Strawberry Doom

Wake up, man. It’s tomorrow.

I’m watching incense smoke linger in the sunlight from the windows, just hanging out laying thick like a familiar feeling. It smells like woody strawberries and peace. And my apartment is gold in the eyes of a miner. And a train wreck strain is a great additive to the pleasure the pleasuring and the pleasured right beside the train station where phenomenal orgasms prance across the tracks of time pockets if you just relax. Hearing the quickened breath like a horn that blows again and again coming like trains on a restless summer night. Listening to stoner doom metal and the irony lies in the grass of it being one of the most hopeful noises under the sun of it being the opposite of doom and sounding like divine design. The sound that jumps the tracks. The sound that takes a long ride to somewhere they don’t know and it’s over as quick as it came and they’re gone. Then somehow it comes back around on time schedules and the patterns of our days and we see it and we know it and we are it. It’s all of it it’s everything. And it spirals out again hopping freight to fright to freight to love to freight again moment to moment never ending because stars keep being born and giving way to black holes and we don’t know where any of it goes except for halting here right now for that one second to climb on board.

Tye-dye and Camo

Friday July 8th 14:06

I am ending the classical period of my life.

I spent July fourth weekend at work and with Clayton. A book on his bookshelf caught my eye called The Physics of Consciousness by Evan Harris Walker. Apparently Cody or someone gave it to him for Christmas one year. I read the first few pages aloud and was automatically hooked with that funky inspired feeling I get when I read word combinations that are animated by deep thought. Clayton said it sounded good while I was reading it and that I could take the book with me.

I’m about 70 pages in this book that’s talking about quantum mechanics, and frequencies of light, and Schrödinger, and Bohr’s atom. On the way down there was something so comforting reading about classical physics with Isaac Newton and his laws relating to material objective reality. Something I threefourths-heartedly believed in, that there was nothing more than what’s in front of us. As I speak, we’re miles into our trip home from Parris Island, SC with a freshly pressed marine. The abandonment and flatlands of the early south are whizzing by me as my thoughts dive into the ever-deeper southern recesses of my mind. I haven’t written in a while due to lack of inspiration.

On the way down, my dad, sister, and I began the trip with stimulating conversations about religion, politics, energy, the (non)existence of angels demons, mental disease, and existence. This discussion put my mind in analytical motion for our visit to Parris Island. As soon as I got out of the car at the base I felt a strange energy of institutionalization and brainwashing. It vaguely nauseated me to watch the recruits file onto the parade deck before the motivational run in such sickening uniformity, all mentally and physically trained to kill and die for our country. Then I saw Dalton.

An irrationally strong and large tidal wave of pride washed over my entire occupancy of space in the universe. The classical period of my mental physics was over. It was now about the contradiction of light existing as both particles and waves. I started weeping uncontrollably seeing before me a man; shoulders back, hands closed, both feet at a 45 degree angle, never breaking bearing. Front and left, a PFC squad leader of platoon 3052 of Lima Company 3rd Batallion, I could not take my tear-filled eyes off of him. Always standing strong between his two sisters, Ella and I; he then stood stronger among his 200-something new brothers. Another tidal wave of fear suddenly overlapped the pride. I do not want him to die for me or this country, I thought to myself. Watching him stand there still as a stone basking in the glory of accomplishment after the trials and tribulations of the past 90 days, I didn’t feel like I, or the country, even deserved the honor of being in Dalton’s presence. I couldn’t stop crying with how fucked up it all felt.

I am a huge advocate of free thinking and free action and sometimes I am very “fuck the man.” Sometimes I feel like our government is the most evil, greedy, and corrupt thing, but do I get up everyday and basically do whatever the fuck I want to do because I am free to do so? Because I was lucky enough to be born in this country where there have been and continue to be thousands of men and women who fight, kill, and die for me and you to do what we want? It’s so fucked up. Freedom should be free for all living beings. This all speaks volumes of the human race. The need for military and war is one of the most depressing facts of this life. Because people are greedy, hateful, jealous, and don’t know how to fucking act.

