Author (#23)July 2005 Archives

Summer makes me crazy we ride twenty miles, we witness new tribes of bees and butterflies, we become too tired and hydrate in the shade of a train, summer makes me terribly awake, I feel the eggs galloping, I feel the yolks running so reluctantly.

Before riding twenty miles, I recommend drinking a spot of ink.
When Meghan's glands battered her spirit, she saw Ian Sevonius outside of the pharmacy and he said, "Head up, child."
Can you believe the absurdity of the Chinese MD, giving me a perscription of black bullets to encourage bleeding.
How many hearts are brined in beer and whiskey?
What if the trees boiled from the soil and the paper sprang from the leaf? What about the girls who slumber in tree trunks, they cannot sleep for fear of chainsaws.
I climb the mountain in its alpine glory to see the nickel-eyed daughters walking in a swish of pinafores, every cat will follow them, they will carry the kittens.
In the sun I can sleep and gather beams in watts and calories.

In devotion
poor nuns lip their porridge
a puree of malt and hormones
but you know
sensimilla is the dessert
every sister is looking for.

I am playing two shows this week:

Thursday July 21 at the Fix, 811 E. Burnside
Sixes///Runny Dumplings///Inca Ore///Portland Bike Ensemble////Dead/Bird///Sisprum Vish
music starts at dark

Monday July 25 at Dunes
Glass Candy////Danava///Inca Ore
$2

You will like the sounds, I hope I can face the crowd this time.

Meghan and I wish that Stef would come back. Have they started a carnival or a cult in Kansas City? For a couple of months, Chris and Stef and I were inseperable. It started on a spring night, a warm vibrant evening that tricks your mind into thinking the rain won't last another four miserable months. Chris had just started lurking around our house. We stood on the roof as the sun went down and I decided to drink a bottle of Tussin for a cocktail called Evening Cloud. I gulped it and Chris and Stef watched, then we rode our bikes to Disjecta, with Criminy the greasy tiger dog galloping beside us. I can't remember what show it was---Growing maybe? The whole night was bravely hologrammed for me. Was that the midnight that Nate Preston came over and gave us a lecture about DJ Screw? How many months later until James was tipping over in a wheelchair in Clinton Street, with Criminy chasing his ass with soft teeth, to a DJ Screw soundtrack. When did we stomp through the neighborhoods and climb the train bridge and play DJ Screw at normal speed, debunking the mystery, while Criminy whined on the tracks below because he would not climb the bridge---it was too rickety? Criminy and I never got along too well, he would sigh grumpily at the very sight of me, but I saw him in Boston a couple of months ago and we pogoed in tandem and I hugged him around his neck.

It rained straight for about a month of our cult-like activity. We moped on the porch, Malibu Falcon played quiet in the basement every day because that stupid bitch was trying to birth a baby, we had boxes full of half rotten turnips and beet juice on our faces, there were broken teeth from violent kissing, there was a whole neighborhood of decapitated poppies because we creepy crawled into flower gardens at night in order to snap the pods for our tea. We read the Encyclopedia of Serial Killers aloud to each other, and Chris could read 20 pages of Topic of Cancer aloud with out even a tickle and the rain droned on and on and on, and it is from these memories that I know why I quit coffee. One night we found a road-killed opossum and walked from 27th and Clinton to 20th and Morrison to scrape it off the pavement, put it in a plastic bag and walk it back to Clinton Street, as the bag leaked a morbid odor. We buried it in the backyard of RIP for later jewelery, and had to pile wood on the grave spot because all the animals tried to investigate the burial. Soon after, we festooned an abandoned mattress with "FUCK YOU" spraypaint and were dialed by the neighborhood association. But that call took weeks and we basked in those days of damaged value for surrounding properties. A whole new kind of flies were born out of the plastic bag we toted the opossum in; it was so horrific we did not know what to do with it. After a couple of days, Stef put on a top hat and a kitchen glove and put the decay bag into the Willamette Week box next to the K & F coffee shop on Clinton Street. This outraged the entire K & F community, especially the dog-walker woman who wore red tendrily wigs and said to me every time, "You look just like that girl that comes in here sometimes, the one with the big hair."

