hero

There, Friedrich, do you see him? A boy! In the river! He's drowning, please do something! Anything, you must.

I can't do anything. The actualization of me saving the young lad has barreled upon me and there is utmost nothing that I can sufficiently do to save him. Oh god! This is uncanny and ghastly. I vomit in my undercoat. That's it! Just give me more time, dear lord. I take off my jacket and my undercoat and my shirt and I tie all the lengths of the sleeves together. Here, hold this, I yell at the boy, but the undercurrent has captured him vilely. I throw the material in the water and hope he grabs hold of it like a fish catching a nymph. He battles the current and throws up a out reached hand. Boy! And he grabs it, like a dog shaking off water. I pull him in and he coughs up some water as I put pressure on his chest. Palpating his chest to gauge the water out. The young boy is saved.

That was the day your old grandfather Friedrich was a hero. Do you remember, Anny?

Anny nods her head to all seven of my grandchildren. The kids look at me and relish the moment.

I am once again a hero in their minds.

Friedrich died in his sleep that night.

journal toad

the words are there but I cannot speak them. Affluent, Affect, Applecores. The words are there but my mouth doesn't open to say them. Boudoir, Beauvoir, Bravado. I have a fear that this anxiety has ridden me of my only usable resource. My words. My mind, my soul and my body. I should get back to working on my redundant body but it won't heal. Nothing ever does, not my broken heart, not this sickly fever that will occur precisely at noon tomorrow.

I see people. I pass by them in the street and a horn is honked and a horned toad collapses in the street and the moonlight caters to his effervescent eyelids, slowly shuttering and finally closing in rare ambiguity. The new spectacles come in quite handy fashion. While not overtly stunning aesthetically, they do what is asked of them. I can see far, and therefore, can see the future. Where will I go? What will I be? Whom will I share my innumerable amount of hours with? Can I paint you? Can you draw? You looked cute, almost as if you were to curtsy and you mentioned my mustache. You are quite the pretty little thing yourself, all dolled-up with energy, serving your caffeinated beverages only to alienate me and my anxiety. A friend once told me that you can save a lot of time through finding princesses and making them into queens. I rather find myself a bag lady and turn her into a savage. One that would rip my heart out with both hands if she had the chance, or courage, to do so. That is my erotica.

We have touched briefly on the erotica and that's where it shall stay because no one likes a grown man with a foot fetish describing every reflexology massage he has ever given. Or the woman who likes to be sponge bathed by a lover rather than abducted in the bedroom. He lays his hands on her so gently and the event defines mutual gratification. The cleaning of one who needs to be cleansed and the caress of one who finds every nook and crannie to be satisfactory, if not exceptional. The ritual is the erection. The sympathetic flaccidity, the natural onset and then poof. Man at his finest. For only a brief moment. It's how you appeal to these moments which makes you, in so many words, master of your own domain.

Ah! I guess the words have come back after all. Isn't that something? Just for a moment there I thought I was lost, but virtue and precedence proved me wrong. Ain't that sumthing special.

Farewell!

i know, just smile and nod

O heavens!

My eyes are closed but my heart beats off, ticking ticking and a final kaplub. I may not realize the sanctuary of the events that have just occurred been but I realize that what I just said maybe be a hipdasherie. When will I ever make utmost sense? My eyelids are tattering and tweeting around while my retina hidden under said eyelid is bleeding profusely orange mint cream scented glue. The eyeball itself, or the iris, has an asphyxiation attack and needs jumper cables from her moms lincoln towncar parked on the driveway.

And then! OH GOD!

She didn't even buy me a pack of cigarettes to thank me.

superfluous

What a superfluous modern day! The weather is dark and grey and the sun hides behind the stones in the sky. Stones from Gibraltar and I'm still stuck in this room,  behind this bookshelf and ink pad. No need to write today, I thought, for nothing really occurred. I find that when I am in my worst position, that the letters flow unequivocally and my soul turns into an arrow. An arrow launched by a half-man, half-stallion in astrological conundrums. I am not eating anything, only water and yogourt, no solid foods for they will launch me into a weight scare. Haha, you think I am that vain. But yes, I am eating "healthy" now, so my vision of the masterpiece will be completed. They say I should write a book, however, I am in no mood. Writing a new book involves lots of coffee and  my body can only handle that twice a week. I have edited the IDIOT and it will be ready, if all continues well, by March or beforehand. I am excited. Excited is such a bland word, for I am thrilled, amused, fond. The corporation will let me sign for a decent deal, it's all about marketing, which I do know quite a bit about, or so I tell myself. The Nausea is almost done, then it`s on to Krishnamurti or maybe Camus` journals. Probably the latter. Forgive me for I must rest. We shall type again soon. On the last train to Valley Grable. I`ll meet you at the station.

reading

you'll figure it out. I know you will, I have good faith. Unlike the bad faith we've been studying about. I still don't understand it fully but I have not finished the article as of yet. I've seen people in their worst moments, their opaque times, their rotten self-hatred, but I have never studied like this before. It's as if I have found a new world where anything is possible. The rivers can freeze and we all can sled and slide. There must be some catnip in my cereal today, for I have coughed up something vile. I'm tired. Tired of reading. Tired of writing. So joestat and good night. For these words will be seen by only a distinguished few.