I observed Dalton closely all day on Thursday for Family Day which was the first time I had seen him in three months. “Yes ma’am. . . Thank you, sir. . .” His whole demeanor more polite and more calm. A boy who left the recruiting office in Martinsburg, WV, not even wanting to clean his room or put his dirty dishes in the sink had just “skuzzed” floors and gotten belittled for 90 days. I used to want to put his face in the dirt for being a lazy asshole. Now I feel like I should kiss the ground he walks on. And he’s so handsome in his uniform!

The gears in my head were turning ferociously all day. I felt and still feel conflicted about the whole experience. I am so fucking proud of my brother and love him so much but I can hardly bear to think about a bullet going through his chest or the chance of his eternal misery from PTSD or losing an arm and not being able to work out like he always has loved to do. Him dying for a country who considers him a number, property of the government, like their tagged cattle put out for slaughter.

I think he saw the gears turning and the tears streaming behind my sunglasses because as we walked back to his barracks during liberty he asked me if I was okay and said that I didn’t look very happy. I said “Dalton, I am so happy to see you!” I began weeping again, and with me in my tye-dye skirt and him in his digies, we shared one of the best hugs of my life. He told me he read one of the letters I wrote him out loud to some of his friends in which I wrote some Red Hot Chili Peppers’ lyrics and that they all interpreted it for motivation for that day in basic. Most of us know it:

“Destruction leads to a very rough road, But it also breeds creation.” – Californication

It made my day.

And I know, perhaps, that, “Men do not fight for flag or country, for the Marine Corps or glory or any other abstraction, they fight for one another” (William Manchester). And though it goes against everything I believe in, this experience has half tempted me to drop everything and head to the recruiter’s office to join Marine Corps basic training myself. I would do that just to be with him. To fight beside him and experience the world with him and keep him safe. To find self-discipline and self-sacrifice, which in my eyes, are two of the most respectful aspects of character.

Dearest brother, “Your battles inspired me – not the obvious material battles, but those that were fought and won behind your forehead” (James Joyce). I love you and I’m so proud of you. I can’t speak for everyone but upon this new experience, I feel it is my duty to be worthy of your fight. . . and to keep expanding my perception.

To knowledge. To growth. To expansion. To Valhalla.

Worm

“Drinking is a black hole. A black hole in your memory, a black hole in your life, and a black hole in your soul.” – Me, January 31, 2015 1:41 pm.

Almost a year ago, I was hungover in Seattle, Washington and I wrote that in my notes on my phone.

Today I lie in my bed hungover dreading going to work tonight and hardly keeping my eyes open. Not a day goes by that I don’t drink or consider drinking. America is a drunk nation and I am no exception.

So what’s the deal? What is the fucking deal? Something goes wrong or pisses me off, I drink. Something goes right and I accomplish great things, I drink. Oh, it’s a day today, I think I’ll fucking drink.

My body is young and able, let’s fucking drink. My parents are separated, let’s drink. I graduated college, let’s drink. He’s being an asshole, let’s drink. She’s being a bitch, let’s drink. I’m going to get my yoga teaching certificate,  let’s drink. It’s my birthday, let’s drink. I have a paper due tomorrow, let’s drink. I have a soccer game tomorrow, let’s drink. Depressed?, let’s drink. It’s my day off, let’s drink. I’m bored, let’s drink. A margarita sounds good, let’s drink. Shots, let’s drink. It’s Christmas, let’s drink. It’s Hanukah, let’s drink. It’s Tuesday, let’s drink. You’re beautiful, let’s drink. I love you, let’s drink.

Those are just a few of the endless reasons I’ll drink. Why do you drink?

