Radio Dada

People’s choices are largely about them, and not my responsibility to understand or accommodate. What I accept is what I get. Maybe if I aim for what I want I’ll get what I need, rather than aiming for what I need and getting less than I need & pissed about it.

The blissfully boring adventures of the boy who stayed. Rincewind the Wizzard would be seeeeeeething with jealousy if he weren’t fictional. Having a place to stay that’s mine is so nice. Been such a long time. Excuse me if I still dream time to time.

That call and say ‘come play with me’ and murmur vague obscenities at ugly ones like me, at seventeen. And forty-one. Does it end?

Zoomin’ and bangin’ around and crazy. The best kind.

G’night moon, I hardly knew ye. How do I stop thinking about people in general? There are so many of them, even here in Minimal Human Land, and I am tired of human-made problems unsolvable by solo human effort yet with the expectation of solo human self-sufficiency. Words. Words words.

Got Annie?

Brain dump, watch your step! Oh, what a shame. Never mind, it’ll scrape off beautiful when it dries.

Island > humans. Dogs > humans. That is all.

All over the place, but in the right place, after a lifetime of being out of place... everywhere. The missing piece of me was an island, and NOT inside me this whole time. Period of adjustment might still take time. Of some kind. But not the kind measured with a watch.

(Trying to quote from memory a line in a language I don’t speak or write. The passion counts. The meaning is there.) How do I stay excited for a thing without rehearsing the thing before it’s time? How do I prepare to do a thing without doing the thing? Things rarely turn out as expected and flow flows more freely if I don’t try to grasp so tight and grab so greedily. My mind is a raging river, careening with cascades of pompous bullshit. Ernest Hemingway phoned from the grave and does NOT approve. What kind of Twitter tweets would that twit tweet? Brevity is the soul of twit. Nietzsche’s blind, Plato’s a tease, god is dead, so please please please let me, let me, let me write what I want — this time. Gimme a beat... poet! Pass the Patti Smith Peppermint Schnapps & Kerouac Cognac and Ginsberg Gin. Time to make a tall glass of Joan Jett Fuel and runaway with my imagination once again. With FEELING.