I miss these people and this letter is a cosmic telegram to bring them back. I finally cleaned out my old Louis Vuitton the other day, not only is my acid not lost, but I found a rock Chris gave me that he mined at the North American gate to hell. Let these friends come back, I won't mind if they are a little more sane.

Dreams: On Saturday night, I dreamed that my dad told me, while we were arguing, "We know people in the underworld who would kill you." On Friday night, I dreamed that my friend going to Italy to be an architect. He was walking on the street toward me and Janet Weiss appeared suddenly and napped him to the beach, where they had muted fire rituals on a drum set with a bunch of other faces obscured by a setting sun. My sisters and I watched from the roof of our mansion, which overlooked this beach monkeying.
I just saw a bird fluttering and fighting for life in a squat palm's shade. When I approached, it bleated for help and squealed but I just walked faster. It is probably a victim of one of my orange friends, Orangey or Pumpkin Pie or Leo, these cats are kind of assholes. I am next to a garden of artichokes and squash in the noon sun. There is a flowerbox here and the other day a beautiful long-haired cat jumped at me out of the box. Pumpkin Pie lives over here but he is probably hiding from the sunshine.

Every morning, wash the dish, listen to oldies radio, confess in the kitchen, have coconut and carrot for breakfast with a tea that promotes liberty and justice in a foreign region, walk to the park and savor the solar, get bleached vision in the sunshine she and I side by side interrupting each other's reading with laughing, walk home and kiss all the orange felines, have radishes in Tuscan noontime, read the papers and watch aluminum hustlers and tow-truck drivers, plant on the sidewalk with a laptop to lasso free nodes for writing happy letters, make a record, depart for sulfur mountain just as the sun is pelvis-first in the living room, climb up sulfur mountain tractioning the buttered ashphalt, say little prayers at mountain's top and see a slug who just vomited his own blood, warm breezes down the mountain with teeth in grin because in this town your skirt can blow up over your head on a bicycle and nobody's gonna spear you with a pitchfork and rape you, cut off the spoiled parts of .59 cents a pound and make something from France or Ethiopia and drink wine that blushes the dentals as the sun puddles, darkness shall we just stay home and listen to records or ride to warm crevices for the odors of other pilgrims. Stay up late, long. Later, more longing. Slumber in the bed that is magma on the thermostat, that girl farmed all the sun in Chicago and Croatia and sweats it off in very powerful increments. Sleep for good dreams, sleep in a cradle of good health and well wishes and fewer robbers. In Portland, I get so soft I say "I love you" to the flowers. As long as you don't get burrs in your liver and you don't braid yourself into your lover, you will be very happy. This is undisputed, especially when the sun is showing its face.

This city is in danger. Since I have been back from the Bay Area, I notice a disgusting pathogen mushrooming. When I played with Hustler White and Mikaela's Fiend the other night, I witnessed many new faces to Portland, all alike in the flaunt of their double helix and pasty grimace. These people are not biking, they are honking horns and acting like a fungus on our orchid. It feels too nice at this moment to elaborate on the yuppie problem, but let me say they are all pigs and have no sense of the subtelties of pleasure. They are cows in a bed of tulips. Yeah, I know, who wants to talk about this, why not just ignore them, what to do about it anyway? Living in the Bay Area, I predicted that one day regular workers will be forced to live in barracks because of the appalling lack of protection of their interests. Portland is seething with swine speculators, why wouldn't it happen here? Maybe the rain is the only thing that will keep them away. Let this winter be the soggiest ever, let them be flooded away with their mating games, let us build an arc and be buoyed by the generosity of our satiated spirits which will not dawdle in the dank basements of the caste system.

This is all very passionate. The sun makes me very drunk.

House show in Portland today, which is Thursday 14 July:
Mikaelas Fiend (see this teenage dexterity, can you believe how much pop they drink, they smile too much for cavities)
Clap Amp
We Quit
Special guests, guess.
SOUTHEAST 10th Avenue and Oak In Portland
9:30 pm
SUCCUMB