Alcohol is the only thing that always has and always will be there. No matter what your parents do, no matter what your significant other does. No matter what your siblings do or where they go. No matter whether you have a job or a place to live or not. Whether you have children or not. Whether you’re scared or not. No matter what’s going on in Syria. In politics. In your home. In your life. No matter whether you’re happy or sad or succeeding or defeated. Whether you’re skinny or you’re fat. Whether you’re black or you’re white. Native American. You’re being a good person, a bad person. She does not discriminate. She’ll take you into her loving arms and she’ll take your memory too. She’ll take your emotions and your feelings. She’ll numb you and make everything okay. You don’t need your phone anymore. You don’t need anyone. You don’t need anything but more of her. She loves you. She loves you endlessly. She pleasures you. She wants more of you, too. She never wants you to put her down or give her up. It’s an old story that many have told. But it doesn’t get less important or less prominent. It’s always here, under your nose. She smells it on your breath. She makes you take your keys and put them in the ignition if no one else is there to take you home. She makes you blind. She turns the lights on when no one is home and she waits for you to wake up the next morning with questions only she can answer for. She clouds your eyes and your thoughts. She takes you down and she loves you for everything you are and more. She is mother’s milk. She is your lover. She is your friend. Your closest truest friend. She’s running over your tongue, down your throat, esophagus. She’s inside of you. In your stomach, your liver, your bladder. Your blood. Throughout your whole being. She changes you. She loves you.

She is a worm. She makes you a worm. She makes you weak. She makes you sick. She makes you sick of her and you want to get out. You want to get out of this relationship with her. She wants you more. She loves you harder. Your blood. She is your blood. She makes you drive. She makes you alive. She can kill you. She makes you say stupid shit. She makes a fool out of you. Everyone you know, knows. She makes you confident. She loves you so much she hurts you. She keeps hurting you and loving you and you keep going back for more because she cradles you and takes away everything that is wrong. She creates half of the problems. She puts you in the dirt and you crawl through it. Mud and dirt covers you and you can’t get clean. You kiss the earth. She’s a dirty girl. You crawl into a black hole with her and make love in the dirt.

Hot sweaty love in the dirt. She always adds one more presence to the party. No one can party without her. You just want her to leave. You want to scream at her. Get the fuck out of my head. Get out of my blood. Get out of my life. She won’t leave you. She’s always there. Always right there. Your life revolves around her. You serve her in mass quantities. You drink her in mass quantities. She tastes so good. “I’m the nectar of life,” she says. She’s everywhere. I want you forever. I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave any of you. I love you, she says to me. And I know she means it. She means it when she says I love you. Forever, unconditionally, she loves you. Forever. When the world is over, she loves you. When all the trees have died, she loves you. All the rivers dried up, she loves you. Oceans contaminated, she loves you. Currency has no value, she loves you. In life, she loves you. In death, she loves you. Nuclear warfare, she loves you. Childless, she loves you. Hopeless, she loves you.

Vacant.

She loves you.

Buzzed Beach Blog

I came back down onto the beach today after taking a glorious “Dirty Hippie” shit (a chai drink from Hunga Bunga Java Coffee shop where we have become regulars even for only being here once a year). I sat down in my chair and my sister Ella said, “Did you see that girl that just came down?”

The tall tan blonde must have seductively glided down the public walk way we are sharing with neighboring oceanfront beach homes, and people staying sound-side, moments before I did. But I came down the steps jauntily, rather than seductively, as my mother explained how I walk. I replied “No” to Ella as my eyes wondered to the tent beside us on the beach and I spotted her. “You should see her butt,” Ella added as she returned to reading 30-Second Brain, a book about neuroscience. “I don’t give a fuck about her ass,” I said.

Approximately 15 yards away from this lean tall ass-beauty, I examined all that she had to aesthetically offer me. Again, long blonde straight hair, lean and tall, sun-kissed, and if I had a microscope, probably not a peach fuzz on her youthful flat-stomached, thigh-gapped, around 17-year-old body.

Yeah, I remember being 17 too.

But the question, my friends, that I ask now as a 21-year-old woman is, “Do they have the funk?”

