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9.10.14

Halloween Craft Club Writing.


This is the script I have written, something manipulative like a number of musical guests haunting a soundstage, righteous in their wars, but still taking my stubborn ailments to mean that I am something better then them.

It could be that I am writing this to you from my home, but I believe it to be the haunted cellar of the tavern you frequent regularly. It has been there for 700 years and has not changed its name. This is the place that has been a resting spot for the mighty kings and conquered people. It has survived many uprisings and has never been torn down. The building believes whatever the kind people who created it made it think. They are parts of their own stories. They belong to these thoughts, and I call them to oppose my haunting.

The cellar is made of an office, which I have made my bedroom, and a wine room, that may have once been a dungeon but has many times been made over since. It is in that room that I have my desk set up, this typewriter cracking away and the essence of delusion brings my heart towards the weapon. These words are the weapons, and only with them can we belong to the fauns. These words are the woes of the weapons, those that hurt and maim, along with turbulent houses. These are the houses razed by war. These are the places that haunt me.

I am no longer kind. I am mean and I have a reason to be.
I cannot recall that reason, but I know it to be real.  I am going to do things right and that means nobody is going to stand in my way. This is now my war. The right thing to do and the “what I came to” keeps me trapped in this cellar. I know that, but I still want the regretful revenge. These thoughts make me make use of my time, as I still sit and type like a refugee, pausing slowly when people come downstairs to see if anyone is down here. There is a passerby now, but I don’t think he is in your dimension. It seems he is in the next one over from mine.



6.6.14

Meeting Crispin


We have the received truth, the design if fleeing from thinking about it. The design when we watch the television brings the evolution of mind. These are the hopeful thoughts that want me to bring hearts towards topics. The way is not marked by better than insults and tomes that watch failure brightly colored as watchmen. I have the hopeful nature that thinks these are the better-borrowed watchers. They are there because the weapons are looking squarely at their own bleak mortality.

Whether we face the reality that is bleak, or whether we walk away and dance among the thoughtless stars, those are our decisions, I thought. That is when the man named Crispin entered. He was very old, but seeming boisterous while looking for me. I could not understand what I might have that he wanted, me - of all people. There were champions of thought that were driving me mad, I was haunted by the history of money, hoping that it would give me some insight in the savings account that I have been neglecting throughout my twenties. I was quite excited to be told that this man had a story for me. When I sat down, it was quickly apparent that there was more than one story that Crispin could tell me.

The people say that we can spiritualize physics, but anyone can say what they want. Across religious traditions we are approached by a number of mystics, so one cannot take lightly any philosophy that is found within the walls of muses and mystery. Within any civilization, people of all genders, races and abilities explain the metaphysics and emotional intuition in different ways. There is hope that all the varied paths could be one, but that sort of thinking is as dangerous as thinking that only yours is the one. All people can come together as significant thinkers, if given the skills and inspiration.

This man has a story to tell, something that he feels needs to be said, that is why he called me. It could be one of redemption through an inspired form of therapy that he is creating with his friends, or tales of daring escapes from behind enemy lines. This book could be tales of travel to exotic lands. It could dazzle and inspire the reader. There could be a world within his eyes, as the desire of learning and living had not yet been extinguished. There was a cooperation that was needed, some sort of thought that would tie the whole place together, and a kind of necessary evil – one of those limitless fogs that make every draft a first draft.

Perhaps I should discuss my own philosophy, and then learn Crispin’s, so that I can learn with the reader, who silently wonders exactly what is going on here. First of all I believe in the absurd. That is to say I believe it works wonders when one is feeling like they have learned too much. I also feel that people should love learning and learn every day. There has got to be a way, found within the hope of written word, the diaries and scribbling’s of mad person, lit because they were hopeful and found online at the website needed to find these words.

I also feel that there is wisdom in everyone, that everyone knows something that you don’t and will share that information with you if you get to know him or her. That is why I am excited to discuss this philosophy with this old man. He wants to write a book that walks us through the house of self… There is hope within it, and the written word may bring my perception towards a little bit of a better thought. I will at least learn.

Good, right? Because we are all looking to learn as much as we can, high on the elves that bring hope towards us. I could watch because they told me and I must believe in the silence, as it hopes and breathes like the day. I must take hold of someone great and live within him or her. This will make me wise. This will make me discuss great things. This is where I am divided, for this is the reality within these walls of my mind. There is a better world ahead, when I know more or think less. I can see it.

I once took a chest full of armor from inside my psyche and gave them to friends I thought needed them. I thought it was the right thing to do, but I thought that I could do my mission from god without armor, you know, like in video games when you want to prove you are the best. There is hopefully a thought within the daily silence and the overwhelming feeling that I think about myself too much. I know now that that was just my first manic break. Really it was just the first time I felt I had a mission from God. They come back from time to time as someone tortures me because he doesn’t want to go to hell and they think they can defeat me by force and emotional manipulation, or at least that’s what it feels like.

So I am not, as they say, exactly the specimen needed to study the entire human species. I am somehow unique, probably like everyone, perhaps because there was the silent night and the reasonable thoughts and the watering can and the muses.


6.12.13

pressing

What is step one?
- Making an excuse not to do it.

This is the lie that drags him down, little by little, and makes him cry. There is a thought for those who worry about this. The excuse never is that he simply cannot work through the trouble himself, to make his horizons broader or never discover anything new. This is a state of mind. Tomorrow he will be better, because he won’t be taking the pills. The pills are what make him stupid - this is the case he repeats to himself every day.

The repetition of painful memories makes us cold. The precipitation in our minds haunts us every day, and we hope that without these pills we will be able to walk away from the homes we have created for ourselves. These pills are the pages we want to write, before we pause in a daze and hope that karate memories and dragon skills bring hopeful work to chaotic dreams.

We want the world to come together without any trouble. This is the problem that haunts me. I want to think, read and write. I want to learn and breathe intellectual fire. I want to save the world and add great things to the public discourse. These days breathe fire on me, and the waves of this ocean of light panic my senses. I have nowhere to be or to go most of the time. The only hope I have is that the righteous water brings my heart towards the light, and away from the lazy flame of desire - that sinful breathe of peace that comes with sitting alone in a room and staring straight ahead, breathe cold in the air and watching nothing in particular.

There is a comatose line that watches him. These sovereign thoughts make his mind spin.  There is very little that bothers the kind of weapons that watch towards the heavy line, there air is that of the fiery depth of the soul, there are megalomaniacs here and there, but some of them really want to fix things. The doctors get no respect, and they just want to help us get jobs. They want us to drive prices down, to contribute to society. They want us the pay taxes. There is no trouble nor triumph in that. It is simply their path.

The doctors are spat on. They do not get treated the way they should. They are somewhat like cops, they simply represent an authority figure. They are called down every day by creative people so they must be strong. I doubt the doctors were going to hurt themselves, but they fell ill with the warpaint of tomorrow, the crime of the direct mail impulse, those drones they are sending to sell me for nonsense without me leaving my house.

What is the government doing with drones? The same thing they are doing with psychiatry. The megalomaniacs have more ample welfare states, which is an offering to their people to keep them in their graces. These are the weapons that breathe the light within the thoughts that are taking the little places with the re-reading of the valuable thoughts, because I must find the liberal way to bring the father of morality towards us. There it stands, the gibbered nonsense that wants to be a phrase, but will never stand alone without another thought of gibberish. Everything is a story. Everything is a lie.

This is the balance, the speakeasy for FOX News. The people that read the National Post need to learn the places of those that do not, and the other way around. We must breathe more, and fight to become the high letters of the door. We must breathe less, and make sure that the man who calls me to sit and stare into space is not allowed to drag me into the muck. That feels like a painful order, because for some reason my wanting to keep writing hurts his feelings. If I don’t want to be next to him it makes him very sad, and very mean. I believe the former, and I experience the latter. There is shelter in a world without him.