I had a dream that Liza Thorn pulled out my fang with her sinister face and the blood was hemorhhaging and we were in the desert and now my smile had a gap of bloody nerves. In acupuncture the other day, as we three patients were relaxing in our treatment, we heard a man detail the fight for his liver, which wants to leave his body in favor of a stand-in, which is probably still in the belly of the man who will die in a motocycle accident. One of the other patients was a junkie, and the other one was a man who spoke only Spanish and missed his wife because she had been in Mexico for the last two years. Maybe you modest Westerners think it's wrong to hear the details of other patients, to ear spy, but I think it's a vital part of the healing process. As we all received our currents from needles, we listened to that cancered man detail his medicine regimine and his cauterized stomach, his murky energies. The junkie, who was a couple days into recovery, soberly told his practioner about how sad he was to hear of that man's plight. And that is the importance of this ear-shot healing arena. When we heard that man's story, we all said a little prayer for him and his sad eyes and blistered lips, and a prayer for ourselves, for the scariness of being fertile matresses for any illness to slumber in.
A couple of years ago my sisters and I were in Florida on our way to the Fort Lauderdale airport and a man on a crotch-rocket motocycle spotted us. We smiled meekly, but the man was floored by our attention and started doing gruesome tricks, like holding himself up with his arms and then swinging his body around one side of the rocket and scraping his feet. We were nauseous. We covered our faces and my mom said, "This guy had better be an organ donor." The man continued this dangerous rooster action for a couple of minutes until my sisters and I found our same-pitch whine that goes right to my dad for immediate attention, "Dad, drive faster, get away from this guy." My father, who feels most confident in the presence of children when he is driving them in a luxury car at over 100 mph, quickly obliged.
I remembered a couple days ago when I went to Vegas with my family in February and we were in a limo on the way to the airport. I was very depressed while I was there, the offenses started immediately. My family thought it was my judgement and exasperation was about them, but I just found Vegas so repulsive that I was surly the whole time. When I arrived from Oakland, the cabdriver that took me to the hotel told me he has to work 18 hours a day to make ends meet. OK, great, on my way to my luxury destination in a chariot manned by a slave. Then, I get into the hotel and these foxy schoolteacher types in sequins are pimping parrots, which I also just find repugnant. Then I got very serious at a Wolfgang Puck restaurant and told my father, "It is my mission in life to prove you wrong," in such a serious and passionate tone that even a baby sitting next to us, who was suckling on truffles and cream, stared at me. The teenage petulance still ferments when I am in a family setting, I need to relax.
Anyway, in the limo, on the way to the airport, I see myself in the reflection of the tinted window, we are in airport traffic, we are surrounded by minibuses, and I think, In Israel, you might feel a twinge of fear here, surrounded by buses and potential bomb targets. And it dawns on me, again, that this kind of fate is in the workings for Americans. What will it be like during and after the decline? Vegas, which is an unfathomable waste of resources, deserves to be crippled first. Our hotel in Vegas had a bath tub in every room, which is pretty remarkable for a hotel with hundreds, maybe thousands, of rooms, in an area where water is so precious that a cactus will hold it and hold it and hold it.
Nicole, if you read this, I hope you aren't offended.