Do they radiate charisma? And I’m not talking about “Is he or she a good person?” No, that is irrelevant and unknowable unless you indeed know the person and spend months, even years, with said person. I’m talking about an energy that certain people carry with them. Even places have the capability to carry this energy. Like where I am now, in Topsail Island, North Carolina. A pretty funky state in its entirety. But the young woman’s energy radiates the same energy that houses at the North end of the island radiate. Yes, they are huge and luxurious and have hot tubs and a million rooms decorated with expensive shit that someone can afford to own and rent in addition to their mansion in Maine along with a fleet of Lamborghinis… But these North end beach houses all look the same. I have stayed in several of them over the years and have always found myself longing for the South end. Where we are now. Tucked in between two of the only gnarly beach trees that can be seen for blocks down the dunes. With wooden walls and ceilings and weirdly placed and shaped windows added and built by the hands of a charismatic man, or woman. You can fucking tell. Our little island hideaway  has the funk. It has words, and a story, and an energy emitting from it’s little thought-out structure. It’s like Bilbo Baggins and the Shire. Hello.

But this isn’t the first thing that Ella has said to me that triggered this reaction from me. Not but two weeks ago,  she walked into my room wearing a new open-backed dress, asking if I had any stick boobs (the bra that sticks to your breasts so you don’t have to worry about straps). I replied and asked why she needed them. She said, “My boobs are too small. It will look weird.”

Now, my reaction is coming from someone who doesn’t wear a bra unless I’m wearing a shirt that requires me to at work or I’m running a long distance, but pure anger was and is indeed the reaction to my sister’s statement.

For those of you who don’t know, but she will willingly talk about it now, Ella, my sister, was anorexic.

I’m sure running track has something to do with it because anorexia is common among track athletes for some reason, but my dears, society has everything to do with it. And all of us know why. From technology to porn and this idealization of what women and men should look like, we know what eats us alive when we wake up and look in the mirror and we think, “How SHOULD I look today?” And then usually the following question is “Why can’t I look this way?” And the following reactions ensue trying to achieve that “look” that is expected of us. Anorexia can KILL you, and it’s a result of society’s standards. SOCIETY COULD HAVE KILLED MY SISTER! And people, we are all a part of society! Are we killing each other with our expectations?

And friends, I am by no means NOT also affected by this. Yes, I have become very confident about myself over the past few years with the help of working in the restaurant business and dealing with customers, having a few funky friends, spirit guides, my loving parents, and heavy metal music (yes). . . But just the other night while I was at work, I was struck pretty hard inside my 21st century self-esteem. And I am not afraid to openly admit what bothers me about myself:

Physically: 1) My drinking habits along with my lack of exercise habits sometimes show visibly on my lower stomach area, hips, and upper thighs. 2) I wish my arms were more toned as well. 3) I wish I was a tanned bronzed beauty 24/7/365. 4) I have dark hair so my body hair is darker and easier to see if not freshly shaven. (Though I care less and less about this as I get older. I plan to rock my landing-strip for as long as I can bend over to keep it up with the utmost 70’s pride). And 5) Sometimes I wish my face was different but that’s just life and you are 100% stuck with your face, I don’t know what else to say about that.

Personality: 1) My drinking habits make me do and say shit that I would never do or say sober, and I can’t control my habit sometimes, so fuck – – but that’s a different blog. 2) Sometimes when I get nervous under high pressure situations I will lie, and I fucking hate when I do that. I’m working on it. 3) I have the tendency to be attracted to people I probably shouldn’t be attracted to, resulting in me doing weird shit and then going through a long self-loathing process. 4) I can’t stick with a routine to save my life. And last, but not least 5) I’ll contradict myself, like I probably have already in this blog, which I also hate, but everyone does that and the very universe is a contradiction in itself so there really isn’t anything I can do about it.