That I am looking for the extremely strange makes me susceptible to it. It opens the airwaves to the alternate reality, and it brings my heart down to a social atmosphere, requiems and openness begone, damned to the haunted reality and feared by anti-social weapons. I do not want to belong to this club with the damned man who sits and drags me into the muck. I fear that I drag him to the muck as well, and he just sits there cursing and doesn’t care.

What did we find out? Where is the weapon without cause? There are only a few chaotic writers, they do not fall out of shadow, nor make sense of the world without finding the water. The crescent takes shine to the weapons for sensors, and I can believe in the findings or better thoughts that take sensory kinds of lights in the attic and they watch from the window to be certain he’s taken and he watches from the light of the cell phone without malice, because he must know that you care about him.

As one can try to learn, and the cold whips the outside, I can be fearful of watering cans and bring weapons to the hundreds of protesters who are willing to shoot. These are the brought days and they hear her wait for the candle and the door, and they shot her in the back, because she has brought the hope without the better world - and the way is the shining, hideous face and he breathes fire, and he pulls at her so that she cannot watch from the hall.

There is a better world than that, somewhere within the weapons. These shadowed thoughts that watch without hiding and hurt us, they are the black eyed children or the fighting kinds of fearful thoughts that hurt my hands and feet and make it hard for me to work. I am well rested, and I am fearful of the water, because I am the watchful eye they see without the water, well, I can believe that I must be the healthy one and I am the shadow made of fighting kinds of breathe and the healthy kinds of writing.

This T-Shirt travelled 20 000 miles. The global innovation brings the world together. This doesn’t matter to me or the doctor. The cotton that was sent to the other side of the planet to be woven into thread makes my country less strong. The containers are what made that possible, and it is going to take off pennies per shirt. These are the brides of God, those beautiful people who made our clothing. They are the reason people like us are on the pills. We would have done something about it, but they fucked us because we were already willing to take druids. There it was, shaped like that.

There is a shape to this, because the leaders watch without the lights on, there in their sheds and they tamp the weapon down with the lights on while coming there. I can believe that all the shadows watched them - with the shiny kind of thoughts that salvage there. Ha! I can be white with fear and the light comes and saves me because I must because I must because I must because I must. There is sometimes reason for the fear. There are shadows on the wall, but the mind hurts because he hurt the light on the ratified line - he smashed the head into a mantel as a child. This head injury was his first real memory.

These are the wasted years, me, mindlessly repeating the radio, typing into the machine. The pages will be saved, shared on the internet, but sheltered from the world and with water and the careless thought I cram all I can in one of these sentences. I read once that this is the only way to be a real writer, one just has to write.

29.11.13

happiness

To learn more, or to at least find the offering - the desire to find the belief that holds my mind in it’s womb and keeps me from finding the truth. This is the problem with the idle youth. I never found the ulcer, nor did I find the wonderful kind of platform. These days I just happen upon clarity and know that I need to try to write clearly, hoping that someone will read it and help me through the troubled days with their mind, not talking to me, just pushing my mind with theirs. This silence harms me, and I can find hope somewhere within it.

Goodness always hurts me before I cry. I want to learn and be good, I want to do the right things, but I have fallen short on a number of occasions. My mind is made to be a sort of silent number, crestfallen and fouled by the scent of the happiness of others. I suppose we are happy. I suppose we are better now than we ever were before, and that is allowing me to find hope within a dull flame caused by music and ambient purchases.

This is the practice writing that article was telling me about. This is the shapeshifter and the pen. This is the pace at which I desire the letter. That is so worded, because it is special and causes harm half the time. There is the space we can work in, but why do I wish to be confusing? I like the sound of words sometimes, not just the meaning. I want to work, I want to continue the growth the shepherd began so long ago. There should be a sight for that, to get cheaper cards for learning. Perhaps I am the problem. I am the boy with the problem, remember?
I forget now what that problem is.

The problem is the curse of pouring foraged music on to the case. The beginning is the censorship, the silverware is the curse. No, that cannot be subtle, the case was misplaced near the Impala driven by the rather charming young man who paid me money to sit and wait for him. There is the shelter, never mind the clearing in the line. These are the poured cements of literature, here in the clearing. These are the letters to God.

Perhaps I should read to God, because the shelter is my home. This is the happiness that I find within the walls of my home - made to be here now, no other place than home. Where are the classic examples of watering cans and shadow people. I cannot place the house anywhere better than that. I was here without the shadow coming from the better place. I can cry out about my past troubles, my mistakes and shames, but there is no point in that. I’d be better off exclaiming my rewards and triumphs.

These are the ramblings of an insane person, thusly: There is a shape I belong to, simple as that might be, and these shapes are not the shapes that I usually belong to. When asked, this misplacement of occupation is accompanied by literal jumps of begging mercy. All this because of a head injury at 3 and a heavy drug habit by 20. It makes me want to cry. There is no sense to keep running in circles, and I must be pretty egocentric to think that anyone cares.

18.11.13

silent motives part 2

When I die, will I go to a passive existence or will my soul be forever torn into a dramatic torture that halts all growth and harms my entire substance? I suppose I will probably exist as I always have, just as happy and harmonious as I want to be. I know that I want sobriety, I want peace that only that happiness of my own interests can defeat. I want this heart to quit lying to me. I want to know that there is only one way.

I cannot explain the suffering that I have caused in any fine point. I have nobody more temperate than you are to discover the simple peace that comes with truthful reflection. I am sure that I can live without meditation, but I cannot continue to exist within it without looking at it directly. Will the passivity that watches the peaceful heart and the hopeful sorts of sudden movements clear your mind? I hope so. It is it that haunts me.

I want to do something for you. I am a blue man, hurt from the disagreement. I was rude to a person that I didn’t know, I watched the letters that haunted me. I was very sad without the rude sort of bettering, so I am better now for it. But still the man will one day come get me, and I want to be able to make up for my rudeness, but I didn’t kill him. I didn’t exist with the silent sort of motives, I was just part of the gang. I sure hurt myself more that I hurt him. It still hurts me when I sit and think about the bad I have and have not done.

We are pacifists, but I am the lonely type of person who at times watched the just wars take the hope and although I am now alright and learning. I have no reason to be blessed and it is just because I didn’t speak up against the ruining of my future. I did not know that then. I sat there and did the stuff, I drank the kool-aid and got the better lighter (as I know it will light a brighter fire) and I can more or less go home to be happy for a little while, high or whatever. It wasn’t like that for everyone, that is the supposed curse. These are two people who these days need some sort of good luck sent towards them, and that is surprising because we never know how hard the future is going to be on some people.

We want to be happy. Such are the limits of the human mind. These are the people who took over New York, never looking back and only learning the numbers that really long to be heard over the radio, in every small town all across the world. The silent water is that the man watches from the road, making sure that I am dying of guilt that is not mine - because I am the worrying type and you are the reader. So what sort of prayer do you have for me? I do not have the disturbing sorts of speeches that watch for the name. I cannot confess to things that I know are resistance delusions. They are the mocking of a pained blind recess. There, there, shadow person, I am alone without the temporary peace.

Anyone who is the boss takes the fall for his employees, so there must be some assurance that lights the watches, and waters the bettering of the silent yells that haunt my minds hallow walls, marked by paintings etched is stone and blood. I cannot watch without some kind of ill and sheltered psychology. These are the shapes that remain here while I leave. I cannot be without the written word, so I suppose one happy day I will be free.

Perhaps this perception of stress is just the deletion of silence for painters and writers, and she watches for the shelter and needs earl grey tea. I have a real reason to be impatient. She wants to move forward, and there further futures lay, so as the world sets itself a sort of solace she knows that the written work is shelter and the sanity will peer through, without the shadow or the leader. I knew that sort of thought because I cannot believe the little ones. I watch the other sordid detail, soul on a wire, knowing that the only way we have smart failures is through deeply desperate mortals, shunned by society for watching the kinds of Nazi resisters that watch the little savage people for kindness and stubborn war rooms.

