hell you, Hello Holy Hell. Ha!
One eye is seeing so awesome, and the other eye is stabbed with tears. At the same time, even. Riding my bike down the hill, crying, loud. I keep riding my bike down the same hill, crying. The only difference is the times of day, and the subtle fluctuations and tones of my sobbing. It’s cool. It’s not just sad. It’s all kinds of feeling.
Am I moody, or is life just a big fat fucking mind blower? It really goes so up and down. I swear to god. One day, it’s an awesome balloon that just hovers over the sidewalk, real magical and aloft. Like something you never could have even wished for. So gentle and precarious and so perfectly on. How did it get here? And then, out of nowhere, it turns into a nightmare.
Imagine a balloon looking like a nightmare. Something about it just being wrong. Really wrong. The hovering of it being somehow really mean and fucked up. Hanging there next to you with absolutely no magic at all for you, or, if it’s magic, then it’s the sinister and dark kind, which threatens to get at you underneath of your sleep. Yeah, fuck you, gnarly balloon. Quit following me around. I don’t want to be afraid of you. You’re just nothing, you’re just a capsule of nothing. I don’t want to be afaid of nothing.
And dudes: I got my lap top stolen. So, that’s a good excuse for not posting a blog entry for so long. That was a gnarly balloon. I won’t go into the extended details of how weird it was that it got stolen out of my fancy and sort of secured office building, but I will tell you that there is a magic in the world called INDIVIDUAL ARTICLE INSURANCE. Here is how it works: you contact State Farm, or whoever. You show them your computer and the receipt, and give them $30 (per year). Then, when your computer gets stolen, or you drop your futon frame on it and kill it, or you accidentally drive your car over it, you call them, and you give them the police report (I don’t know how it works if you kill it) and then they write you a check for $2000. (Or whatever you paid for it.) And then you buy a new computer, and you write a new blog entry. $30 dollars per year. You don’t even have to lie to anybody. If you don’t have insurance on your laptop, you are stupid. (I don’t think renter’s incurance is the same, either. I don’t think it covers it if you’re out of town or away from home. But ask.)
What else is new? I have been heading out to the garbage piles. The local one here is the island of scabies and wonder, the big warehouse last stop for all the thrift items. I found this guy up above there. In the picture he just had a bath. He’s perking up pretty good.
His friend was hanging out over in a different pile. That’s another one of those happy ending, “everything is right with the world” story that pumps me up, gives me a little wiggle room with the weird nightmare stuff.
At this awesome garbage wearhouse, all of the stuff is making its very last appearance before the consumers of America before it gets bundled into these big bales and shipped to the third world. Seriously. There was a woolen cape, which I wanted to get, it was really beautiful, from way back when. And I forgot to take it before they wheeled away the particular cart of junk that it was laying in. I asked them if I could go in back and get it, but they told me it was too late. They actually went back to look for it, but came back saying it had already just been smashed into a bale with all the other sweaters and filthy sheets and individual high heels. According to George Bush, in the last debate, Canada is a part of the third world, so, maybe somebody up there will find the cape and either send it to me, or really enjoy it for themselves.
Yeah. Garbage piles. I would add more pictures, but they all got stolen with my laptop. Man, did whoever stole it just erase them like a bunch of junk? Imagine that. Garbage is never really garbage, you know, it’s just too much information, it’s just whatever people can’t deal with using all the way (you know, with the vision that every thing could ultimately be used and used until it combusted into a new substance, which could then be used in some other new way, which adds up to the vision that everything in the end really is everything, that we are one matter in a psychedelic cycle of change and movement, and that nothing is ever truly disposed of, like water. Freak out man, I actually believe what I just wrote back there.)
You have to shut out some of the information, it’s all just too much to take in otherwise, you can’t let it all bombard in on you at once, taking over your system. It’s too much. Too happening. (This is the opposite of nothing, this is everything.) It threatens to rip you apart, and, I don’t know, leave you in an insane heap on the side of the road. There is a time and a place to go looking for meaning in the trash. So I cry on my bike. (Some stuff has to go to the junks that I was wanting to get to keep. But I’m sending it out knowing that, well, somebody else might find those remnants and make them into a quaint and quirky chair!)
Yeah, this entry holds maybe a bit more than its share of cheesy philosophy, but I am allowing myself some extra since when they stole my computer, they got my only copy of the video that I made in Miami where the amazing colored wall goes by out the window, and the Cars’ song comes in all weird with that sound where you don’t know if it’s music or not:
Dooomp. Dooomp. Dooomp. Dooomp.
“LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL,
LET THEM TURN YOU AROUND.
LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL,
LET THEM MAKE YOU A CLOWN.”