Anyways, at work, my 21st century societal self-esteem was struck by a strawberry-blonde beauty in a patterned open-back dress who definitely does have the funk. I nonchalantly asked my coworker and dear friend, “How do you compete with that?” He replied, “You’re Tricia, you already won.” Of course, exhausted and hungover, I looked at him with teary eyes, and I remembered what the funk is about and that it is totally inside of me.

Now, I was never anorexic but I have come a long way since 15, 16, 17 years old; when you aren’t a child but you are hardly yet a woman. I can happily say, at 21, I am happy with myself for the most part, though I know my sister still struggles.

Currently, in the book I am reading called Dark Days, a memoir by Randy Blythe (who is now a best-selling author! Congrats!) he said something about people trying to be rockstars and that you can try really really hard to be rockstar, your hardest even, but some people just don’t have it. The same concept applies to the funk. But you can get it, and I’ll explain how.

Mother Earth is my greatest example. Even as I decay writing this, getting closer and closer to death with every breath. . . every moment, every year, I can feel Mother Earth’s funk getting stronger. She’s old now, and aging faster with this 21st century mentality as our environmental awareness fades with our irreversable technological sprawl across her. But like Lamb of God iterates in one of my favorite songs by them called “Reclamation”. . . The lyrics are “The elements reclaim what was taken.” And Mother Earth will. She is older than this 21st century society, and she will win.

My point is, funk is a side-effect of being an old soul.The earth has an old soul and I’m pretty sure I myself have an old soul. You have to die to be reborn within this life and in others (and I’m not even sure if reincarnation is real or how it works. I’m just guessing here). If your soul is older than the current society we live in, you probably have the funk. And it isn’t the tall skinny tan girl’s fault, I’m not trying to judge or shun her, it’s not bad that she gave me the vibe of a simple product of society. She just probably hasn’t died that many deaths or lived that many lives yet. She will learn, and one day you will learn, we will all learn that we’ll be better. And hopefully one day, society will be a reflection of positive funk. (You can still have the funk and be a complete asshole who hasn’t really learned anything, I was morbidly in love with someone like this once.) It’s up to us to sway the funk in a positive way as we live and learn.

So every second that my beautiful sister sits in that beach chair reading her brain book, and not looking in the mirror worrying about “What should I look like today,” she is gaining funk momentum. And as I sit here under the funky moon and write this, so am I.

All I ask is that you question yourself, and question society. Believe in yourself, and believe in self-empowerment. Wake up and skip the mirror. Don’t look at it. Go outside and look INTO the earth. Then you’ll see your true reflection.

Where is Moonglow Mountain? Inspired by my soul sister, the lizard king, and dreadlocks.

I was laying there reading her words from a green journal under a tray ceiling. My heart began to swell with the blood of inspiration as I read her thoughts thrown on the page very similarly to how I throw my thoughts on the page. That blood pumping from my fingers flipping the pages to my mind to my chest and back again. She was changing her shirt and sat down beside me to reread what she had written months before as I read it. The moment felt intimate, I wanted to touch her and whisper to her “I’ll take you to the moon,” because she glows like it, but I didn’t. It’s so interesting to monitor yourself and another and feel like you are the same mind even though you have different physical bodies. Like you have the same metaphysical hands holding the same pen writing about the same feelings though in different contexts because the two of you live different lives. But the more you spend time with someone, the more you fall in love with them. The more you want to be a part of who they are. And who is anyone to tell you that you’re weak for it or that you’re doing something wrong? There are two people inspiring the fuck out of me right now, and I keep falling deeper in love with them, and I keep wanting to be a bigger and bigger part of them because like she said, that’s what humans do. And we ARE human. And we can either hold ourselves back out of fear or let ourselves go into the deep wilderness of the mountains. What am I talking about? Where is Moonglow Mountain?

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of watching the moon come up and down over the mountains in a clearing with a bottle of Pinot Noir and a beautiful friend, you’ll know what I’m talking about. You smoke herb and you see the same shooting stars, and that moon, god that moon, that moon is glowing around the mountains and trees, lighting up the night. Moonglow Mountain is here, you think to yourself. Just two lizards basking in the heat of it, an ever-growing heat. Not worried about any of it. You’re there on Moonglow Mountain.