When I was in the Sierra foothills, I always asked the weekend guests to update me on NBA action because I had no access to broadcasts of the games. When I would call my parents from property, I had to climb a hill and stand close to a cell-phone antennae bolted to a tree in a field of brambly berry vines. The view was incomprehensible, a hallucination of miles and miles of misty pines, all the way to Gary Snyder’s house. To the delight of my dad, I would always ask about the Pistons first, before I would try to answer their cautious, “How are things going up there?” The answer to that question was, “Well, there are some naked men trying to build a treehouse and this woman was just talking to me about what a motherfucker the president is and this teenager was recounting his young-teen glory days as an Oxycontin addict and then we talked about the apocalypse and how much we hated our parents while smoking out of a vaporizer. I’m pretty good.”
So basketball was safer. My parents have been Detroit Pistons season ticketholders for about 18 years. I have memories of walking the halls of the Pontiac Silverdome, where the team played until the ’80s, hand in hand with my dad. I wonder at which Goodwill all of my foam fingers and replica champsionship rings will be unearthed. I saw Michael Jordan courtside before the Bulls won a championship, I met Dennis Rodman when he was just a plucky, homely sweetheart, I saw the Celtics when they were largely Caucasian, I invited Bill Laimbeer to my pool party and he did not come but instead sent me a glossy photo with one pen mark, like he tried to autograph it but then cramped. I could go on and on, I have lots of stories about chasing players to their cars in the parking lots, about my teenage sisters being invited by the team to be chartered to away games in a private jet, about when all the stadium lights went out during a thunderstorm. But the most unlikely stories are about the Tuesday night games, mid-season, against bottom-of-the-league teams. My sisters and I would go to the games with our dad and the stadium was like our living room. Many of those games were very boring. Unless Minute Bowl, who was a bafflingly tall obsidian-skinned player or Spudd Webb, who was a smiley-faced exceptionally short player, were on the court, it was hard to be interested. I read the entire Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder in the Palace of Auburn Hills and scowled when the cameras caught me and put me on the big screen above the court. When they were losing, my sisters and I were fickle and would complain that we had to go. But when they were winning, we would battle over the occasional courtside opportunity to see Magic and Isiah kiss. Last year, when the Pistons won the championship, I left the tour I was on to go to Detroit and see a Finals game at home. It was magical, the best ballet.
This year, I was tucked into the forest so I could not see the Finals. I was barely updated, I didn’t even know when the games were or what the standing was the day I left Bruinslair in Jackie’s Volvo with a pint of hand-picked strawberries, a snakeskin and a powdery butterfly. I visited John Hoppin in Oakland that night. He lives very near where scenes in “Poetic Justice” were filmed. John hooked me up with medicinal Lighthouse Blend from the California cannabis pharmacy in Berkeley. I walked into his house and they were smoking out of a Barbie-car bong and watching the last minute of game 7 of the Finals. I couldn’t believe my timing. Rasheed had just kicked back a three, but the team was finished. John turned it off soon after because he couldn’t bear to watch them lose. I could wax poetic about the consistent supremacy of Detroit’s winning basketball teams, always so scrappy, always the superstar underdogs, never the grimacing Jordans or Kobes who eclipse the game’s sunny side with their furrowed brows and venereal vibes. By the way, even courtside in 1990, I never was very impressed by Jordan. I much preferred Kareem Abdul Jabar in his kneesocks.
Anyway, what a funny coincidence and a nice feeling because I said, “I know where my mother is right now,” watching the game’s end with one hand over one of her eyes, nursing a Michelob. I talked to her the next day and she said she turned it off at 40 seconds left.

This was very arrogant. I once walked into Liminal gallery in Oakland and saw Gnarnia and spit Jaegermeister in his face. I sat down and was offered truffles and filled glasses and listened to a snake-eyed man talk about his fortunes in flea marketing. He pulled out a block of hash that looked like tea and ink. A 20-year-old girl whispered in my ear for a half an hour, “Please kiss me, please kiss me. Come on, let’s just kiss,” but I would not give in to her. “Why won’t you kiss me?” she asked after a half hour of coaxing and I walked away to the bathroom. Even after an hour, she smiled and was not discouraged, just gently persistent. Gnarnia laughed at me because I became so flustered and uncomfortable about her effortless flirting stamina that I put my palms to my temples and asked her to stop, but I didn’t leave. “I’m sorry, I have to leave, you’re driving me crazy,” I finally said, not giving a kiss and barely touching her on her arm. She returned the touch on my arm with warmth and an availability that was not nervous or needy, just wicked and fun. This girl had hungry eyes. As cumbersome and uncomfortable as teenage passion antics are, they are so much closer to the essence of what art and life need to be: exuberantly vulnerable, available, magical, fresh.
About a week later, I was at Lobot on Oakland to see Sunn and Wolf Eyes and Jackie and Nate and I hid in a crotch of the elaborate wooden labryinth they had perilously built in the center of the space. I used my scarf to make a canopy and we drifted away while Sunn played so powerfully loud that it massaged my organs. You could not speak because the vibrations were seismic and we started talking with our hands, not in finger sentences, just absurd movement. Index finger to palm, fist to fist, wrist to forehead. When Wolf Eyes played I got so excited that I got tangled in the rope spiderweb basketing the band and some man whispered in my ear, “Climb the spiderweb!” but I could easily ignore that.
It’s nice to mine for jewels in mind memory corridors. Vholtz, an improv bruise and beer band I played in with Rob, Randy Lee, George Chen and Nick, played one night at Grandma’s House in a pitch that was just cardiac arrest-inspiring. The whole show put me in a buggy of hallucination, especially when Rob and I were creepy crawling around and making weird magics. I stopped playing with Vholtz about 15 minutes into our set because I was sweating turpentine and some pornographer was creeping on me when I was performing. So I went up to the balcony of Grandma’s and watched the rest of the band finish the set, astonished that I had just been a part of that strobe-lit cave romp. It was just insane, “Too much heat!” the Chinese doctor would scold. Then after the show ended everybody went upstairs for a dance party and I ended up doing improv in the empty room with a couple of people, singing out kinks and just being very natural and speaking in tounges. I remember thinking, “This is so surreal, so good, this will never be recorded and I will never remember this.” But that’s what an online journal is for, and if I hadn’t just written this, I would have never remembered the 20-minute conversation I had with Randy Lee about Japanese dance or when Rob and Joanne wrestled with a wheelchair at 4 am. The End.

