the dust flies over my head and catches in a damp trash bag, warming and concealing — a cocoon for now empty hands and the heart that must hold them still. the cotton is built for what its built for; they have wool. I miss it. I don’t know why the trash bag is damp or why I’m under it. It’s interesting to know the utility of things and still not gather the meaning. I guess this is the difference between the need for some simple shelter and the want of understanding. The soil doesn’t have a stench, at least not right now and the withered leaves gather periodically in my hair — not crunching and scattering, but curling up in little ciphers. I wipe them out to attempt to stay clean. Its a metaphor and an oxymoron in a place like this, where there should be no cause for dying leaves and my hair’s still growing. The coconut scent is slowly diminishing and I’m not sure what it is — night sweat, little moments brushed in earth, and cologne, amongst other things, maybe. I’m weirdly at peace and yet, so idle, in my eyes. I worry that I ignore things if they aren’t on the other side of the lens, my beautiful broken lens/ a hyper mind, unrested on what’s next. The wind sneaks through the cracks of my cover and awakens me and I hate it because subtle cold is suddenly too much. I hide from it, but the stench of body, subtle but loud in my closed personal space pulls me out into the sun, which obliges me with an invisible extra layer of skin — something I can’t wash off / something that can be taken away, like a stronger stomach. I return to be asked by two guys, I think, about global warming. Inside I laugh. It’s just another oxymoron right now. I answer their questions. I might need a map.
the twirling the churn of acid and guts and the things that it is not beyond and the gratitude that only makes sense to the giver and I the impending spew or not / a game of cat and mouse or dodge ball or jump rope right before you go in / that moment when you’re knees are flexing back and forth and your body tethers with excitement and anticipation and the sweat trickles and slides your hair across your face because you’ve been jumping before but it’s never less exciting to enter again because these are the things that make summers and you can’t double-Dutch or hoola hoop and not that it’s definitive but it’s the first time you wonder what’s different because you can dance. the sickness isn’t quite the summer countdown it’s more of a benign or malignant time bomb slowly moving towards 0:00 or 0 or 00 10 11 10 00 or something that makes it happen but I’ve sat in baths so I don’t know. today I tried on another suit.
I hear motorcycles vrooming passed / they’ve taken it all / I guess the noise is the serial killers braggadocio / or the superhero coming in. I gather its the former. What shame / what loss.
there is a cool abyss they call the obviously present and nothing more that lodges itself on the other sides of lenses / noise inadvertently splashed on it’s almost neutral face. it is what we see that matters and what’s devoured is never there. there’s one man who finds the hidden fascinating, when it isn’t hiding, just invisible. he likes that he’s the only one who knows, until he tells somebody. I read about him. I wondered what kind of beautiful secrets he was hiding / the intangible kind / that he can’t quite catch like a reaching hand, falling down the rabbit hole, slowly, after itself … and the kind of anticipation that might cause. can it ever be unexpected? maybe that’s being human / when it can be unexpected or maybe not? and I think “that’s how he fell in love with his camera.” so maybe we’re opposite and maybe that’s what creates fascination / the comingling of a love affair with what’s present and a love affair with what’s not. he’d probably question what present meant and it’d make me think — critically. this wouldn’t be an abnormal thing and then I’d arrive at some simple conclusion. that’s the paradox of life … and the idea of control, of course / that we have it and don’t. sometimes closing our eyes is world domination, when we realize how small we are and that a dark screen has no words and that we never die at the end of the movie, but we don’t get to see the sequel through the same eyes.
"one man’s trash can be another man’s treasure" / a special box I found in the trash can and decorated with stickers I had and put all my polaroids from the last two months here and other important stuff, like robots and cheerios in,
including the one polaroid of the socket from a week or two ago, or however long, where I charge my Nikon and this one I took of my hand with green dye on it to signify that even while I’m nomadic and all, I keep the color fresh wherever I can 😁.
(oh yeah, the cool robot thing is from ROLLING ROBOTS, who are at this awesome fair I’ve been walking through on the third street promenade in Santa Monica — check it out, if you can — and they gave me this cool sticker, which is in the next photo.)
they say artists or at least book authors/makers need last names
so I picked one / it’s “vanished”.
I think you can do that legally, unless you have something else in mind.
but, anyways that’s my pen/cam/brush/can name.
i’m going make photography books with writing in them, I think, one day.
and maybe have exhibits.
there was a face, a face I knew and had never had seen before. it was something in the scowl and in the seething behind ready eyes filled with momentary power, the kind that deteriorates a society like slow poison overtime, person by person — like a virus. I awakened in the beautiful haze of safety, an appeaser of unknown appetite, the warm sun reaching through the blue seams and fluff and stitching, dividing the foliage — intrusive / decadent —my skin, a beggar waiting to be relinquished to the day. the stench of 24 hours crawling down my legs, something I’d have to reach for to know. “only two packets …. yeah, two packets.” “okay, thanks.” the moment of choice: to crumble in subservience to willful un-owned selfishness or to allow some simple, subtle indifference to devour that face and those eyes and the brooding that comes with awaiting my arrival and the shaking head that says “no” before you get quite to the door and the pancaked face and the lipsticked stained vicious smile with the malice leaking through the eyes (“the great cracked whip with the haha at the end” / oxy/moron) and all the forgotten suffering that disappears under the ability to say “no more”. can you imagine wielding a sword with someone else’s hand and someone else’s handle and blade (like owning nothing except that moment which isn’t lasting if you don’t kill)? can you imagine the lack of control and the recognition that power only exists like universal truths, which is forever or not at all? and we all have different forevers, but I knew that neither I nor the entity would die today … at least, myself (knowing that I don’t know everything, but enough). there’s the dichotomy between amazing simplicity and false domination. one exists and the other doesn’t. the toy store won … and the computer.