And here you’re reading excerpts from her soul.

Self indulgent mental masturbation with words. What’s wrong with it?

Nothing.

Because you can do it on Moonglow Mountain.

I was outside tanning a week ago and my sunglasses got caught on one of my dreadlocks. I spent a few minutes trying to disentangle the motherfuckers and for some reason I felt like my action, getting the glasses stuck and unsticking them, and my feelings toward what I was doing were representative and similar to feelings I get toward existence when I’m not on Moonglow Mountain, when I’m fighting to stay there. Not necessarily the frustration, though that happens, but that my actions and thoughts are creating what my life is ever-becoming. Whatever happens to my dreads, whatever gets stuck and pulled through, whatever rubs against them, whatever wind blows them around, will lock them stronger and pull them tighter. People get shit stuck in their dreads and people get shit stuck in their lives, especially when they hold themselves back. People go down all these paths: school, careers, having children, getting married, buying a house or a car, and then people get stuck in it and that is their life. Most people don’t realize that they can still find Moonglow Mountain, they can still hold onto their freedom. We all start off born into hair you can run a brush right through. But no matter how straight your hair is, or how curly, whether you have dreadlocks or not, you’re a part of an ever tightening dread as time goes on. It is the dreadlock of your life and that shit is high fucking maintenance. No matter who you are.

But where is your Moonglow Mountain? Where can you roll around in the dirt and dance naked with your tribe? Where can you let that dreadlock out, get it wet, get it dirty? Who will let you be free to be exactly who you are? Who will dive into the deepest pits of funk and metal and love and freedom? Jim Morrison asks us where is our will to be weird? Randy Blythe covered “You Only Live Once” at Mitch Lucker’s memorial show and at the end he involved the crowd in shouting “LIVE LIFE HARD”. . . with chills on my neck I ask you, are you doing that? Corey Taylor sings “If rain is what you want, enjoy the fall”. . . with chills on my spine, I ask you, are you doing that? Are you allowing yourself to fall, to fall deep in it? Are you allowing yourself to be with who burns your insides like the glow of the moon and refresh you like the smell of the mountains?

My question to you is: Where is YOUR Moonglow Mountain?

And I say to you: If and when you find it, remember how you got there.

All you have to do is close your eyes.

Late Night Pep Talk

Exhaustion breeds an elevated form of emotion and creativity. I know and I don’t know that through this song, Lamb of God, the Potomac River, the Appalachian Mountains, running, yoga, alcohol, working, contemplating, and moving through the maze of this shit we experience as life, that I will come out on top, and I will have fucking battle scars and broken and bleeding fingernails from clawing my way up. This is ugly and beautiful and disgusting and glorious and I am ready to squirm and shake my way through all pain and the pleasure this existence has to offer. I will sow and I will reap and I will be cheated and defeated and brought back up again like winters hash down the fruits in our gardens and spring returns them to a state of productivity and nutrients. I’m not talking about making gains or doing a tough mudder or getting an A on a test or landing a job or graduating or getting a certificate or being what the fuck ever and having a career and kids and a family and fucking life thats “yours” and your shit is under control. I’m talking about when I take that final breath I can say I fucking did it all and I did it freely and fully and I tried to nurture myself and others and help build a part of an energy structure that will carry the will to live and care in other people. Even with the bad stuff, those harsh winters we put ourselves through, that stuff is only a part of the freedom to choose and care about the choice, the decisions are ours to bear. I always said that “One day, you will learn, I’ll be better.” I didn’t know before, but I know now, that I was always talking to myself and the song remains the same and so does the saying. Circling and cycling through it all, I will watch where I’m going and remember where I have been as I sail to those unknown horizons on seas uncharted with no north star for direction because direction doesn’t matter, it’s never fucking mattered. I only have the moon of my own soul pulling the tides of my own heart under a canoe dug out from wood and blood and sweat and fear. It’s that. It’s that fucking chain of thoughts you have in that canoe as you sail to that unknown, alone. Fuck anybody who tries to belittle me or make me feel like I am not becoming everything that I want to be and all that I represent of my insides. Fuck anyone who doesn’t care about everything, because you know you do. Because you don’t want to die and you don’t know what happens. Faith is false. It’s all unknown. And fuck anybody who’s weak enough to let others dictate how you sail. All of my deepest love to those who help and love and care, not just about me, but in a general sense, the ones who want to keep the funk alive, the ones who feel the very deepest and most philosophical and calm, the people who carry the ocean within the body of a bird sailing above the canoe as a thought. When will you learn, Tricia. We are inevitabely at war with ourselves. Peace is in the solitary solemnity of the free and the brave. You’ll get there. You’re getting there.