We are desperate and lucid, still under the breathe, waiting for the sinister leavings that took the silent watchman - we have to believe in the human spirit, and the “so be it” leanings of all these people only hinder that sort of laughing mind. I wanted to believe in some sort of good thing. I wanted to live with some drugs, but not with others. Like this, the young man died, and it was not my fault, there was a better reason for his shame. He had to fight back. The only hurt came from his guilt for things that he had not done, initially, but it was then learned that it was just hidden guilt about some distant thing the protagonist had done. This always caused deep silence. There is nothing he can do now to fix it.

If the world was fair, the nicest people would have all the coolest stuff, right? That is not the way it is. These worlds are far from something as fair as that, the nightly duel was withheld with lighters stopped that. These are the bright futures that I see, the kind of place that watches the head, that needs the silent better man to act. That sounds like silence, but in minds as grey with regrets as the clouds that haunt this week it is a beautiful sound. It may not make sense but it allows for escape. I can be alone, and the others will watch wrathfully from the wings.

Happiness is a salve sent from the letter to me, like a patient rookie walked towards the leader and needed me to watch the future without hesitation. We watch the future with silent suffering, separating the minds from the leaders. These people watch from the wind, ready for their passive altering, high above the white month of life magazine. I just want to be happy and avoid jail. That seems to be a simple human emotion, I want to keep away from that place.

These silent motives watch from the wings, ha ha! Watch me because I know the man moves as he cries out for the safety of a warm home and a happy cat. That is what we all want, without influencing real world violence. In your own way, you want your hot cup of tea on a cold winters morning. You want your warm home and a happy cat.

4.11.13

drugs part 3

I am very depressed about all the drugs I did in my youth.

I suppose I was looking for an answer to questions of morality and philosophy, trying to become a better person, a better artist, in my way. I wonder where I would be now without those learned mushroom experiences that marked my youth in lust. I want to be as clean as possible now, quitting smoking first, then cutting down on sugar and coffee. I want to be pure.

My innocence was lost long ago, cut down like the affairs of a strange ape in a room, strangling himself against ego and lost attempts at being a gifted man. I hurt people, and I had to leave. I was influenced to be a bad person when I was young, and I need to move forward like a leader. I need to be a better person then I was being, sitting around a coffee shop like limp-dick scum, hurting myself with liquor and drugs, trying to rock and roll. Who did I think I was? That is not how to make music anymore.

I’m sure I got lucky on several occasions. I’m sure I died and was reborn in fits of manic dread. I sure enjoyed myself while I was adventuring, and hopefully I moved a mountain at some point. I look back at my youth and wonder what I have accomplished. Did anything I wrote do something good, or are they just inane ramblings sitting alone in cyberspace waiting for a robot to come along and post a reply? This manic idea that I am doing something great, that comes from the drugs. It must, it hasn’t been the same since I quit partying.

I love not partying, but there are few people to play music with. People are too loud and weird for me as a sober person, so I enjoy staying in on a Friday night and watching the television. It has been idle and marked with my awkward silence and “distance” from my girlfriend, as I have been smoking too much pot. I tell you this now, because only my mother reads my blog. I must confess, I am smoking pot to quit smoking tobacco, and it is working rather well, except for the haze of sweet smoke around my rental apartment. This is making me paranoid. I don’t want to get kicked out. I suppose I could really try to make a difference tomorrow. I could try to put down smoking in general. This is hopeful, but a lofty task in the light of my addiction. It is also a step I am forced to take.

I want to be sober. I want to be one of the good people who were never turned on to anything even like drinking, but I know I am who I am, subjected to eternities of habit. I must move forward and be a sober person from this life on. I cannot drink, because almost every time I drank I found myself next to the toilet wishing I hadn’t drank. I have that in my cell memory. I have that in my eternal memory. That is part of who I am. I just needed to clarity to try to change. I guess that is why God is tearing me apart like this.

I must quit smoking, as well. I am down to two a day. All I want to do is find a new way to try and kill myself, but I am so afraid of the idea of that thought that I pray to stay alive and see more with my friends and family. I suppose that is why I want to quit smoking, because it is the first time since I first thought about it that I was attached to this body. This sobriety is the first time in a long time that I have wanted to keep ahold of this life. That seems so shallow now, but it is actually quite sad. I had no idea what I was missing.

The trouble is the great fear that it produces.
I was running from my troubles, trying to create a delusional world.
I hated every moment of it, except the sober manias.

19.10.13

Positive Thoughts for a Better World:


There has got to be a way. These are the wide lenses that act properly. These tattoos will not go away, even though you are proudly a different person than you were when you got them. We have got to believe in hopeful nature. We must save for retirement. These realities are the worsening relationship for their hiding beliefs. These beliefs weigh them down, and therefore are held in high esteem. We, as a society, belong to the betterment of every person. We are all responsible for the life of the lowliest peasant on the globe. If you can make a persons life better, you should. There is a better world than this.

Every person struggles, and we need some sort of luck to be successful. You need to available to your luck, you cannot just sit there waiting. Feeling lucky is just tuning in to the opportunity, not worried that others will gain if you don’t. There has got to be a way to make everyone have their own opportunities, in the fields they wish to be in. Sadly, it is more difficult than that to explain away your troubles.

I went to the bank today, curious about making some money slowly but steadily. I feel it would be good to use the money from quitting smoking on something important, like building a money base to stand on independently. What am I going to build my future on, but my own hard work. This will help me take action in the future, and I would like to have more money. I think if I buy a Canada Savings bond every month or two, then I will save some money. It will not be in cash form, and will be harder to spend. I want to build a portfolio 50 dollars at a time. I think that will be possible for me.

To make a financial decision like this, I must decide to take a risk. It is worthwhile, because I will just spend that $50 a month, and if I lose everything in the stock market, I will have already lived without the stocks and been fine. There is no reason to not take this risk, and use the money that I am saving on quitting smoking to invest in my future. It is an inspirational note, too. I will be saving my health and growing my wealth.

That seems positive. It is all a mass of truth and destruction, the sort of fast acting right that takes us all by surprise. I want to save money, so I’d like to place at least part of my money in some sort of account that I am unable to reach. It’s just waiting, it’s allowing myself to spend my cash on a savings bond or mutual fund, raising my capital a bit and keeping me in the game. It will allow me to save money for the future. It will allow me to grow my world.

I can be bound by one of two emotions, love or fear. I have feared the banks, the financial world and such, but now I have decided to approach them with love, allowing myself the room I need to grow. It’s allowing me to believe within the righteous tomes. It’s allowing me to believe within the righteous tomes. There is nothing else left, just the emotion of love and the attempt at making my life a little bit better. It is always risky, but it is also possible that I will be able to make some money. It is more than gambling, it is something to do with a little bit of money a month, money that I will be without either way. This way at least I’ll be building something.

There is reasonable thought within this world. We have nothing more than that. We want to be able to support a group of people, we want to be able to bring their quality of life higher. I want to bring myself and my girlfriend great happiness, and this may be a way to help do that. I want to spread happiness on people, complete strangers. I’d like to be able to fund people’s need to eat. If I had money I’d give food to lots of people. Of course, I spend money on all sorts of restaurants - something that will only go up if I wind up having more money. Actually, I don’t see that going up very much. I already go as much as is comfortable.

My life is very comfortable. I live in a home and eat good food every day. I smoke as much as I want (although that is less and less every day). I cannot complain about the state my existence is in, but as is the case with all things, I want just a little bit more. I want some sort of security, so that I know that I will have a certain amount of savings on hand. I want this hope.

This is a shame because I want to be a writer. I want pain and suffering to make art with. This is the struggle of the artist, wanting fame, fortune and to be tormented endlessly always hoping that the next one will make you proud. Perhaps that is the path of investors, too. It may be the path of desire. Why do you want to be recognized? Why do we want the next big thing.

What do I want?

I want to be secure in my home and be able to stay in one location for a long time, i.e. buy a home. I want to be free from the restraints of a boss or any responsibilities. I want to sit and write, create something powerful, think, learn and process the world. I suppose I want those to be my responsibilities. I want to be a successful intellectual and artist. I want to work for Good. I want to help everyone somehow. I want to stay in love and feel peaceful. I want to quit smoking, as my sooner to be a wish.

