december 8th, 2011

Few things to speak about in this post, which is always a good thing.

First-- station to station will appear in the new issue of Out of Our, which will be printed on Friday. Booyah! This is my third piece in their publication, the first two being my generation and forever grasping a clutching, which led off the previous issue.

Second-- the new issue of Beatdom, featuring horseshit, focuses on the topic of religion. I find that amusing. Basing my guess on the info in the link, it should be available for purchase soon.

And the last little announcement is that soon enough more stores will be carrying my books on consignment. At the moment they are for sale here:

Book Soup

Stories

Daily Planet

Skylight Books

All of which are in Los Angeles. New stores, out of state (and possibly out of country), will be added to the list in time.

Thanks for giving a shit, take care.

march 15th, 2011

station to station

I suck down half a strong whisky soda and repeat the lyric in my brain, “The return of the Thin White Duke, throwing darts in lovers’ eyes.”

I suck down the rest of the drink and slouch further into the sofa. My midnight princess is halfway to Oakland and I’m nearly drunk. Is it Oakland? Could be Reno. She could definitely be headed to Reno. What difference does it make? These cities are merely capitalized locations promising hope and rebirth to desperate, aching souls eager to reinvent. The frightened will always flee when faced with new challenges; justifying their inability to defeat conflict with ambiguous, weak attempts at self-reflection. Only the blind optimists terrified of uncertainty nod their heads with genuine faith.

It’s as if I’m scared to be happy, petrified of inexplicable contentment. I often ask if the feelings are worth the writing. Deep down, for years now, the answer has appeared instantly and with thoughtful force; an internal paradox fueled by the inability to admit finality and greatness. I may believe a piece is truly exceptional, even momentarily, but knowing the capability of previous hands that now lie restless allows modesty and personal doubt to flourish, no matter how much I deprive the soil.

To answer your question; yes, poetry or prose or short stories or whatever the fuck you want to label this writing and writing to be will forever be worth the pain. Creation supersedes positive opinions of you as a person pasted together from fragments of reality pooled together and analyzed by neighbors, landlords, co-workers and acquaintances convinced they understand “you.” Human minds and bodies and subconscious reactionary likes/dislikes/turn-ons/turn-offs are nothing more than simple mathematic equations to these people.

I have no grasp on human purpose or honest human needs. I am only able to shelf the knowledge of outer space and accept perspective because I have no other option. And because of that, I write to forever etch my words in stone because tomorrow may as well be yesterday.