Breathing and all that it goes along with and Roller Skating and scribbling notes to Lord Jesus Bob Marley Krishna.
I don't know. There are so many people, but meet them? Why? Why meet anyone? Yes, we are all gathered at the myspace table but it is not for meeting, not really. Yes, some get conjugal or friendly and some get found and then lost, but is it meeting? Isn't it all kind of plastic let me see you from a distance? Isn't it just a more personal television. Isn't it a way of letting friends know what you are doing inside your paranoid shell, your safe pixel, your HD low jet foosball plaster cast. Still who is the Internet Lawyer. but meet? Why? Isn't this the preferred distance that we all want? Things smell fine from right here. No committment, just walk away or drop the line or switch the page at any time. Really, I'm not sure. My Heroes have died. All of them. But I really dig Cat Power and Sonic Youth are really beautiful, but meet? Why? They make their art and give what they want to give in that space and man, that is plenty. I would like to thank them. Really that is the question. Who do I want to thank? Man, that list should go on. Yeah, I am feeling jacked up on gratitude right about now. Thankfu Johnson. That's what they should call me.Here's the thing. We all already know each other. We have lived this life so many times we have been everything to each other time and time again, learning little by little what we need to chip away the stone around our eyeball souls. Dig it. I'll be and meet any heart that beats.OK, work on thankful list of humans. I'll meet them all.Note the Jack Kerouac reading video. Very tender human poetry. Check it out. God is Pooh Bear.
Sound. The TV in the next room. The crazy lady voice in alley behind house. Bird Squaking Car Alarms. Cat Power Pixies Iron and Wine War Frank Zappa Captain Beef Heart Beatles Beach Boys, my kids are returning me on to the Cure. I love the poetic and strange waves of the quiet and then loud soul.
I just saw Thumbsucker. That is such a beautiful film. I like these tales of life where we learn to live this life, just this life, no answers, I THINK. Other than that, let's see. Transformers gave me a headache.
I don't watch TV, except when it's on.
Hey, I must add Arundahti Roy--God of Small Things. That book is God, totally Jehova Quasar in the Mind. I don't know how she can go off, be so indulgent and insane and spiritual and emotional and come back to story line Earth. I mean the books is incredible cause she just goes for it skaterboard style, in the air, spinnning and then comes back down. It's about messed up people and hot weather in India and Love. Lots of Love.Cruddy by Linda Barry--great kid lost soul drug book. The people are perfect and hammered.Tropic of Cancer-inspired cataracts of raw lyric. Song of My Self American Scripture. We have one.On the Road--such an open heart, the American Mystic Tradition. Book of Sketches--such a raw heart. Talking with the Poets, Interviews with San Francisco Beat Poets. Post Office-Bukowski. Catcher in the Rye, Nine Stories, Seymour: An Introduction--Salinger is pretty perfect. Current and new? I should try harder, but I can't seem to finish anything current or new. I did read a couple of cool Graphic Novels: Persepolis and Billy Corrigan. Poetry--Rilke's Book of Hours. Some people really know God. Emily Dickinson cause Death is Love.
A Hero is a sandwhich. A Hero is a motherfucker. A hero is a tommy gun soda pop sky spilling lovely love drops on the heads of the day dreamers. man, there are so many mad people in traffic. It is me. I am the mad one in traffic. I love anyone who is in traffic. I love them. I love traffic. I love getting mad in traffic. I love the smell of the cars, the feel of the road, the freeway laying over so much earth, so many machines on the concrete slab that lays across the earth, the houses that used to be on the earth, that are now under the freeway, I love the sorrow that seeps up under the tires and whispers. I love the whispering sorrow of the freeway, late at night, especially, when you can't really see anything, just hope there isn't a couch in the road, just beyond your lights. I love the dawn, dawn from the freeway, precious time of becoming, oh we are the planet of becoming. We bloom so often, flowers and reptiles on the hot rocks and sun flowers and suns and new spores of fungus and babies the the invisible belly darkness, from emptiness to the antenae of thoughts and sponge of feelings and desire, windows and wires that speak universe, apprehending oceans and space, little bugs on our eyelids as we are little bugs on the eyelids of Jesus the Love Dog of Wonder and John coltrane, my heroes. I'm a serious person. NO ONE FUcking READS anything.