Whooping Cranes

"...Things change. Even grass goes out of fashion. In the later Pleistocene, trees became a hot item. Forest gradually encroached on the grasslands and the water table subsided. The crane habitat, un-Sanforized, began to undergo a relentless shrinking. The sandhill crane, the whooper's smaller, plainer cousin, made the necessary adjustments, adapting good naturedly to a less grassy, less watery world. But not our bird. The whooping crane practiced the science of the particular; it enacted the singular as opposed to the general; it embodied the excetion rather than the rule. To hell with compromise! It knew what it wanted and that was that. Unlike those integrity-short teemers, including man, the whooper opted for quality instead of quantity, rejected the notion that anything is better than nothing. It would survive on its own terms or not at all..." -Tom Robbins (even cowgirls get the blues)

waking up warm

Pictures from the last few days: typewriters, late night lights, kitty cats, naomi.

The days have been slow and long lately, and the nights short and cold, at least as far as my relationship with them goes. The sun has been fickle with its affection, i dont blame it considering it is the middle of january. Wont you just make up your mind? cold? or hot? but instead its cold and hot and warm and then windy and then dry and then wet and then cold again and then hot again but only for 5 minutes..

I feel lonely, oh about 90% of the time. Its a feeling that keeps me inside, a feeling that sticks my feet the ground. harsh and unwanted it sneaks up on a perfectly lovely day, smashing down upon me with lips so overwhelming. Or it gets settled while im sleeping and i just wake up in a fog, unable to create a genuine smile or think clearly. what a strange thing this is, life.
i love my friends and dont spend enough quality time with them, and sometimes(especially when your head is in the clouds) time is not quality time and that is too bad.

i miss waking up next to someone, smelling their skin, touching their hair.

aparently this blog turned into a journal. sorry.

Musicbox

I miss you like the earth, if it was rudely pulled out from under my feet, like so many magic carpets. each stacked upon the other. a plateau. with you gone it seems there is nothing but ocean for miles and miles. im getting my sea legs, im sure to go on, but so akwerd is a beast out of its element. no flippers have i, no fins, no gils. we were meant for each other and anything else just seems wrong. i know you know this, deep inside. i know you cant hide, not forever. your shelter will most certainly collapse and leave you shaking, a barren landscape, naked to the elements of the world and all it has to offer.
please dont forget me little acorn. queen of swords. you are honest and true of heart, dont leave me out here all alone.
flesh and bone.
morter and stone.

I found this in my notebook from a long time ago, thought it was beautiful and poinient(i dont know how to spell), her writing is beautiful. I hope you(whoever the 'you' is that is reading this, which might only be 'me') think it is also.

"She made him want to cry when he walked up the path through the ferns and moss and doves and lilies and saw her covered with earth and dust and ash. Only her eyes shone out. Revealing, not reflecting. Windows. Her feet were bare. he wanted her to tell him the rest of the story. He felt bereft without it, without her. There was only these women with mirror eyes strutting across marble floors, tossing their manes, revealing their breasts, untouchable, only these tantalizing empty glass boxes full of dancing lights he could not hold, only these icy cubicles, parched yards, hard loneliness."
-Francesca Lia Block

buckshot

Every day I watch the construction workers, bulging here and there, heave and hoe out my window. Throwing re-bar this way and that, sawing, hammering, yelling, stammering. I cant help but wonder what it is they think about when their minds wander. When the little wings of their thoughts sprout and fly them away from that second story minefield. What dark womb do they think of? What naked body? Maybe they think about their dog Earl, their new truck, and their best friend Laurence, who they go on much needed hunting and fishing trips, away from their wives, where they share a little more than buckshot and tackle. Maybe they are petaphile's. Maybe they are monkeys. Maybe they think of nothing, minds blank, droning on day after earsplitting day, like a worker bee, slaving tirelessly until the end of time, until dead or too weary to go on. Maybe I think too much. It may be.

..............

a night with friends.

I might have felt like murdering everyone, but some nice pictures were taken. Im sorry for yelling at you but it was 2 in the morning and you wouldnt stop ringing the fucking bell. I feel like shit today, not sure why, i didnt drink anything to shake a stick at.