2007:
On Writing:
I have a weakness for a well-strung necklaces of words, well engineered architectural wonders of sentences arranged by an urban planner so effectively and efficiently into anything from two-line fragments to colossal volumes that have the power to continuously jab at your insides. The pain can neither be described as good nor bad, maybe both and yet neither. But it is very real and becomes more real when you witness the blood dripping onto your brand new white running shoes.
On North Berkeley's Physicists:
Little boys. Lanky and slightly hunched over in what looks like a tee from middle school but actually fits quite well. Maybe a tad large. And the hairs on their heads all form a variation of one species of “doo”. Its as if there is something brewing in their brains that fortifies the follicle with something others lack. The “doo”. They all listen to that music and something else on the side… something trendy in an untrendy kind of way they picked up from a friend of a friend in Wisconsin or Iowa. A modern back to folk vibe. You can imagine what they were like in high school and how they were before that. Now they’re something different and yet something still very much they same.
On Cal's (under)Graduates:
Little girls in big black gowns. And the little caps. They teeter totter around the fountain, like pigeons on stilts. Little black stilts. 3 maybe 4 inches up. But already much more than anything they’ve had to endure in the past 4 years. They’ve been Too Busy to teeter totter.. They had their own theoretical stilts of abstractions and applications…. Trampolines of analysis and tight ropes of comprehension.. And their minds had been perfectly weaned to perform in this show and only this show. Now they will exit stage left and reality presses play.
On Being Mad, Craving Sanity:
[...] to be clear headed again. solid. structured. logical. empty. the taste of cool metal, foreign to my body.
my bucket it full. my cup runneth over. i accept the uncertainty and the lack of control. and i savor the opulence that surrounds me and emptiness that fills me.
(why?)
On Lust:
my dreams have been raped.
i see the world through a different lens. perspectives shifted, proportions messed with. my voice, taken, beaten and buried. theres no more here to listen for.
i had a picture in my mind. and i danced around in my room. blooming in the humidity of the shower. wild. colorful. pregnant with lust (vines climbing up the shower curtains buds blossoming a deep orange stunning red deep violet with a hint of blue water evaporates as soon as it hits the tub nothing but steam so thick no world below my nipples).
in one evening i realized - i am different and they are the same. went to bed with an aching boy. whom i did not have the heart to comfort. not my strength. i prefer danger, deceit, cruelty and my own personal demise. you wounded puppy. you still have the balls to laugh with me in the dark. but you turned your back to me like you all always do. and thats when i felt pain. and thats when i felt comfort.
my needs are an abstraction, pieced together from broken day dreams, wild fantasies. much more powerful than a physical model. providing tools to judge, lacquer, and shatter. it is pliable, applicable and barely understood. a misty image, changing shape each time you look. something decides whether you are the one, one of them, or in the complement of all unions all together.
and i cant help it
and i cant understand it
and now you hate me
and i still lead you on
kind words? sincere smiles?
i'll still accuse you of lies
simply because thats what i want to hear
On Letting Go:
You invaded my August. I called on you. And you came. Walking softly. Carrying a big stick. I knew what I was in for. I was asking for it, can't you see. I wanted to feel something for another, still tangled in the web of the past. I wanted the new the you the elation and expectation even though I knew it would lead to my eventual plummet, the great fall. And now it is December and the page has finally turned and I come out of this with less padding, a smaller buffer zone and a deeper understanding. Dig deep dig deep dig deep. Nothing is for certain. Nothing is forever. Nothing is everything and everything is nothing.
On Weather:
the clouds feel heavy enough for release. i open the blinds, pull back the orange gauze curtains and watch the water gather and bounce back from the many surfaces that make up the rooftops, balconies, canopies.
now, release and then, rebirth.
I came to realize that survival meant being reborn over and over again.