Improv with Nick, Rob and Kevin after the Hustler White show at the Creamery. Chris from Mikaela's Fiend took it. They are playing on Thursday in Southeast and it will be excellent, prepare to peel scabs.

I miss you Rob. Do you read this?

Inca Ore
Brute Nature Vs. Wild Magic
Collective Jyrk No Cat
CD-R
£6.99 UK Post-Paid

This one really took us by the sideboards: Inca Ore is the solo guise of one Ms Eva, a sometime Yellow Swans collaborator/roadie/vocalist. Here she’s mostly concerned with the contents of her lungs, singing beautifully tranced psych/folk instants straight to four-track with drugged layered harmonies that sound somewhere between Christina Carter and Linda Perhacs, wordless repeats that could’ve come straight from one of Rita Ackermann’s early LPs and some minimum DIY accompaniment on guitar, bass, electronics and TV junk. Edition of 100 on The Yellow Swans’ own label – highly recommended.

This morning my mom called and said the surgeons treated him and he is fine now, and blessed with the orders not to drive a car for 30 days. Meghan and I made waffles with raspberries and shoplifted maple and listened to an oldies song with a simpatico harpsichord breakdown. Paolo came over and brought me my repaired bicycle. Bless him. A couple of months ago in San Francisco, we had drinks at the Phone Booth and suddenly a woman climbed gracelessly into his lap, broke all the glasses on our table, and started loudly making out with him. Paolo is very shy, but not when he's drunk and he accepted her kisses until he had a reddish moustache and she dismounted and stumbled off to the bathroom. When she left the bar, she had to be escorted by several friends who guided her extremities but she still managed to take out pint glasses with her hips.

My bike is in excellent shape so I rode up the mountain Tabor and saw a 2 year old girl try to ruin a lesbian wedding. I hid behind a tree trunk and watched the wedding and the little girl saw me and made a 10-minute commotion. I heard references to the Great Spirit and Celtic traditions in the ceremony. The wedding I attended at the commune was officiated by a financial planner who manages the porfolios of multi-millionaires and the Great Spirit was paraded in those vows about 20 times. I can appreciate the nod to native people's deities, but obviously it seems very cheap in these chunky-knit honky rituals. I thought more about the Great Spirit when I saw two native-looking people trying to cross 50th and almost getting pancaked by a Subaru that was impatient for their shopping carts and frying-panned faces to get out the way.

I was lapping around the mountain top on my bike when the brides kissed and drummers in African kitsch outfits thundered. At the top of the mountain Tabor I can smell an inkling of the frangrances in the wild Sierra foothills, where I spend my June, I could smell the pines but I could not detect the odor of doe fur or slug slime or snake molt or needle rot. At the wedding at the commune, when most of the guests had left, I was walking down a path barefoot to the sauna and I saw the queerest creature. It was long like a snake, but moved slow like a slug, its body was not undulating but moving in a slow line. It's complexion resembled a slug, but it had a flicker of a tounge that seemed to guide its decisions. This creature was about two feet long and thick. I knelt down and examined it, just astonished at yet another new sprout of life that is just unconceivable to a city human. What are you? Are there more like you? I spotted this drunk old floozy massage therapist woman up the trail and told her about the thing, but she claimed she never saw it, though I am suspicious that this woman was blind to nature's even glaring details when she drank too many wine coolers.