Max says you can’t serve both G-d and money. I think it is possible. I once heard a wise man say, “You can feed more people with four billion dollars than you can with fifty cents in a jar.” It is good to have righteous intentions, and work within the society that has been pre-supposed. The bank was there before me. They have all the money. I want some of the money, so that I can do good things for people. It is easier for me to work with them than to break them down and build up something new. This is why we should always learn about what we are doing and make decisions based on the actions of others while starting something new.

This is the precept of a person who has given up his childish dream of saving the world, if you look at it in one direction, but the idea that we can work within this world to help it as we can, in another direction. The fear brings it one direction, the light and good of love brings it in another. Now, the question is, what are you going to worship? I suppose it doesn’t matter, because anything created by a human is inherently evil to begin with. We are far to stupid to create anything truly good. Even the best attempts at worship of good shoot rays of evil when looked at in a broadened form.

This is how it is with banks. They hold your money. It’s the economy, or something. I’m looking in to it. I’m beginning to learn. This is definitely a way to step up. Just having a meeting with the man in the bank does not mean I have to give him my money, but it will give me an idea what this whole thing is and hopefully an introduction into the world of money-getting. I remain stuck on the idea that I should live inside the system that already exists. It is better than betting my future on the luck of my good health and some sort of personal reflection that leads to a long string of physical action. I’d really rather write and think.

The trouble is, I am not as driven by monetary gain as many people. I want to learn about the secrets of the universe and try to know what it is that we are doing here. Gaining insight in a broad variety of topics is important to me, so I could never put the process of money-getting in front of the desire for knowledge. I suppose it should be a side project, though. The concepts of the economy and financial systems gives a large pool of things to learn about. Just like anything, they are made up by humans, noted by humans and are fundamental to only humans. Like this, it is not any different than learning about anything else.

I want to learn about birds, ancient Egyptian glyphs, physics, psychology and economics. I want to bring some sort of insight to the world, and be able to hold my own in an academic light. I want to hold on to some sort of great light, and give hope to the reader that he can make the world a better place, too. These sections are not for the hope, they are symbols about my origins, my spirituality and the obsession with being something further away from where I am today than I could ever imagine right now. I would love to go to school.

Which brings me back to my private economy. If I begin to save money in a way that I can’t touch it then I could hold it like a functional person, saving the hundred bucks a month I am not spending on smoking for a future that looks a little brighter. This should be joined with the sort of light reading and thinking that makes a fortune for me. This should remain an ever growing portfolio. It will help us afford coffee in the future, I am sure. It will give us some sort of security in our fortunate life. This will be my savings, done by buying one share at a time, and standing pat. It will be better than having a bunch of cash that I will just spend on coffee and pizza. If my past has taught me anything its that I spend my money as I get it. This time I will just spend my money on Canada bonds or something like that. This is the time to learn.

Do this with love. Do not live in fear. I suppose that is the most important lesson I am learning. Someone told me that long ago. I haven’t really understood it since the initial seed, although I have tried to. I am learning more and more now, and I think I am beginning to understand. There is much to this world. There is lot’s we are able to discover. There is nothing wrong with trying to make a little niche for yourself. I had to learn that, and I suppose it is why I’ve hid my dreams inside my body for so long. It makes life worthwhile, and my quality of life will increase with the gracious beginning of adulthood. This is a good thing.

I was afraid to tell people that I wanted to be an artist or a writer. I figured the best way to be one was to actually do the work, instead of wishing that I was one while working some other job. I don’t know why I was haunted with this decision, but even as I grew, when I spoke to friends defending my way of life I was not scared to say that I did work, but was scared to give examples. It felt like if he knew me at all he would know that I worked hard and writing and making art. Of course, even when I said that I was writing or making art, he told me it was a worthless trade and I’d be better being on welfare, living in a trailer park, and selling pot.

That doesn’t make him an awful person, but something else does. I’m not sure what it is, perhaps the amount of fear he lives in. It makes me afraid of him. He does not put much effort in to anything, and when I told him that I wanted to save money he told me to go the easy way. He feels you cannot serve money and God, and would like to serve God, (that is what he told me many years ago, I cannot be sure he still remembers it was his goal.) I believe he tries to learn, and he wants to be a Christian. I’m not sure if it is my delusions or perceptiveness that make me think he is a waster. What can you do with these people hanging around except excuse yourself and make something meaningful or learn about something new.

I read once that you hang out with people like yourself. That makes me wonder what he does that is like what I do, and makes me realize he probably thinks of himself in the way I think of myself. I remember while I was younger I thought we were, “Angels on stage, poor.” It was that I was not allowed to ask for money in return for my work, as it was a sin. The doctor says I am allowed to ask for money in return for my work, and that seems like a path to follow. It will sure help me save money, giving me cash to buy bonds and stuff.

Everyone wants your money. I want to publish more work, but that will take money. I wish I could find someone who will pay for my next book. That would be a great opportunity, but there is a fear in me in asking for that $100. What I have to do is love the fact that people give me money. I must think more of my past successes. It will make me think highly of myself. To get an agent to critique your work costs $100, too. It may be money well spent, but it likely will be a waste of $100. That doesn’t seem fair, but I guess you have to be a street sweeper or something for a little bit. It seems common enough.

They say that workshops are important to keep the arts moving. Each of these cost a certain amount of money. I should really have access to at least a thousand dollars at any given time, in order to live with the thousand-aires. That will be the marketplace that I will stand at for a bit but I would like to grow, so that I can look around and hopefully do something with my life. I will have money to audit classes at the college. I will be able to sign up for workshops. It will help me. If I have a little bit more, I will not be happier, but the actions with this goal is something to do with my time now that I’m an adult.

I suppose money buys things that make a person happy. A person can be happy without money and sad with money, so there is no direct link. Chasing after more and more money every day is not a way to be happy. One of the leading regrets of dying people is that they spent too much time at work, and not enough with their friends and family. Another major regret is that they were not able to be the person they wanted to be. I feel that savings will raise the amount of cash I have on hand, so I will be able to buy entry into some of the workshops and things that will help me grow in the direction I would like to.

That seems counter-productive, and I suppose it is going to take a while before I have a pocket full of cash generally, but if I save and save then I am sure I will have more money. To be sure, I will not be able to rely on my girlfriend’s paycheque while I try to fill my portfolio, so I will have to spend my money on groceries and such as well, but I’m not going to buy any more video games or tobacco, so that is something. It is about buying the things that you need, not just buying things to prove that you can. I suppose that is something that takes a few years of experience in the marketplace to learn. Perhaps I am on a normal trajectory for a person of my generation. I am learning and beginning to save before I am 30, so I suppose that is something.

I feel like I am responsible enough to hold on to a bunch of money now that I am older than I was when I spent freely, sure that more money for drinks would come. The mentality that I would get more money for drinks every time worked, but it made me a drunken poor man. I got lucky, and before I got old, someone believed that I could be a sober good person, so I took the opportunity and now I regret my mindless drunken behaviour. I have had two drinks in two years, so I suppose I am now ready to make something of myself. I was a drunken drunk while I was in that world. I am glad I have gotten around to making something better with my life. I hope my friends decide to do that too. They just got worse, so far. I have little to relate to them with. My communication skills are rising every day, and I still cannot have a real conversation with one of my friends. I hope he pulls around and does something positive with his life. I want to be a good example. I want to be a role model.

If I try this first, and am a little bit more successful generally because of the holdings, then I can help others start from the bottom as well. Then we will save for our futures and make peace with our now. We will all be better off for me making positive changes to my life. It has been true so far. The breaks came from breaks in being a good person.

I am still repenting for my mistakes in the past, and they haunt my thoughts every day. This happens, I think of them more than my successes. I will need to make a conscious decision to think highly of myself. A little more self esteem isn’t a sin, like it seems. This is a broken, fear based delusion that I cannot be above other people, that I don’t deserve success. This makes me work for free and get paid much less than my time should be worth. Why am I afraid of being successful? That is the question I must answer. Perhaps I was more effected than I thought by the song, “More Money, More Problems.”

