I guess I have to be relieved when the color scheme for cutting edge design nowadays includes sunrises and hazy beach mornings.  No more hyper color grit of high dynamic range or trippy tilt-shifts.  Check it out guys, you can see it's a new day.  Break out the snuggle blankets and lay some pillows by the surf.  We're coming down, staring at the water bottles and chew-toys from last night, gathering the last shreds of hyper awareness into a cohesive narrative, and tacking down, flash by flash a new conscience born from the trips and hits and stabs of light and sound and feeling, all sensations masquerading as diversion.

Space is in fashion.  The kind with swirling splashes of the cosmos, whipped together with supernovas and hyper-sensational wormholes, projected onto the draping shirts of jean-clad youth.  What plaid and argyle were to button-downs was the boot-up to our psychic computers, breaking out of the solid-color morass, like the masses together in a faded ball pit: here, a yellow ball, there a green one, CYMK pallets to the fashion molasses picking up speed post 80s crash.  We wear forms born from thoughts of stardust and ancient alins, and homages to ancient architecture and histories lost to the sands of time, found in the street-worn show posters of our underground youth.

The signals are here, outside in pop culture, bled out, eeking past the thin barriers of post-war statist hegemony, old forms passed down in secret, blasted across the inner-eye retinas of an irreverent youth.  Irreverence, chaos: seeds to power a new youth, a new family, a new seniority.  The signs are here.  Just as we sleep with our eyes open are we hit, even then , responding with an equal splash in our natures untethered and stretching old muscles in our gene pool, old yet unfamiliar powers in our power to envision possibilities.

It's been a long night.

HE IS NEWLY MINTED

his ideas stamped with the indelible ink of newborn fervor, who knows what he can accomplish, his ideas stemming from pure springs.


His hands writhe, caught between each lean mitt's fingers, swirling between cracks, movements chaotic, belying the angelic grace of a child of Eden.  A dance by Pollock, over the canvas of his anxious tendencies.  He is God, no creation seeks him out.


Failure, mutter, discrace, a yelp, crackling gutteral interjections between the stream of head nods and fluttering eyelids.
His mind's eye pans over the devastated landscape of premeditated disaster, .  It speaks to him the crags and juts of broken images and smokey whisps of inspiration climbing the charred stumps of his neuroses.  Blue faced. He coughs.
...
When he writes he asks for music, when he sings he prays for colors. For deluvian rainbows, blankets of sunshine, deified in order, red to violet. He is ecstatic. Never the first time, always the first time, his past and future blend into each other without befores and afters.
Eye panning, looking at his words like an audience, the curls and lines grin and leer and curse and praise...
I want them to know, he whispers to his page.
I want them to move from the crowd and tell all the others.
He imagines a baby with a rattle in his hand, clattering for all to hear the sybilant rattling sending fireworks before his eyes bead by bead..


He can tell you his story in so few words. He is newly minted, rushing to crash in the deluge, his new world. 


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


My sunshine girl sitting to the left of me
I fight with tomorrow, we grapple.  I mention a future and it steals it away.  I tell it my hopes and fears and it sends me scampering, through tar pits and thorn bushes.  We're best friends.  I'm stabbed from the front.


Tomorrow never knows, but I believe him all the same.  My false idol beckons me with knives for teethe, eyes old and glittering, my ancient enemy from the yet-to-come.


I will bleed for you, won't I?

A Smattering of Snippets

Hello, how are you?  Let me introduce myself before you give me that face, cockeyed and with the crook in your neck:  I'm the same wanderer you've seen day after day, tracking the thin trail from desperation to some great, ragged precipice of living.  I'm guessing we've been looking at our feet this whole time, all from the looks we're giving each other at this moment.  I'll tell you what I've been doing.

I'm writing pages in a bible I'll read in my next life.  All my adventures, picked apart verse by verse, all the big players wearing vermilion robes and lions' pelts.  I aim to start secret societies, marked by the well-coiffed bouffants and glass-less eye frames, tracing geometries of m social lives.  They will sprinkle it into their own stories like grated cheese.

This is a story of an inside wanting out.  How about yours?

...

It's not the falling, it's the never flapping your wings on the way down.  You're an angel you know.

Like when you let go, saying you'll start back up, easy-like and with a swagger.  But off go the reins, and out go the the habits, the good ones, like closing the orphanage for a simple lack of care, good habits left to exposure, starvation.

So, go ahead, flap those wings, stand up, shake the dust off.  Bring back the orphans, the downtrodden duties.  Clean, feed, house them, nurture, love them.

They are your unclaimed children.

What it takes to travel the world

I want to travel the world, to see the sights with a capital "S", to meet people with interesting stories, told over dinners and lunches and drinks.  To face adventure and use my wits, learn languages and...

So it's nice to dream big, but how do I get there?

There's quite a few big names in Travel: Ernest Hemingway, Richard Branson, Tim Ferriss.  Those three I pick for completely romantic reasons.  Not the amorous kind, but for the aplomb committed to their adventure, the facility which they navigate the logistical intricacies, and the paths that they have blazed for the smart-alecs like me who can't seem to conjure the genius to make it happen.  But I'm working on it, oh boy you bet I am...

Now, I've been reading the blogs lately, one after another, in quick succession.  It's a testament to our indigo-child information smorgasbord gobbling generation, gathering the data into our memory's voracious cheeks, to be digested at another time, as if that happens with a snap of the fingers. I buy the books promising financial freedom and the largess of location, all read with pencil in hand ready to scribble my aha's and oh-yes-this-is-what-I've-been-missing's, like breadcrumbs.  Those seem to get picked off first like the crows that comprise my shortcomings in short-term memory.  I feel doomed to highlight in an ever-changing rainbow of cheap dollar-store markers, marking ink to neon-blotted paper like a pre-school water-color and newsprint collage.   I might have an affinity to this meta-masochism, taking joy in remarking my reread territory, circling the travelogue kaabas in my fantasies.  Ooo lala, oui oui, my cute French girl, arigatou sweet geisha.  My angels beckon me.

Now, the missing link is the cash.  If I could pay in enthusiasm I'd be halfway to Machu Picchu, pondering the Incas in my new llama-wool hat, puffed woolen balls dangling from the earmuffs to ward away train-boredom at four A.M. after the raucous drink-a-thon in the drinks-cart.  My how travel brings the dreams.  The money, yes.  I am trying a million things as a creative expat of the sylvan nation (read: broke college-aged individual).  Ebay millionaire books, odd jobs, freelance writing, voice-overs, anything profuse talent can buy in minimum wage and skill-less income.

I might mention that my it's the "emotional instability" that forces me to go from one job to another, the excitement to start and the heart rending ennui that soon follows from boredom and watching bad decisions being borne from the top to trickle down like caustic acid rain forced upon the workers to water the weed farm.  Bad product man.  Why bother?

But I have my dreams, I verily say unto you.  These dreams keep me going, and writing, and playing guitar and watching movies at one A.M.  If life is to find meaning, all things being equal, I'll do it my own way, be-damning conformity (in the least ironic way possible, natch).  I'll lose my hair and fret over my fingernails, sweat come rent-day and promise to pay back my roommate for the eggs I needed this morning.  But they are mine and there's no way you can take those away from me!

I digress.

So, if Quantum Physics has any say in this, and oh yes I will botch what this guy says just for you, if I can dream it I can do it.  So to you I say, what it takes to travel the world are dreams, and maybe you'll see me sometime living mine.