At the commune wedding, the guests were mostly Burning Man types with mysterious cash currents. They were trading stories about biking in Australia and fucking in Spain and having gourmet lunches in jungles. One of the women, who was a strange and flamboyantly inbred woman, greeted me by the post-ceremony campfire with a bottle of wine in her hand. "Hey booze bag," she said and I spit out my mouthful of wine because I was so surprised by her. I heard later that she is Austrian royalty and has never catered or call centered. Later that night, when they brought out bottles of Jameson and port and guacamole for tired ravers, I drunkenly tried to engage her on the topic of jobs, just for a thrill. "I really haven't worked before," she said, bored. I wore a Mexican blanket to the wedding, and shit-assed shoes from earlier in the day when I was shoveling gravel, and a huge piece of wood tied like a medallion around my neck, and necklaces around my head and paint all over my face. I looked like a real robber, but seemed to get the tchotcke treatment from the guests, who in the last year had probably seen Mongolian women breastfeed and tasted Alfredo sauce while watching tigers mate and spent $50,000 on some big glittery dildo that they incinerated in the desert, but it was such a rare treat for them to see somebody like me in their social scene. "What are you? Are there more like you?" they would ask me. "I love enviornmentalism but I like sex even more. Do you have a boyfriend?" another one asked me. FInally, I just settled down with a nerdy looking kid who turned out to be a comic book writer and we talked about "Metal Machine Music," which I still haven't even heard.

It's too cold. I cut my hair again. I bought a bouquet of roses from two 10 year old girls at Lincoln and 48th. With a limeade, my total was 75 cents. Then a laudromat machine ate my $5 bill.

Gang Wizard played in Portland in May in the basement of Daniel’s old house. When we played, there was so much scent and heat trafficked, and every square of me was commanded by hands and I had a secret thought, “I don’t know if I can go on...” because I felt like that July when I was in Girl Scouts, when I was 8 years old, I was standing before a tombstone, paying tribute to veterans in a ceremony. Each girl was assigned a grave and we were instructed to stand still and hold flowers, but the sun was burning me and suddenly and dramatically, I wilted and fell to the grass. When Gang Wizard played, I thought I could collapse from heat and spirits, but I went on and I think James clutched my wrist and I suddenly recovered. After the show, we were outside and Ryan gave me mushrooms in appreciation. In my excitement, I ate the mushrooms immediately, at 2 am, dry and gagging. By 4, as the group started to snooze at Meghan’s house, I knew I was in trouble. I had a case of seismic affectation and the fear was worming in me. But Meghan stayed awake with me and at dawn we went to the porch for a cigarette. We were in slips and I was wrapped in my Old West sleeping bag. I was not suprised to see two fashionable fops clicking their heeled boots up Ankeney at that hour, sallowed from a little cocaine and laughing in their buttons and black. These two men were such an incredible sight to me at that moment, sashaying unfettered at that hour. In Oakland, those men would have been robbed for their purses and teeth and pushed into a gutter with broken glass and dentures. But in Portland, they could let their nuts hang in any sissy minute. I yelled to them, “Johnny!” it was just a guess, but I was right. “What? Whose calling me?” one of them said back. This was very funny, that one of them was called Johnny, it was just a hunch. I called his name again from the porch and when he responded again, I started walking toward him, probably appearing to be only wearing a sleeping bag. “Johnny!” I mewed and he said, “Yeah?” Because these mushrooms were not the kind that give you jewels on the tounge for these kinds of moments, I did not know what to say next and I said, “Oh, wrong
Johnny.” This is also very funny, because in Portland there are probably 10 to 15 Johnnies who would be traipsing jaundiced and leathery at 6 am, looking like repears under pollen-weeped trees. Johnny looked confused and put his palm through his pomade and shook his head and finally said, “Man. Man. Man. You’re really tripping me out!”
I have never fainted in Portland. I fainted once on a rooftop in Mexico. Courtney and I were in Zhiuatanejo and we trolled for weed for a couple of days before we found it in a street market. We swapped pesos for weed that was probably cured with the aid of DEET in front of a Catholic church that shone with conquistador elegance. Just after the exchange, a pickup truck full of cops with semi-automatic rifles growled by. Later that night, while his family slept, we went to the roof to sample the score. I hit the joint a couple of times and felt the fear start to unlock me and I became liquid enough to say, “I’m dying!” as I puddled and fainted. I woke to Courtney and his dad reviving me, in a moment of recusciatioin that was one of my life’s most ecstatic moments. Another time I fainted, I was on a porch in East Lansing, on mushrooms, with friends and suddenly my stomach was stabbed by an invisible blow that felt mortal. I put my head on Courtney’s shoulder and whispered into his flannel shirt, “I think I am dying,” and then spiraled off, to the fear and confusion of the gathered friends. They put me on Brian’s bed where I coldly sweated for hours. This was frightening but no terrible loss because the whole trip was being dominated by a man who refused to steer the conversation anywhere except to his elaborate and excruciating ski fantasies. “Imagine you are in a lodge right now, warming your toes, knowing that you will be able to get out and ski at any moment you want to!” he said, while I tried to discourage his blathering with my reptillian manners. He was not discouraged. Outside of the Paradox, just a couple of hours after my Johnny montage on the Gang Wizard tour, I saw one of the people I had tripped with that night six years ago. Now he lives in San Diego. I hadn’t seen him since probably that night and I never though we would intersect again.
Vice Magazine called Gang Wizard "children" in their latest issue. Rob Enbom must fly up to Portland as soon as possible. I lost a hit of acid in my Louis Vuitton purse. Tonight I must go dancing. A spider will rebuild his web in this spot as soon as I move. I worked a job today. I want an acorn filled with caviar for dinner. I drank coffee today for the first time in a long time and I feel like a lunatic. I wish I could walkie-talkie to Thurston cause I want him to come over and take a nap with me. My Ariel Pink fetish is alive again. One of the happiest moments in 2005: Smoking weed with Ariel in the front seats of his van in Massacuetsessesese parked on a field overlooking a stage where Animal Collective was playing a 20-minute encore to a couple hundred newly feral college students. I need more adventures but I am also sick of suitcases.