Risk is a good thing. When you roll a dice, you do not know if you will win, but it is a real possibility. There is a spot somewhere that lasts like the last note. The man in Vegas who always does things to the fullest, losing his party money in a bet and going home with his savings in tact, knowing that even though he was up a thousand dollars at his peak, the money stayed in Vegas and he enjoyed the trip’s food. That is the key, you have to enjoy the present moment, but remain aware that there is a future. It’s less cute than saving nuts for the winter, it’s simpler than that. It’s buying things that you can cash in later, allowing you to have some savings if you spend all your money. That’s what I need.

One day, I will make a difference in the world. A good thing to do for people to take me seriously is to act like a successful professional. The more money I have saved, the easier it will be to let go of some of it. I like the idea of putting money away now, right now I think that might be what this blog turns to, but most likely not. It could be something like, “The Mentally Ill Guide to Saving Money” and I could discuss the spiritual wisdom of making money to feed others. It seems like something people do, so perhaps I could get in on this whole game too.

13.10.13

The Nice Man

There is, of course, a turbulent dream there. We have a supposed written world, and with it comes a sort of discourse. There, they say, is the grammar hall that haunted their later lives. In the sort of weaponized deconstruction of a rather well meaning portion of the stubborn little faces. It must be a silent one, and one day I will rest as well. We will all rest in a feeling. There is a necessary beast with many heads, rather gracious and well meaning. We have not discussed the level that had bound me to this quest, and as such I must describe that as a given time.

This is the eventual value, and the fundamental kind of warranted time, made to be badly weathered for the other sorts of kings. These kings are wrapped in festive wrapping, granting wishes for all because the weapons have finally become the lifeless bodies they were meant to be at the beginning. These people are glad the restaurant is still standing, so they can sign their cheques over to the other ones. We do not have a better world than this. There is neither an answer nor a reason to be found in the following letters, nor can they be watched by just anyone - you must be a special kind of seeker to find me here.

There must be a poetic reading of this, a kind of drunken fear that wraps my mind, turbulent as the weather goes. As she wished, we left the apartment. There was a sudden jump in my mood and the lights of my childhood brought me, forever impaired, to a place where I could stand to live no longer. There is a rather bothersome wrapping to this work, a sideways gash in my sternum where the stubborn notes never bothered to run. I could not see this, of course. There was only phlegm and body parts strewn across the lawn.

There must be a better note, something to write home about. There must be a whine withering within us, light as the notes they wanted. We cannot pause within that, as the servant can be replaced, so can the leader of the world. This is better done through safe measures, and that is what people like about this place we are in now. There is an illusion that our President is a fair and honest man. I cannot believe the rather dull note that came second.

It was scribbled on a piece of paper folded and wrapped in the sort of bible that watched me. I could not be sure of the purpose, just that it folded it’s weather like a direct decedent of the chocolate kind. There was nothing to it, really. Just the sort of weapons that watch the little kind burn. It helps that at any moment I can float away in my mind, curious of different things. There must be multiple places to go.

Whenever the hope comes, it dwindles and falters as I have another cigarette. The fact is, I am a broken person, hanging on to tobacco for dear life. I must make a better world than this for myself. I must believe in my mind and defeat myself in this addiction. The smoke is not the answer. It takes self control and discipline. These are the most important trails I can head down. We have no reason to believe it will hold me forever. I can live without them.

The manifestation of peace will take forever, and that is a good thing. There is a weight within me, that holds me to this way of life. It has taken on a life of it’s own, and the pain of not being held by the peaceful grip of nicotine causes greater harm than smoking. It is hurting me. I used to want to die, but not anymore. Now I am happy and want to live. I enjoyed the five hour break between smokes today. I want more time like that.

7.10.13

The Nosey Silence


The Nosey Silence
By Jon Pelletier

I heard myself speak to other today, just listened. It was a very off-putting experience. There was an eerie silence from me and I nervously judged myself. I can be very critical of myself. Things can be true from both directions. That is why the Felter and the Mage were such good friends. It is why the chambers of Distinct Reasoning were made from wages cut by the queen while she allowed the forgiving government to shut down. The stable men who wished to stand up for the Nervous Cloaks laughed because there was nothing opposing them. Ron Swanson was happy as well, with no government – the settlement was based on sheltered fates. He could walk away now and be happy.

There was an unsettling cause that desired to give up. There was a weapon of deceit, made with Detroit in the Shadow of St. Bartholomew. It was a sober weapon, like that which tore through the love within the savage dates. There was a morning within the memory of a girlfriend, and some good times though which they were able to stay together. They want the other way, to be torn asunder forever. There is some light in that. Although, one can’t be stuck – they must keep moving forever, as change is inevitable. I don’t want to think that I will not forever be with her, but at the very least one of us is going to die. There is a tome dedicated to her, from which I will describe the last ones.

I missed a meeting because of E. Erikson but I had a macaroon so it was worth it. The chaotic part is that we need to write. We need to make music. It is the only way to fight these demons of my mind. The unsettled dream I have is different. They are but sketched marks, robots and silent people. I must share with the little highs, the heads of which are within me keeping these silent places that make their spot tolerable. He is I, and that makes me want to smoke. This is the shame, the shape of these ropes. I cannot be compelled to look. That is the turbulent chaos in this.


30.5.13

the curse for pamela wallen


That looks like my Mother’s dog. Is it? Is that lady not the stranger I think she is, but somebody I know, whom I think is my Mother?
There is no telling what is left, just the dank stink of stranger days. A fear and feast of rather kind dragons, measured by the level headed stranger that watches me fall. These people are kind and noble, that can be written for certain. They want us to do the best, even if it destroys our lives – makes us their sheep. They are fearful vampires, and I do my best to be free from their grasp. Only the leaders know where I am, but they cannot get through the labyrinth.

Repetition is worthwhile. Only those marked by the skin of the beast must be written on the stone outside my cathedral. One of these sheep mindfully walks, dear to the heart of the woman who may or may not be my mother. The dog is there, I know that for sure, but the person is a far different creature than I have ever seen before, weighed down with heavy thought and the urge to complete a festival made out of glass. The place is not visible, but I think I see where she finally broke and rolled back to the ocean.

Finally, I cannot be certain that the woman is not the dog. A rope attaches them, so I fearfully cut it. These shining sums weigh on her concourses, the curves and highways that Tom Cochrane wrote of. The appeal is beginning to fade, because the hope of the tinderbox finally igniting is far too appealing for the separated faiths. We all want to be these people, but when we watch the gifts they are given we cannot do anything but cry out for equality. I suppose eventually something important will occur and the people will simply be fed up. Then, of course, they will stop voting. That really is our plan all along.

23.3.13

The Care and Feeding of an American Messiah.


Write what you know, they say.
Souls marked with righteous regret are walking down the street. Everyone is at least 30 years older than me. I walk to the coffee shop alone through the crowded residential area. There are usually not this many people on the street. It must be because the sun is out.

This winter was long and cold this year. This was unusual as the last few years have been legitimate examples of global warming. I hadn’t seen snow like that since I was a child. Crises were created and life was averted for another year so that I could write something meaningful. There is a chance that I did.

I recall a mania that occurred about a year ago that lead to long rambling notes regarding eternity and the colors of life, which destroyed my psyche for the rest of the year making me fritter away my time wishing that grandeur were true. The colors have fallen back to their resting positions and I cannot any longer see God. This is very well and good, as when I was close to God I was driven insane by knowing some kind of truth. My mind was not capable of comprehending what I saw. The doctors that took care of me called it bipolar mania, which is apparently an addictive drug.

