What people don’t know or if they already know, don’t seem to fully get: i don’t like phone calls. Not any. Well, okay, let me explain that a little bit: i don’t like unsolicited phone calls. I prefer phone calls treated as if they were emails: i want to know the subject beforehand. I want to know what i’m getting into before i get on the phone. It’s like reading a book without glancing at the back or inside cover, watching a movie without seeing the trailer or given a blurb of what’s (or who’s! lol) about to go down. I don’t like phone calls because they tend…
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stream of consciousness #0009: music is god’s daddy & mommy
There is a train of thought that is constantly chugging along the great mental metal of minds too great to fail. That was the thought pattern behind the Titanic—right? Or, was that off since it wasn’t a train, but a large ship atop water, the icy depths of death soon awaiting its foolish passengers believing they could tackle the grandest of behemoths that are the oceans of the earth? Foolish pride is not pitied. Or, it shouldn’t be. The hamartia of the engineers and architects, the media and the politicians, the crewmembers and the passengers, was tragic on scales more epic than even the Ancient Greeks. Hyperbolic? Possibly.…
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stream of consciousness #0015: inspiration is random on-purpose
Inspired by words from another who’ve i’ve never met physically—an online comraderie twittering—writing about a muse never encountered by either of us for she passed away years prior, this is a piece about the purpose of inspiration coming at us sideways in the dark holding a flashlight for the gloomy eyes to see hope. Hopeful for enlightenment, we grope, not quite blind yet possessing almost atrophied optics, around murky caverns searching for an outlet. Almost at wit’s end, we hear a shout as a whisper miles in the distance, hope is still upon is; adrenal gland awakens, legs press on, fingers do the talking—touch a sensation mental more…
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stream of consciousness #0013: all i do
For years my tears carried screams muffled by showered water, “I am not my father. I am not him.” I hated my given for years, not changing till i met poetry, spoken words from a friend familiar. Even still, i refuse to use my sur; i see little equity in it, this name more reminder of ancestral tarnish and pain, fatherly shadows, nothing to build upon. I’ve embraced a duality of innumerable voices bouncing around: pain & joy, happiness & sullen ways, morose visions holding sunshine thoughts. It’s unsettling at times if allowed to creep, spill over and to be soaked up paper towel like. All i do…
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Stream of Conscious #0010: Sitting cross-legged in public—on the floor
The comings and goings of hundreds of legs all with destinations unknown to those unattached is a remarkable spectacle to behold. Copping a squat in the busiest or lonliest of places in public on the floor is a pastime, an act saved for the comfortable, uncaring or tired. Falling into all three types, not sure which came first, its genesis of accepted and looking-forward-to practice stems from high school years within hallways nuturing behavior peculiar to Murrow students. We were mainstream-counter-culture, bohemian-esque, college-prepped youngsters personified—encouraged, policy allowed us these privileges. The stares and tilted heads become less pronounced amidst a swarming throng for most are tunnel visioned from…
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Steam of Consciousness 0001: skin and bones
I’ve been measuring my life in coffee beans, motivating self to accomplish feats via caffeine. Daily do i roast myself for toasting to light and several sugars, rarely experiencing more than daily mundanity. Every time i listen to a new artist, an old song, view a blank canvas, i look for the driving force, a catalyst of a whisper to start maneuvering past the current stage of my life—onto the next precipice, hopefully more than a plateau, more like a spring board to freedom, to the liberty of death, hoping life is the next train, never express, but locally taking its time to sight see. We’re all just…
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