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grievance_fishy_grieving
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farmfish
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hey chisum, my osprey returns, charcoal drawings and messages, still intact, feathers draggin', a frustrated look on his narrow, pointed face.
"sorry, fishboy," he said,
"your directions are fucked up. i was skiz skazzalin', but never finded it."
so i deal delicately with this flustered one and i'll just read what the note said.
somethin' 'bout writin' our go-story.
rain and darkness are fine wit' me. munstas lurkin' in dark corners. let's do it. light will have her way of gettin' in, always duz. coz hope is the responsibility of da storytella.
and chis' thanx for the concern of me da'. me mum asked 'im yesterday to name three things he looks forward to and guess what? one of'em was the fishboy.
i've been taking hands and feet again, like befo' and pressin' he likes it. and it seems to get'im all sentimental and gushy'like. rounds up memories of my childhood past, even got 'im doin' voices again. hurburt the mountain lion who ate his parents and urped 'em up. don't ask...it's a story he made up where he puts his tongue in front of his bottom teeth and talk, try it. k? it's a fuckin' riot, i laughed my ass off, and sent me head over heels backwards to a past what he says is a 1oo years or more. it's really cranked to see 'im like this, we used to work togetha, seriously had a landscape biz. he was fucking amazing. he used to mow lawns, rake tons of leaves, and now he can barely walk, and it happened in one fuckass second. a lightnin' strike, and he was down on his face on the concrete floor of the garage. the clock on the wall still says 1ofucking 2o because the emt yanked it to plug sumthin in, the calendar still reads june 2ooo, me mum can barely walk in there anymore.
closed flower. the lonliest moon. the only sound when i am blind in the house that i grew up in.
history acts as our gravity, or else i'd spin off this blue ball.
"put me away," he says. hmmmmmm. me mum's a saint. she's put up with his shit all her life. he was like a demon to her and an angel at the same fucking time. now, she feels guilty just to leave 'im to go to a shoppe for milk.
jamie's the water i swim in, washin' away all my despair. and the boys at robin hill always have a game of snow football or have a way of lettin' me win speed races through the gates on the avalanche slope, just to make me feel betta. hats off.
we all hurt. we all feel good. we have things we fucking hate. we got 'em that we tear into and lick the plate aftawards.
i can't let it pound me. i'm hopin' to see. can't look out of a dirty winda, though waitin' for me life to begin. approachin' chaos. doors are not unbreakable. pages of calendars turn, clocks continue to tick.
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020114
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Grievance
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greetings squishy farmfishy.
times do rattle their tales, and humble things are often found living in doubt. your escapades sleep fitfully, knowing your awake, that your feeling that pain that can crest you home again, back to the spirit father, and now also to your ailing physical father. As he sits wishing he could repent, we all wish we could as well, that forgiveness was in a tea cup, and we could simply grasp it and drink of its wonders, and dream off to sleep, waking smelling the fresh day in a lover's forgotten angst, and races down the avalanches of snow and sorrow.
so i sit hear dennis, smiling at my cup of noodles that i will soon digest, with the emaculate bamboo chopsticks outward hoping, and framing the words i write as a decoration. and i see my books strewn on my unmade bed, and think of the knowledge i'll soon digest. and college life is coming back again. music is alive again. times thrive by, sucking up all the nutrients with no regard to tomorrow. only a plan for tomorrow, one with allowance to fail.
a purple tapestry of Lain fortitudes my left side, and an open closed expanse of a blue capeted room on my right, in front a computer hosting blue azure pages, and behind, and to the left a door. directly behind a closet housing in neat geometric structures the materials which govern my life so proudly. materliasm is sickening in that way.
included in this blather_mail, and attached to my name, is an address for future ospreys and feathered kind. It's a dirty place to arrive at, but very friendly to messengers, and has a big sign inviting ospreys thine to dine and wine and love and see and sea.
hotmail account, which hardly ever fails, so if no bird can flock here, than fishy dear, it would be your take off runway which confuses them. Messengers are so fickle these days. But, don't fill you past with false smiling pictures, at least not if your going to compare them to the present, or you'll find your expectations, like your hands, always empty.
Let us make a truly glorius day in our phantasy stars to follow. I'm currently working on setting up the ambiance, i should have it up tomorrow by midnight, mountain time.
Fair Journey
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020114
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vichy
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this was one post dennis wanted me to regenerate.
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030622
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