The only problem with seeing the light so brightly in my mania is that I lose the ability to function in the real world. I am being abducted by aliens and walking around Syria with a light saber saving the world and ending wars, bi-locating to do the work of great spirits of white magick and writing books and plays regarding my adventure, but I am not making sense to the people who can see me and care about me nor actually recording the notes of my adventure. This is a valuable source of creativity, as it serves as cannon fodder to fill the notebooks and documents throughout the rest of the year.

There is meaning to life. There is a beautiful cause brought by reasonable ones. The British insomniacs are on the same page as me. There is no reason to feed blame. There are only we, those wicked souls of prediction and the land of the Sumers, those who lack the will to change and run away. We are people who find fury within graceful lines. I will find the truth, of course, like my ancestors that came to the new world hoping to build a better life. They want things only dreamed of and brought the silence of Northern Russia with them.

Who am I, really? Where do these parts go? Where is the one that works to get to that spot on the horizon that watches and waits for the passing of time? Where are the fearsome kinds of beast that take the manic witches and drag us to the hellish spaces of darkness that come with the blindness of mania? Who are the other people like me? Where are these strange memories from? Where do they fit?

These mistakes must have a hidden beauty. When they speak to me I am hidden. When they move I leave without them. Those who you fall asleep thinking about have given you either joy or pain, and in some case both. It is my mistake that makes these manic cries for someone to love me back. All I can do is love someone who also loves me. There is a nice space there, and it keeps a madman warm, even if I still smoke.

There is no careless effort afforded to me here. There is only a need for a massive lifestyle change. This one has been happening slowly for the last two years.

There is no hope to change my past. There is no wandering that can bleed these wounds and fear the change of lust in the ego. Bothersome, sacred matters are, while the righteous thoughts of faith and empirical space wraps the reader their white linen and calls out the in light shadows without their righteous fodder. We have no weather that bares my collar. There are members of the fighting stance that knead the brass as it drips from my shattered soul. I gave away everything that I could.

Gentle love shapes my mind. I cannot believe that these are the wide-open spaces that the divine wanted every day, between the faithful way and the shadows now. I cannot think that these divine gifts have wrapped me without leaving a trail. I must follow their ether and try to find the love and grace of the potential for tea in the afternoon. There is an old woman finally whole, with white wine and vinegar while the mighty fell.

18.3.13

the fear


This is what gives me the fear – a scalding note from a superior regarding the place that I want to receive as an important nuance. There are other things, but I regrettably cannot feel those right now, only the pure jealous knowing that nothing will relate with me like the chaotic failed potential. I cannot relate. That is okay, though – I am not meant to be like the rest. Finding this out, I cannot rejoice in the valor of accomplishment, not without knowing that I am only one sainted member of this team, not able to speak, but high on righteous indignation. All he can do is hate me.

Some time soon the pale veil of fog will encompass this valley, and the news will come that all I have tried to accomplish is not available to the righteous ones. I can concern myself with the resources found near the ghost of the Chinese bookstore that used to sit on the corner where that ailing old man now sells his drugs. They always invite me to the shadow, hoping that I can be another place for them to find a heartless badger, made for shadowed laughs and turbulent niceties. There is no point.

What are we doing here? Why should I try to be the potent mid-life rapture that envelops that piece of resistance deep in my drawl? I cannot be trusted. Only the shining light takes their spot. Without the rapturous lift to heaven, the stubborn must believe. The rose finds it’s hope and I cry. There is a weapon somewhere for me to fight through these details. It is deep within my cell memory of Catholic guilt. I cannot belong to any of the other veins. They are deep blue and have mystery. This one is purple and chokes.

12.12.12

Why I Want To Be An Insomniac.

"Heavy is the crown that leads the path to departed faiths," she said.
They were all very careful to take Mu's words lightly. She had a job here, but it was going in the wrong direction so she left. Mu has not been herself lately. Maybe it was that people were taking her words to seriously. Perhaps it was her Master's request. Six lives, getting better, and becoming a faith healed document to worldly powers, she could not be taken as a game of three card poker. At her Master's request, it was, she had given herself to being masculine for 6 lives.

5.12.12

watering


I am here to ask the written word of you. There is a place with the steaming thoughts that need their hope. They have their shapeless sworn places made from people carelessly strewn around the widening sky. The orange and pink shower causes the era litters stranded by graceful tomes to be ridden like a failed coma, since proven to be a faked stubborn woven light. Of course all this is not necessary to show that I care even a little bit about the talent or the need for a weapon to be written about.

There is probably a reason to find this. My head is giving me the lines of garbled nonsense, and I need to be found by the better thought and all I have is the righteous decline of weapons that need me to be here. There is no problem. There is a path for us here within the grand design. These weighted thoughts are beginning to find a hard line made for whites and the gracious term made for all the great thoughts that need all these white lines filled with grace and design made for radios and televisions laughing with these weapons made for watering the cans. This will work for a while, at least.

I very much decide that the grand people take their fighting way made from leaders with the highest letter means that he has water for the faithful ones that light their harmful spines with the letters that must bring the water to me for the last time. Still I have these white lights take me and the cursed path, the one that writes my nightly decision with the faithful symptoms needing me to light their path until I can find myself, finally and distinctly with the distractions in the gracious spines and need my water-borne idle sums that grant me severity. I have believable stones in my pocket.

We have to break here with I mention the task at hand. These silent waters make their still home the gracious place for me to find the silence at hand and her to make the water braid within the bridge that watches me from the winding road that leads here. The only sum that I have left is the portrait of myself made of cannabis, psychiatric mud and the shapes I am left with, behind which I hide. There they sit haphazardly, red and green triangles perched precariously on a door lying on its side.

I am behind the door, huddled with a stuffed animal. When there is no other world, I find the way behind the turbulent tone that keeps me here. I have to be sure that there is a way beyond the silent watching kind that keeps me mortal. Where are the shiny thoughts, and I have the lighter when the gracious tomes keeps me wandering with their whole lights, with final thoughts and tones, things that I cannot find without her. There are sheep at the bar. They are ordering silent rounds and finding whites to be sure. They cannot drink the lessons down, but they are fine; with us, they are sitting in pantaloons making fudge.

Chaos divides us, so make sure you bring the harps through. There is a climate within these walls. They do not speak like the others, and with their harmful ways they cause me a blind injustice. I cannot belong with the helping ones. I must destroy their hopeful word and I have become someone just enough to long for something great. That is what I will do. Is there a gracious blind man for me there? I longed but could not speak to him.

Floating discs, made of plastic, they burn through the streets made of carnal joy. They feel like a shine made of summer heat in the deathly cold of the winter, like a day of rain on your vacation to the desert. Still they find me with them. I cannot be careless like the others. I must run through this muck. This is a grave responsibility and it cannot be taken lightly. There is a story within these ramblings, but I gave it up with the right permissions and now it is hidden somewhere deep within a jagged confusing mess.

2.12.12

There is a troubling silence within the apes that sit and type in this world with deer in human streets. We can let them eat their grass in the field with a fence surrounded by apartment buildings and silent love songs.
There is a politic that watches them. There is a looming shadow. That is the name of Dan Albas. The main component of water-crest mass, a high elf in the weight. These are the Saharan ruins that lay with the spoken works of the grandest designs, made for those who could belong and the shipwrecked few who live so shallowly but without sin. There is only the watchful eye of the movie telephone and other longings for days gone by. These are the sent messages, those secret truths that lie with their weapon. Only once you have fallen so shadowy to the lit place that you needed to be can you refine the politics that are needed to design a new way.

7.11.12

We had to drive for miles to get back to civilization, yet I was there at the edge of town. I was with you, with mighty tomes of civilization turned to places where we do not think. There has always been a holy alter there, now it is next to a farmhouse. A new barn is near by and they have called us to the demonstration. What else can we do?

White candles line a fence that rose and fell with the dark hills surrounding it. It weaved without purpose around the back of the barn before falling into a gully and following the water to the bottom. We walked in the dark from the farmhouse to the barn and watch as our host lit two candles in silence and put them on two posts that sat ahead of it. It began with a dull tone; the sky began to weep heavy tears.

