VirulentVolition

Visiting parents, learning to cook, bombing on comedy stages and writing albums in my home town.
I miss John, Dani, Brandon, Kyle and Popsicle.
I wish I could hangout at their brand new house, but I'm happy to be back in the place where it all began for me, music, art and love, that is. This is not my birthplace. This is not Germany.
I'm rummaging through the storage room. Finding my baby clothes, old toys and teddy bears, songs i've recorded to cassette in the back of my Dodge Ram van, scribbled lyrics and poetry that I both revere and marginalize, set lists for punk shows I played in high school, "I'm about to call a girl" cheat sheets with cleaver quips, fun facts and first date questions written in case i get.. boring..

12 spiral notebooks filled with writing too small to read. Sqeezing two of writing between each line on the page, to discourage the spies that i felt surrounded my in classrooms.

Ugly paintings.

Books that I've never read.

Thousands of CD's.

Boxes and boxes.

I hope I remember to pay the rent, when the 7/1 comes.
My tiny Denver apartment, beautiful and quiet, sits decorated like a nervous wife in smooth lingerie.

Virginia abuses me with her scornful mosquitoes. She spreads herself with an exhausting drama, airing out the delicate depth of her forests. I blush and enter. As I always have, because I've tamed her, she's forgotten, I'm back to remind her one last time. I'm back to carve the name of someone I'll never finally love into a bridge railing. Then leave.

So many people in this world never have the chance to breathe fully,
or walk slowly in this life.
But I.

My heart pumps green gold.

After a year and 5 monthes, I have discovered a new story to write. Although it does not grow each day, every time I speak of it, a virgin concept manifests to illuminate the proper momentum that this tale will grow with.  I am reminded of when James McNeill Whistler once said,  viciously paraphrased, "The masterpiece is a flower to the artist, perfect in its bud and in it's bloom.  Without intent or necessity to be explained."

It's good to feel at home in my daily experiances again, as a writter, although the inherently scrupulous assessment of each moment, the persistant planting of situational seeds, the unwarented statements I've made to strangers, all in attempt to harvest that bankable sort of sensation, to shorted the timeline between now and completion. This is a foolish function at best, a charm for the ego. At worst it will corrupt the dreams that have made me who I am, and my muses will leave me for another year and 5 monthes.

I must remeber that all i wish to do is create. I have been called a crazy person, by those who love me, many of which tell me that have gone mad as well. I say look at the state of our species, our Gaia, our relation to one another and tell me what sane is.  To be sane is to destroy something everyday. To be mad is to create just as much.  

This looney outcast is suddenly the dragon slayer.

Life is beautiful, my friends. Life is fun.  It is musical and colorful. Color is never a property of matter, and our love for music cannot be explained through evolution.  Life is goal-less, and devoid of rules.  There is no place to finally stand, there is nothing to finally do, besides die.  The little things are the big things, the moments that matter are halfway markers, and the meaning of life is to finally grasp the pointless nature of "the life of meaning". At that moment, an unprecedented freedom is achieved, and life itself is a folktale worth writting 6 billion pages. Or atleast "912 Days" worth.

P.S. T'ai Chi II class is going well. Even as I am the youngest student by at least 30 years.