A Human Condition

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I don’t like cities because they smell like piss and shit and vomit. The walls of buildings envelop you, you can’t see past them and the dirty concrete doesn’t give a fuck. The people don’t care either. You become another credit card number in a small apartment drinking Starbucks and eating McDonalds. Corporate America fucking you at the speed of light while you struggle to maintain your conscience after your third mid day drink, ripping that eighth bong hit, at your job, at school, walking the streets, or worse, driving them, the beds of the homeless. Watching the junkies have conversations with the walls because of the crack and heroin and warfare of every day. Nothing and no one is comfortably familiar. The city swallows you and you burn in the stomach acid of human induced pollution. You smell flowers on a stand and thank the universe for that whiff of fresh air. You see a tree and remember that those are kind of important to your survival. You connect to the branches and leaves stronger than the human being with the perfect legs accentuated by the high heels, lowlight, highlight, blonde hair with the Gucci bag that just walked out of the biggest Macy’s in the world reeking of consumerism and Armani Exchange. You smile and get no response from the human but the leaves on the tree rustle behind her in what wind makes it through the maze of brick and concrete. 8th street, Broadway, Chinatown. What’s the difference when you can’t even see the sun until it gets up over the buildings. No horizon, only the up, up, up of floors and stories and brick and mortar. Down and down are the cigarette butts and grime and feigning bodies of rags and withdrawal. Open toed high heels kicking up the dust of abandonment and apathy left beneath the bench where someone died the night before over ninety dollars and a broken deal.

Then you meet the lead singer of your favorite band at a free art show gallery and you touch his skin and shake hands with his wife and show him 1,500 dollars worth of free advertisement and 48 hours worth of your life for his “day job” that he doesn’t want talk about and you realize how very unspecial you are in a world of fans and people with talent that fawn over him every day and you won’t be remembered. And neither will they. Neither will any of us. And yet he is and he will be. And you love him and wish him eternal happiness and bliss beyond measure. Metal. Sexual appetite. Ache. And you think how fleeting that moment is and how you don’t have enough time and you think of the people who love you the most and you hate yourself for ever being disappointed because everything you’ve ever wanted you have and you’re getting and you’re so lucky you could die right there in the middle of a city that you hate touching a member of band who’s music has influenced the very person that you are and you wonder how you got there. How you got anywhere.

Then you hit rush hour both ways on a trip that you’ll be making 5 days straight and you realize that traffic is the only hell that exists and that 270 is the devil and you realize why so many people are miserable every day because you felt it sitting there standstill in a hot car sweating and cussing, wondering why you do anything in life ever, and then hating yourself because you feel miserable in the current situation when there are children out there, shriveled and bloated like raisins with no clean water to drink as vultures are ready to shred their little bodies to blood and wine. And then you think about wine and how the trip you are making is to go to a school to know how to better serve people the one substance that makes you feel invincible and like the biggest piece of shit all at the same time and you wonder if money was the reason you were born. If money is the reason for everything. And how pieces of paper control the world. And then you just feel weird.

And then stupid.

And then traffic moves and you scream fuck at the top of your lungs and keep driving.