Necessarily Considering Proposals

...you spent the first five years trying to get with the plan
And the next five years trying to be with your friends again...

I spent most of the day behind the bottle, and the open glass, and the orange and the champagne. I spent the cloudy day relaying how humid it was to everyone, and how the atmosphere is bringing more of that recipe to the table. I spent 4/20 listening to the reggae music that filled the air at Auditorium Shores, and the masses of people passing thinly-rolled masterpieces, hand to hand. I spent the day with those who make me feel warm, and high, and quite like a masterpiece.

Sometimes I'm an abandoned book sitting on a picnic table. Sometimes the wind blows me open and it lands on certain pages that tell a completely different story than that which the cover lends itself to. Sometimes I'm written in sanskrit, hard to understand and jarring in context. Sometimes I'm written in blood, bloody and unhinged. And sometimes I'm written in braille, where the words can only be felt, not read. I like to look back at some of the chapters. Revisit some of the characters, the arc of the stories, the denouement and the fringes left in their wake. The morals and critical analysis that is all that I'm left with like a silhouette on the side of a wall after a nuclear blast. I miss some of those characters. I miss them for the roles that they played and the dialogue that we shared. I miss them.

There's an unspecified number of blank pages that still remain before the back cover of this book. I can only speculate how the story goes...wanting to skip chapters to see if this is worth the read. But I hope against hope that it is interesting and fulfilling, and poised for fluidity.

We're all continuing to write those stories, and interacting with those people, and hoping for those people, and wishing for those people, and missing those people, and loving those people. My little sister now wears a ring from a boy who wants her to wear it like she'd wear it around her heart. He wants to write pages in her story, and she hands him the pen. An unexpected character who found his way into the tale and became more than a footnote.

This story has been a good story so far. Sad at times, elation at times, boredom and vitality, Winter and Summer, loud and silent, wet and dry, near and far, sand and grass, foggy and clear. This story has been a good story so far.

You've got to try to understand where you came from before you understand where you're going. I've been a lost long shot.

My Light

My light wakes me.

My light differs from the sunlight.

My light does not raise the plants to full bloom, nor does it evaporate water in the puddles of the world. But my light can outshine the sun. Blistering white. Warming red.

My light can not be turned off. Electrical currents and voltage, watts and fuses are unworthy cages for my light. My light elevates above these things. There it hovers.

The rising sun greets me as each day adjusts in my sight, brushing off the fog of my sleep, collecting my thoughts.

I hear the voice and I feel warm.

Rolling over to the side of the bed puts me at ease and gives me strength for the day standing before me.

I hear my name called.

I see her busying herself for the world.

She holds conversations with the cat as he looks up trying in vain to respond.

I put these things in my pocket and carry them till the moon replaces the sun on the clock. Punching in to take over the celestial duties.
The sun closes its eyes. The moon has coffee. Black as night.

My light is a little girl, and my light is a strong woman.

I tire of the civil war that is fought behind my eyes. It exhausts. It penetrates. It drains.

My light fights for the good guys in these skirmishes.

I employ my light like a mercenary-for-hire to ward off the demons and hell hounds that pursue me.

My light is sharp as blazes.

My light is soft to the touch. Like hanging my name on a cloud.

This town sets backdrops, and it makes scenes. Silver scenes that feel and touch and breathe...they come alive.

I found my light in this town.

The skyline is brighter because my light radiates. Overt and undulating.

I want to stand atop the structures and yell with beautiful resonance that I have this light accompanying me on my journey to wherever it is that I am going.

My light stands like a monolith in the plains and valleys of uncertainty.

I use my light as a directive compass. I point direction towards my light when I'm lost and confused. Finding my way home is walking a beaten path now that I have my light.

When a scared boy calls out to the empty space that surrounds him because he's haunted, the light appears to calm his fears.

My light sends fire to my skin. My senses are acute. When I touch my light, my blood pulses like a churning river of red. My veins open up and my fingers pulse. I feel like a man.

My prayers for light fell on listening ears, because He has illuminated the dark corners and unknown chasms of uncertainty by sending light to the doorstep of my life.

My light is a blessing brought to me that I can't repay.

This is a debt that can never be paid in full.

My life's work, and what is to be added to it, is brighter because of the light at my side.

God waves His hands. God gives and God takes away. My light was right on time.

I would journey through the trenches of Hell, armed with only my two fists if my light was waiting on the other side.

I have foresight. I can foresee how powerful and beautiful light can burn. The colors that surround me beam with more fluidity when reflecting my light. I beam when enveloped in light like a blanket that transcends time and the bindings of mortality. Minutes, and days, and weeks...months and years...they hold no power over me. Moments are the units of measurement that I record my light. Moments that pass, but continue to last.

I stand outside the realms of touch and consciousness and sight.

I stand because you are my light.

Virtute Means Strength

Okay...I decided to check out this song by The Weakerthans.........so I just got back from the bathroom where I've been crying for the last five minutes. I couldn't be more serious, like some pretty serious tears. I had to tell someone that I got the sneezing fits, and it was making my eyes water.

I remember one of my earliest memories of music being sitting on the living room floor and one of my parents records was playing on the record player. It was some sad 70's love song and I was too little to comprehend any of what was being said, but the melody and the tune were enough to make me feel sadness. I just felt raw emotion. I started crying in the middle of the floor. I just had that exact same reaction again, and I was sitting at my desk (at the age of 29) listening to this song on my headphones. When I read the lyrics, I had to excuse myself to the bathroom.

This is the saddest song I've ever heard in my life.

Anyways...shit man.

VIRTUTE THE CAT EXPLAINS HER DEPARTURE

Song

Lyrics

The Depths

I feel like our brains are sometimes like a CPU hard drive. Saving and copying and backing-up information. Always writing and adding new shortcuts to memories and policies, and dress-codes, and prayers, and recipes, and pains, and ecstacies, and profanities, and eulogies, and sports stats, and calorie counts, and whatever the fuck it is our eyes, ears, nose, and touch process to fill up the database. I think the everyday American fills their hard drive up to the brim with shit. Meaningless, meaningless shit. We've been programmed to think that even that which is perceived as important is important when it's really just shit. What does it matter if you move 15 units of SoBe Life Water from the shelves at HEB? What does it matter if you form two new engine parts for the transmission on the new Toyota Tundra? What does it matter that you inputted 4,000 client contacts into your company's sales server? What does it matter that Tide came out with a new Febreeze scented fabric softener? What does it matter that your tortilla soup had too many corn kernels at Cantina Laredo?

It fucking doesn't. But we're told it does. We're programmed to think it does. I think these things own space in our hard drives, and I think there's a limit to that hard drive. I also think this is scary.

I wish I had enough time to do shit like this....to think like this, in frame-of-mind-day-to-day-streams-of-conscience....to roam freely and get scary....


F.Y.I. from Ryan Adams on Vimeo.

Lucky fuck. Lucky insane fuck...

Colours

Colours make paint...paint makes pictures...pictures make walls...walls make homes...homes make lives...I don't know. It was fun to make.

BREEZY







Mixed Media