible with all it's descriptive fables, taught us the outstanding ability of one, and the movement of one from circumstance to another, the Koran, sent one man to the mountain and the rest followed and even the Satanic Bible  said "Do as one pleases but do not harm no one"

I am not advocating secluded isolation  for everyone, its not something that everyone can see for oneself, they just do not have the framework for... but it must be a thought that must be considered. 

You are as powerful as you choose to make yourself. It is your world, it is your precious prize. 

We all need each other... but we are no good to each other if we allow our hearts and minds to be bogged down by each other. Please, take a step. Jump into the beautiful light that you are, recognise its magnificence.

Because if you do, no one else need apply.

Love.

I am back.

After a hectic last 6 months, I have returned, with a new vigor.

After the messing around that IKEA decided me to make a run for.

I am back.

It feels good.

A Little Story, About The Failure Of A Man On The Inside.

With one last draw of the crooked cigarette, he found himself looking out the window. Inspiration comes easy to those who are dedicated, new too or in a budding area of interest. But this was his 105th title, ideas were stale. Ideas that got him through his early 20's and into his late 30's were no longer there, was he getting old? He sure felt it.

Granted there was a surplus of things he wanted to say, true he was still considered New York's greatest author on this topic. If you could call him an author.

As another cigarette was lit he leered at a poster on the wall, the sunlight through his one bedroom apartment was just enough to cause the glossy finish to create a reflection. A reflection of himself, he was tired, years in the biz had been very unkind to him. Oily hair that was receding, skin that not much better. His eyes were sunken and very grey. He remembered when they were dark, how did they become so grey, was this healthy? Who knows. His health wasn't the highest of his priorities.

Parties, drugs and women, were all that this industry had brought him. Sure he had his pick of any fresh faced girl at any of the closed door gatherings that were constantly being held around his over crowded city. Even if he left, the parties were always there. Was it he that found them, or did they come looking for him. He thought it was a little of column B and alot of column A.

He knew it was wrong, but he thought it would help him out of the rut he was in. 3 oversized lines and a pot of coffee and the distinct feeling of agitation is rife through his rotten body. For he is sick. He knows it. The doctors told him to take it very easy and possibly retire to a calmer industry. This was all he knew. He was good at it. "Was" being the operative word.

The agitation was unbearable. He decided to go for a 3 smoke walk. In his youth this would do the trick. He would end up at a bar on the second cigarette and find himself inhaling a whole packet by the time they kicked him out. It got the job done. He would be inspired.

These days he wasn't as lucky, his increasing emphysema and frail immune system often meant that the elevator ride was far too laborious. So with that in mind he walked out onto his rickety and half constructed balcony. The ash tray was overfilled and full of water from days of rain that had drenched the apple of larger proportions. The local birds had tossed a few cigarette butts around while he had taken one of his mandatory afternoon naps. He cleaned them up. He shook really bad. 

How did this happen to him? Was America to blame? Was it his fault? Who did this to him? The System? The Industry? The girls? The booze? These thoughts swirled his head has he inhaled another dark drag of taxable nicotine. This was their fault. They got him hooked. They gave him the job. He didn't ask for it. It was their fault. They had to pay.

With this renewed hatred for his work he took to his rusty typewriter. 12 hours. 3 Grams. 14 pots of coffee later, a wired man punches the period mark, this time at least. His hands tremble so much he almost tears the final page as he removes it from the typewriter. This is not good. But he knows there is only a few hours before he can sit down and be at peace. No one will hound him for a new piece for a while. This will give him a chance to look after himself. He knows he is lying. 

Under a cold shower he tries to plan for the day that is after his 2pm meeting. He visions, with cold water pouring on his brow, taking a walk to Coney Island and eating ice cream. This used to make him so happy, but these days happiness was far from his person. What else should he do? He would ask you. If he could trust you. The shower hammer is bad in this building, it makes him irritable. As the final water droplet comes out of the shower head, it is clear he needs to leave. Around the apartment is a cascade of worn clothes, a smell test aids his decision. Once he is ready. He leaves. Work under arm.

The sun is his enemy, everything is his enemy. Children race by on bikes, he hates their youth. Old ladies smile at him on the street, he snarls. Elderly people make him sick. A religious man offers to save his soul. He doesn't need a soul. 

There is a clock above a furniture building, he has 25 minutes. He proceeds to walk into a bar, he feels a beer might calm his nerves. It used to. He was tired of everything working in the past.

The bartender apprehensively serves a beer. Blood shot eyes and a severe case of tremors make it hard to serve this man a beer. 25 minutes was not enough to finish the beverage. Not this time. Not in his state.

The first step off the barstool was the hardest, but once he started moving it got easier. He was proud of himself. He was feeling better. This was cause for celebration. He lights another cigarette. Instantly his demeanor  falls, he feels lethargic, teary and generally ill. How did he think it was going to make him feel? He spent so many years trying to make himself feel better. If he was tired, a line would make it better for a while, this inturn made him anxious, so a line and a cigarette was his answer, this mad him feel worse... he was now out of breath and suffering severe anxiety. A beer and and a shot of heroin, or rolling a joint would fix this, but that made him tired. Coffee anyone?

A security guard of a rather large build asks him who he would like to see. Mr Peter Swanski was the managing director, he disliked Mr Swanski very much. Peter was the son of the late Jonathan Swanski. Peter was ruthless, unkind and very dictatived by youth. You could tell by the garbage he was putting the company name too. Jonathan was more into the classic nature of the business, he thought that the audience should be led into the story. His son, Peter thought that plot wasted the audiences time. 

As the elevator door opens on level 38, he runs into a fellow colleague. He looked much worse then he remembered. The industry had been just as unkind to him, if not worse. This made him feel better, and more confident about his work. It was a cruel way to treat a person you had known for most of your glory years, reveling in the lime light as equals, but times had changed. They were enemies. Enemies fighting for the scraps. With a kind handshake and a promise to reconvene at another time, the two walk in opposite directions. "Fucking loser" is simultaneously muttered. 

Gretel Harger is the secretary for Mr Swanski Jnr. She is small, with a girlish laugh. She dates men who tell her she is pretty, loves believing in crystals and the hidden energy they possess. She has 2 brothers, one who is in jail for rape and the other one a heroin junkie returned from the war and now lives in a bunk house in the back of colorado writing death threats to little old ladies in the local community... he doesn't mean it. He is a hero. Scumbag.

As a childish message is conveyed to a sniffling man through an intercom that was worth more than his apartment, he is called into the office.

Rejection.

His work was rejected.

Who gets rejected as a writer for porn flicks.

Obviously he did

Fucking loser.

Hope On High.

As things appear on the news. The hear is not to far from sinking. We are faced with nothing but a pure abolition of what could be right. It is a dark period.

Spilled Over.

By Paris Hitler.

As the cigarette left my fingers, and the deathly cloud of exhale was drawn from my lungs.

I found myself in a spoil of turmoil.

Somewhere that I had been before.

It's the lack of non walled outfits. The lack of a new tomorrow.

With out fear. With more love.

We are toiling for nothing and achieving less.

This must be hell.

But in the dark, and striving minion. Something finds a way to shine.

Hope.

Hope.

Hope.

I has no reason. It has no formula.

But it is all we have.

I wrote this after I saw the following images. The Daffodil is the mountain flower. It appears as a shote, some make it. Some don't. The ones that do. Are seen below.

Why It Was So Hard.

The Difference Of Opinion.