sacrilege

the clasp of the man's reach no longer fulfilled his destiny. He looked upon himself like a ragged soldier, footloose and torn apart in some trench somewhere. Only in his mind did he allow himself to feel this way. But he could feel it. The shrapnel at his throat, the bayonet in his hands, the enemy,  suffocated, in his dark, dirty shoulders. The mud made it hard to see if the man was  still breathing or not. The sacrilege of war. The bounty of desire. Something that would drive a mad man  sane would drive a sane man mad. Say that over and over again until you get a headache. That was the feeling of the soldier. A headache, he awoke from his hypnotic state. The doctor was sitting there, with aghast on his face. There was no medicine to cure this man,he thought. Only vicious psychotherapy and medication. He would have to be locked up for a century and succumb himself to books and plays and the free press. Reading was the only cure, and, the only answer to sanity. There were other methods, but this doctor was particularly cruel. Nurture vs Nature. It had to work. But what if it didn't, what if the man would fall ill again. Succumb to his madness and live an unwell life. The doctor was willing to take any chance to save this remarkable  young man. He aspired to be inspired. And, vice versa, so did the doctor.

ham

Today was a pleasant day. I woke up around noon and decided to slice myself a piece of ham mother brought home from the market. It is a rather large slab of ham, enough to feed a family of 5 for a couple of days. It was chewy but I didn't mind. The flavour was remarkable. On the weekend, I realized that I am no Thompson but rather a hybrid of existential and psychological writings. My book will be published soon, and I hope it will gain notoriety rather quickly. My voice is changing constantly and my wakefulness is becoming questionable. Off to Nausea for now. I bid you good day.

GeeK

all walks of life

missed out on Billy Talent audition
sold a house terribly
no cigar like Thompson could.

but I can still write gawdammit!

What we need is a semi! A semi full of joints, full to the brim, I say.

Then we'll drive down Hollywood Boulevard and find that bastard Colin Farrell and make him smoke half the cargo.

All walks of life. 100 joints. No 1000, NO 10,033. why stop there aghuh?

Do you have it in you kiddo, huh? WTF! You'll see the bats,but you'll have to pay.

If I have to turn you sideways on your head and make you pay, goddam, I will! Anyways, children,  it's not the money that matters, it's the precedent. She said it was Misery but oh so what of it. The ankle hasn't healed yet.

Yet, I'm ready to go with my pen and Manink or Womanink. Makes sense don't it? Well in ways you cannot think the end is near. Don't tell them otherwise. The train brothers they plough the range, Eleanor Rigby is not just dust. The cattleprod has been left to rust.

what do you want in life?

what do you want in life?

no, really, what is the only thing that will make you truly happy?

family, money, power, women.

facial hair, dreadlocks.

but you have to sacrifice and you end up living a life of hell.

there should be 30% compromising in a relationship, allow yourself to be free.

once you are free, you find what you want in life.

once you find what you want in life.

nothing can stop you.

think free. adventure is in the words. in the novel. in the spirit.

professions

my profession: writer/Truth seeker

I'm not good at either of my professions, though, I can dance a Charlton and a Giddy up once in a while. What is to say that man is not fully developed at the age of 30. I am almost there, I tell you and where I'm at now is writing short stories for the screen. Humbly, of course, but more so modestly. Yes, I drink, but it's only the fuel to the fire that burns in my soul to find the absurd and the meaning of what a man, Sartre, once called Nausea. My words are flowing rapidly and I'm learning more as I read the great works. Call me a cynic but today's day is much more impersonal  than I could ever imagine. The library is a great place drunk. One could wander for hours searching for the most innate text and still be a fanatic to the journey. My journal is for facts while my mind is for imagination.  A friend of mine and myself laid on a bed one evening. She looked at the ceiling, as did I. My first question was do you see the stars, and the realist in her said no.I found myself in a jungle on the ceiling with mythical creatures and epic landscapes. The mind is the source for make believe, we create our own ways of  seeing the world, what appeals to us and what is attractive enough to make us want to believe. And believe to live. Fully live, with all hands on deck nihilism. For the scared magistrate handles no cases and a dishonored judge pleases no innocent man.

Now all I need is a girlfriend...

Gg

the beginning of my "tour de force".

okay class today we will be talking about belonging to a universe that is unlike our own but rather perpetuated in the realm of existence per se mind aptitude. To diverge more about the subject one must understand the method of thought for any spiritual beings. We are all Beings and we move through the methods of "the path" or the dao. An ancient belief that one is guided externally by the forces of nature and entities around one or internally by perception of what is accumulating through experience. We have to allow ourselves the ability to move as a free agent, allowing our minds and bodies to act accordingly. This school of thought may seem impulsive but there is always choice and reason in the human ethics which makes us differ from animals and truly human. Our mind is able to contemplate  what is good and bad from what it has learned through childhood and as young adults. Psychoanalytically, our species is able to draw conclusions from action, and most of  this behaviour occurs in the adolescent stage of development.