Yesterday I was punctured by an intern practioner at Outside In and my tendons were unraveled. When I laid down on the cot, the teacher guru took a look at my tounge and could map out every swallow of whisker from the night before. They said I have excessive heat. During my sleep last night my skin started to steam and I got a fever. The professionals gave me a tea of asphalt pucks and wizard hair. It is undrinkable!
I am in the green alley, a plant sexual avenue. Behind Meghan's house, the big trees monsoon pollen and it sticks to my hair and the bottom of my feet. Orangey, my adopted cat, prowls in this spot, which is the only place on the property with a decent wireless vein. Nick and I met Orangey one night when he was relaxing on his stoop. Nick picked him up and Orangey started snorting out his earlobe and then became very aggressive for the salt on Nick's lobe. Orangey is not as excited about me because he has to snort through my hair to get to my ear. But when he discovers the ear, he grips a hug with his paws and purrs and snorts into my ear while licking. The sensation is very confusing.
My dad is in the hospital with an footballer kind of injury.
I fell asleep on the morning of Meghan's birthday with the new sun licking my cheeks.
I went to a wedding and the ceremony made my jaw hurt because I smiled so hard and then Lenny said, "Hail Satan!" and the couple started to make out and the Moms and Dads smiled very strongly too. Then for four hours I wandered in the sun alone and burned my face and freckled my hands. Since I returned from the commune, I have become very needy for the sun. I wanted to work hard on music and writing this summer, and I am, but more than that, my work is the job: target of the milks of the sun. I can't have too much of it. I think of the migrant workers sweating their skin off in fields of soybeans and I think there is a whole bouquet of bad fates, but what a cruel punishment, to lose the sun as a friend and have to wear straw hats and bandannas. I could be planted and stay very still while gathering all of the sun's calories, I would not move for a whole season, I would need to be watered but I could give fruits as long as somebody minded the flowers. Then in the fall I would droop from the weight of my own head and I would step out of the plot and remove the dirt from my skeleton and my friends and I we would meet again and I would have many nourishing stories.
I want adventure
I want to crack a safe
And steal museum-grade feathers
And the nipples
Of pharohs
I want to adventure
In the sand dunes
Orangey and I
Will attempt to fracture
Our femurs
And then find frogs
Whose skulls
Will be
The roofs of our two houses
I want to adventure
In a covered wagon
Pulled by
A Lambourgini