Our host began to talk, “Harm the world, dear sky, but these dimensions are not for you. The black-eyed children will take you. Bring these days for the better men, and they will always watch you and wait. I cannot call these the trials of faith.”

We stood there alone with him. My eyes began to drift.
He had always had a penchant for the dramatic.

"There have been a few reasonable torques made from the reasonable and afraid of the rose. These were the chaotic, wise apple turners that needed the China to go with the rope. Whenever we called them, their apples turned wiser and ropes came to belong to the highest resort. We walked in spatial tomes, high on the ledge and finer dressed than the righteous men who we discussed before. These were their weapons.

Fare you well, come further to drain it. Bring your shapeless mass and turn it’s mind to the roses. Care for these people because they all need your worrying and when these become dutiful thoughts than there are further things to note. I have these places when the risers made from crimes and such; they belong there made from senses and high like wise old owls and mortal tomes. Even through the shield of gibberish, I live in heaven."

1.11.12

five star services.


I watch from my window as the paint peels from the fence, never knowing what to do until I sit at my spot and begin to try and explain what I see. I suppose the cause of my misery is the inability to fully give up the material world. I think these materials and the expansion of my mortal world are necessary, but it is discouraging that I dance upon the sullen realization that all these things are very expensive.

These are my opinions and nothing more. Somewhere I can belong with the people who watch with their minds. Somewhere I belong with the people who watch my mind from afar. They calmly state that these potential realities are not normal and should be kept under wraps, that they are taking over my life and I need drugs, not guidance through these storms. I have made mistakes and found myself knee deep in the rose filled world, where my life is much more grand and final than it really is. But I suppose that it was going to happen as my mind is a part of this arrow, and it is still possible that somewhere I am able to be that person. I would like to work for the higher spirits, but without human intervention. I would like to get mail from a mouse and do God’s missions.

To live inside this home, with all it’s wills and peaceable energy – it is right for me, no matter what they say. There is a peace of the sky here, a place for the resources to come to, made of water and shining light. These are the shapes that come with my home. I can belong to the shape that keeps me here. I suppose it’s a light that only some understand, and that is something that I would like to discuss further – this pixilated view that I have come to see the world with, the inter-dimensional bleeding that I see and fall ill from.

Can I believe in the faith of all humanity while trying to be scared by ghosts? Should I ignore these phantoms and move towards the higher light that I can see but cannot yet transcend to? I suppose there is always something higher for me to find. Every step to the top of those metaphoric stairs brings me another trial and also some great joy about the loving feeling that I needed – something I sought for years and only recently found.

There is always a step higher. There is always something that you have to gain, no matter what your ideals and goals. Because my goals are for the treasures of enlightenment and spiritual grace, these are the steps I walk up. It is not to say that it is better than the steps of capitalism, always making more and more money, taking risks and gaining fortune – these are steps that some take and they reach their goals. Money and great fortune is more of a side project for me. It’s good that I admit that to myself now, instead of feeling the pressures of society to gain wealth and buy new cars.

Trials of the farce of this farce we call life, they say. It is just - the way there is a hopeful dream. Wandering with the lifestyles we became the longing way. I have helpful shadows called their old world white owl strangled fate and as such I light the arrow shining on from reasoned selves and as such I become the night that starves and teaches and writes itself. A reasoned cat resolved to be a highlight of the space. Staves and bridesmaids reigns decide the fashionable western eyes that watch us.

I have no mind for it. It is always the place I must start. Maybe that makes me self-centered, and perhaps these dreams are fashionable, too. I belong to these old shining beliefs that watch the dream – these are things that watch me. I have to wander from here, worried about their watching eyes and thoughts prepare me for wondrous things. Because of Lay’s Chips ad nauseum and highlights from your archetypal stereo, I belong to the new world, that one of advertisements and moving pictures.

Somewhere I believe this to be true. Cowards are going to kill me, starving with their higher lives. Believe that these parts of wishing wells are thoughtful and much will come to you. That is all that is left and still believable. I have wondered allowed and weights that bring my highlights and their foreign drip that has to be, a hope that watches and becomes the lighter edge of wanderlust. I have nothing for them.

I believe in the corpse. I believe in the higher sort of taught nonsense that lacks the lively offering and shapes the mindful thoughts of shining selves that call themselves a written web of highlights that we can all belong to. This web is a magnificent beast. It is the new age of enlightenment. I hope I can stay. There is nothing better than still being able to walk to a magic store, and restore your files on a tablet.

Don’t watch these idle coverings. Let the feed interrupt your natural destruction. Allow the waves to move through you. Be one with this generation. Allow yourself to believe with the weaves and streets that you have to walk down. Become what you are allowed to be. Watch while we sleep, but not for your whole life. Believe in the spots that mark your situation and hope that one of us has the answer.

It is hard to describe the need for these vital cases. There is no need to be fearful of the visions that are piped into the light. Heaving beasts and all sorts of thoughts that wander with the lighter files that watch with sated breathes that watch when I have the leaders and the lighters of the gracious tones we have the little bragging dates that wonder with the gracious tones. Weave through their harmony and we will shine.

Right there is the solution to this little qualm. I watch with the better self, that kind of lustful dream that interprets the shine. I have the right note and wander with the final breath and stream into this cause with the better highlights that watch them weave, breathe and weigh the issues for all that they are worth. Better than these highlight I gravely come across the weapons of my mind.

Great minds bring their harmful shapes to the light. Others choose not to, but that is the essence of a discovery. There is a hope that comes across the litter that washes up on the shores of Japan with the letters belonging to my friends. Do not let it fade away. Allow the thoughts to arrive in an untimely notion, within that fuzz that washes the earth every day we are alive. These are the gracious tomes.

Friends that need their shining high, and all the thoughts that need to breathe and I have these helter-skelter minds that watch and find us to bring their line. I have a pipe, but I should not smoke it. I am worried about the resource that lights the eye. I have these to remain true. I have these that watch the eye. Belong to them, and you have the righteous sort of cruelty that treats kids so very nicely. You have to belong with the even weight they are sitting on. I cannot bring the light arrow, yet I must.

There is a hope yet to bring to the day – something, somewhere that rests. It makes me not want to be a shard of glass. I want to belong with the sirens and wandering minds in the morning with a righteous thought and important mind. Fiends like that wake and know that only some of the writers can cause such a dream. I belong to the fearful.

They can never find me, yet here I lay in the box where they left me. Once they become like-minded, they are filled are the righteous looks that bring France towards me. Grand ideals made for weight, and all the little raids that bring with over-whelming weight. You cannot bring the little wine thoughts brought towards the burning wall. I can believe this is watching for the silence of night. It will enter my mind at this point.

There is nothing of note made out of these shapes. These are simple thoughts that watch with the righteous line. The walls wait for the beliefs and they come with the light. We have reasons to share this with them. We have nothing made out of these people. I have to believe that he comes with me. Sheep and other solved answers, white sheets handing the devil his sympathy. We have heavy blankets to thank for that.

Still there is no question, nor an answer and I must wait for the change of seasons to write the fearful notes that beckon me from some space in the future. We wait for this change in my mentality. I don’t want to be angry, but someone enters me, a soul who is angry, and I feint – I am no longer in this reality. It comes from deep longing and songs that watch the final chapter take their weight and occur with these little thoughts that need to fade. I watch this occur. There is no question in my mind these are false decisions. I must thank the good that drags me out. The righteous actions keep me from falling ill from these directions every night. It is important to thank the creation, and there is where it lies. We have no answers, because we do not ask questions. We do not ask questions because we are content. I hope these expanded thoughts result it my fate coming to light. I hope that someone helps you see your fate as well.

30.10.12

A History of Mighty Tomes in Jabberwocky:


I should mention before this begins; the ethereal existence I am speaking of is that existence that transcends one life and continues to lengthen every night in dreams, the entirety of existence, not always recognized by the properly functioning mind. This existence is seen as the simple light of day when I am hypo-manic. This is the best description of my last trip, which was haunted by the reasoning that I was neither who I was nor where I was, for the record.


The town of Riddles is half way between two lakes with mythical monsters, deep places where elves and other little people live underwater. Many people visit this place in their dreams. It is a place where people who have taken a lot of grief in their ethereal existence can live freely and peaceably with one another in harmony, it is sometimes considered never-never land. It is a funny looking town, made of wood and stone, saturated with varied architecture and an important mix of race and religion.

There are a number of streets that are famed from people’s dreams. There are restaurants that people want to come to because they recall them vaguely from hundreds of year prior, places that when the travelers arrive the servers are the same people and the food is as delicious as they remember. There are harmless dragons flying above, those spirits are seen at the tops of the lakes on the higher layer of earth and considered as many great beasts documented but debated by great minds.

The roads weave a labyrinth that some can be lost in. The mailboxes dance as you pass through the mazes unharmed. There are well cared for houses, with spindles and towers, flights of stairs on the outsides and ghosts in silent windows. The alleys are narrow and marked with old paint from history, advertisements for outdated products and things that are not yet available. There are glorious murals of many kinds showing the color and character of those that decide to stay and live in this city of the spirit.

There are a very many angels in this town. Unbeknownst to some, they all work for the light – as it is a path that any spirit will find eventually. Mostly these folks appear as humans to help people find their way, as many travelers wind up in a town of Riddles. They will also appear as the birds, cats and other animals that people want to be within their dreams. The city is riddled with deer, which are living here in harmony with the people. It is a place the confused come across, whether or not they are searching for answers. It is a place that people wind up when they need to learn a lesson, before they are sent back to where they came from by falling asleep. It is common to see a group of children walking down these streets singing, “We all went to heaven, went to heaven last night!” next to people lucid dreaming, trying to fly and laughing idly as the gracious coffee shops that make them feel at home. There is always music in the streets.

I made a shop on Main Street in the town of Riddles as a trap.
It sold abstract art and had a hardwood floor that sent long lines from the front door of the narrow refuge to the small rooms at the back. The first of these two rooms was decorated with miniature scene of a red and ramshackle city where people who worked on the tops of trophies lived. Tall houseplants made the miniature city under a forest. At the entrance to the room there was a path the second back room, which mostly kept buckets of paint and mops for the coffee spill that once kept me from sitting on the couch.

A month after the coffee spill I was sitting on the windowsill out front smoking and a scared man charred by fire danced towards me uncomfortably. He was smiling when he saw me, so I recommended the Indian restaurant next door. As a local, I explained that he was in a different dimension and he raised his chest, making a strange noise but not saying anything. I told him I would meet him inside, closed my shop and entered the delicious restaurant.

There were tables on both the floor and ceiling of this restaurant, with a flight of spiral stairs in the corner that would allow you to reach the other level. The walls were deep purple with beautifully rendered portraits hanging both directions. The buffet was at the back, near the kitchen and you had to walk on the ceiling to reach the food. Only once did food fall from the ceiling to the floor, and at that moment the chef transcended to a higher level of earth, having learned everything he could have in Riddles. He was never seen again by anyone I know well, although his wife told the paper that he still lives in town, and that he has his own restaurant. I have never been able to find it, but I digress.

The charred man and myself sat in the corner booth at the back of the ground level, at his request. He ordered from the menu, I walked to the buffet. When I sat at the table the charred man gave me a note. I have transcribed it in full, and it is as follows.

“This is a serious and big storm.
Tens of millions take their minds off these woes and light a candle, fearing the night and the loss of life that marks its grand tone. Some monastery with its highest order finds me here and I must run and hide, for them to watch me and wait longer for the great nights of later life. Wondering about these shapes, I remain.

When they come to me, I fall with them. I have their options and along their lines I find truth. Wondering with these like-minded selves I have inside me, but separated from it, I must slither along the forest floor and find my options spiked with diseases and sullen wrapping. It always makes my silent light quiver to know that these dripping mazes are for me. Kindly old elves make their way to me, if nothing else because it is the right thing to do. They help me rise to them and note that I cannot see.

Shine with the others, belittling dances and foreign jobs taken by our middle class families. I am not like them, and they watch through silver jail walls. This is the mistake made by some and also the path of the righteous man. Sheep, never the wiser, remain at the holy vineyard and bah peacefully at the grapes that must be harvested for the coming batches of wine. They will never find the truth until they see the fallen stars.

While sitting and waiting I must find the failed state and bring it to me like a shining watch that sits atop a dresser and is never used because it is not deserved of the attention given to the one that the man bought himself. It tells time just the same, but does not mean the same thing to him. Shy as he is, he cannot mention that he does not want gifts.

Later they found out that the greasy monkey sitting on the fence found it’s home wandering through the gardens of the mighty signs brought towards the gracious sign that watches me from the shining light of the outdoors. I cannot go out there, or the peaceable sorts will get me. I cannot belong because the sheltered form is for me. The elves keep me here because they must. I am happier knowing that I can just sit in this home and learn about the world as best I am able. These are the graceful things I find, those that belong to me.”

I asked him if this was something from myself. He raised his chest and made an odd sound, the sound of the small microphone with too much gain, a sharp red tone that filled the whole room. The pattern of the sound made me feel he had something to say, but I could not understand it.

I nodded and began to eat my food. The charred man began to shrink, becoming wrinkled and seeming longer. A smell rose from the obscene incident, but it was not unpleasant. He then began to laugh, with the same harsh tone that marred our discussion before. The way he rolled his head back told me it was a laugh. I knew he was laughing because I felt that I was in customer service, or maybe it was because he realized I was not on his side. After that we ate in silence. I drank water. He drank nothing.


to sit and type or type and sit

The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career. He has suffered writing block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any of the old still made away their fountain and shake the wrench over for details provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope that laid a downer of maybe in stride was the truth that she told him and I stay also inside. But I hope that my revelation doesn’t sound like I’m rude. I just didn’t know anyone was listening.

Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it’s a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time. And if I have a legitimate pause for a morning shine I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together. A grand unified ideal.

So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine. These moments that are beautiful are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels as we are rebuilt cell by cell every seven years.

I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don’t know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I’d rather be positive and just keep musing on.

So perhaps this is a career. It is for sure a body of work.
There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I could see. But that is not a world you can see. That world is just a distraction.

more shadows talking

They talk to me like a shadow, shapes for their name.

These are the details of their wet head, running in the rain. I hope she walks in today, high and mighty like the western sky. I can only fall without the believable sort of rearview mirrors that watch me like their highlighted falling grace. I am certain these are the chaotic words that watch me when I become the nightly grace. These are the sorts of people who want to know for their own purposes. Could they belong to me?

There is only the righteous drama with their holy ghost. These are the written woes of the shining site, some place they must belong. I can believe that I have something within my highest order. Sometimes there are weapons believing these harder truths. There is some sort of simple draft that will keep all the people belonging to their own selves. There is a detail somewhere that lifts me. This is my hope.

Still we watch with mindless objectives. The mind is like a believable sauce, the sort of place that grand gestures come through. When the people watch, I must believe that the camera pans to a thread holding their order. This is the maze of the titles with these works and quietly why such gracious tomes come to rest in this dear hall. Sometimes I belong to the faceless order. Somewhere I belong to these wrapped mortals. When they come to leave I surely watch to learn.

I do not recommend these wiry thoughts to anyone. Careless as they are, we are encouraged to meditate. Shine with these righteous sorts of belittling sources, the people who watch while I wander through these streets with the light and the sword and the fountain of youth. Where these shapes are, I cannot say. Where they breathe and dine, they must somehow come to the truth. Why they are not there yet, I cannot say. Perhaps it is because I have lacked to ask the right questions.

As these places fall in kind and the righteous kinds of mortals send their happiest thoughts towards the red-marked screen and light the sky with their thoughts I regretfully inform myself that this course of hypnosis soundly sells it’s details, for over the places that I fly, I come to these causal solutions. Where the wind blows, my friend, which is where I wish to be. Yet, without the poetic mind, I’d rather spend the day sitting and writing about these gracious tones.