Friday, July 19, 2019

Three Day Weekend

More pics of flowers. They are all that I have. Well, not all, but close. 

I am preparing for a ride. It is overcast again. Unfortunate, as we are camping tonight and it had been clear for a few weeks straight, almost the thing you come to expect from California summers. The weather always only turns when you need it to least, as the saying goes. Can I use always only? The negation of opposing hyperboles. 

I'll give it some thought as I go. 

I took the day off from work, for no reason, and let work know that I would be doing this every other Friday for the foreseeable future. They were fine with it, though I didn't present it quite in those terms. I'll be having alternating three-day weekends for a while. I bet that I'll begin to detest the two-day ones, eventually. Sooner than latté. 


Thursday, July 18, 2019


The boy has been over here with me a bit, also. We're going camping tomorrow night, all of us and our visiting guest. I want spots by the river, so I will go early. It is the most pleasant place to awake. To hear the creek's murmurings before it occurs to you to open your eyes. Camping is no longer uncomfortable, the way it was when I was a kid, when we slept on gravel and tree roots. Air mattresses must have improved greatly. I'm certain of it. I usually sleep well when camping, which makes little sense. Need, I guess - there is some internal truce that allows and invites it. I'm certain of it. 


Wednesday, July 17, 2019

This is....

House-sitting is going splendidly. It is more enjoyable than I thought it might be. I had guessed that I would just want to be at home, which is only right around the corner and we have a lovely guest, but some quiet time to myself has turned out to be more valuable than I could see from behind the wall of noise and distraction that is being a dad.

I brought some camera stuff with me and have been wanting to set up and play with some pictures here, for the change, but all that I have had time to do so far is play with a soft-focus lens. If you like to do drugs and water flowerbeds the way that I do in the afternoons then maybe you'll find something to like about those two. They each have a charm for me, but that could also be the sudden sense that I am alone in a house with no other living creatures. No needs but my own.  

Perhaps I'll sleep in the garden tonight. There is a flat spot. I am preparing to go camping this weekend and should try the air mattress. There's an idea. Always, it is the ideas that make a person seem old - not following them or the other. 

Everybody needs some alone time. I say it often, to others. It's easy to say, and believe, and easy to believe that is what I have when I am at home working with the dogs. But that is not being alone. This is.


Monday, July 15, 2019

... how did you get here?

Turns out I was fine. How long, oh great ocean, how long?

Silvia Plath is one of my favorite poets when I only read her work one random line at a time on Twitter. That's my favorite picture of her in a bikini, also. 

O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Sunday, July 14, 2019

"... back where you came from"

Proud days for American politics. 

I enjoyed waking up early and alone. It was novel. Went to Starbucks and drank a coffee and pondered the uncluttered feeling. Went back to the house and then went for a bike ride and to the gym. It has been some time since that was part of my morning. Along the way I shifted to exercising in the afternoon, if I felt like it. It must be something you enjoy doing

Reclining here on the couch now writing this, trying to convince myself to get up and go for another ride while it is still mostly golden weekend sunlight. Torn between feelings - It harrows me between fear and wonder. 

Yes, and listlessness and anxiety. For half the day today my chest hurt. 


Saturday, July 13, 2019

To be alone

My friend went to Lisbon. I have his house to myself. I haven't had a night entirely to my own in a year or more. More. It would have been last May when I still had the apartment, before I let my friends stay in it the last month. I'm going to start doing this more. That is my first-night resolution, before the demons come to do me harm. Maybe I'll just go get a hotel for the night, occasionally. To be alone. You lose something when you're never alone. CS will tell me what it is that becomes lost. I can't think clearly now. My mind is fuzzy and distracted. And he is pretty good with the vernacular of solitude. 


Wednesday, July 10, 2019


What the fuck. I really don't have any pictures of my own, and it's my own fault. My life is disorganized. I ponder if it will return to the point that it was at just a few short years ago, maybe two. It wasn't perfect - I had time to indulge my interests and passions and other. 

Now, I have a packed box of unscanned negatives - thousands. I must live with the idea that there might be good pictures in there. There must. 


Tuesday, July 9, 2019


Nothing to report, just wanted to hear the sound of my fingers against the keys. Would it be annoying or possibly pleasant if each letter made a slightly different tone. Probably the former. Too many notes for it to be anything more than chaos. Unless some letters repeated the same notes at different octaves, and you could choose the key, or change the key by striking certain combinations of letters, certain words.  What a dull and unoriginal thought. 

What am I writing about. I am off to a lonely start. It is loneliness that I feel now, most of all. I shouldn't, I know. I am surrounded by people who love and need me, those whom I love, but still there is a nagging loneliness to my life. It is everywhere and what I felt for a time I had escaped in nightclubbing, even though I knew it was as near or nearer there as everywhere else. Few things are as empty as electronic music can be when listened to while isolated and perhaps feeling less than loved or desired. 

We went to the beach on Sunday. We forgot to bring our kite, though we had a pretty good time without it. 

Next time, we said, we'll bring it next time


Sunday, June 30, 2019

Oh, I know a dirty word

Well, CS was in SF. He brought a companion with him who had promised to be his lady chaperone for his first Pride celebration. I haven't heard from him since. He can be like that. I tried to tell him that most of the bathhouses are no more. Some people you just can't reach.

Maybe I'll hear from him when he comes up for air. 

We had a mostly uneventful weekend. Went to a local spring-fed pool here - Mortons - brought the dogs, lounged on the grass snacking, listening to the old "Social Living" album by Burning Spear at a respectful volume. That, and Black Uhuru's "Red" and The Abyssinians "Satta Massagana" and Glen Brown's "Termination Dub."

I had made myself a THC concoction before we left. I spent the day with mirrored shades on, smiling at everybody, walking into the pool at the shallow end, nodding, terrified of what was unfolding in my head, terrified of speaking. Or rather, terrified that I would not be able to stop talking once I did, which I spent the day being on the verge of. I misjudged my spoonful of the magical medicinal elixir. THC ceases being a soft drug at a certain level. I can't tell you what that level is for you, but I now know what it looks like when overfilling a 1/2 tbsp measuring spoon from our kitchen drawer, for me. 


Saturday, June 29, 2019

"Such substance makes"

I've had the strangest day. Fragments of weirdness connected to one another and stretching back until morning. I was lying here trying to go to sleep and something made me get up and look into my own eyes in the mirror. No idea why, just an impulse. Nocturnal concern. I went to the gym with Rachel this morning and then for a bike ride, something I haven't done in a while. I raced another rider up the hill that I ride almost daily and won. Maybe it rattled something loose. 

I am still out of new pictures. Have been shooting film and doing nothing else. Of what purpose I  could not say.

I follow a Sylvia Plath bot: "Such substance makes"


Thursday, June 27, 2019


Another night, late. Fewer and fewer pictures of my own to post. I should go to bed, it is not far away.

The hills on the west side of the valley, towards the ocean, have turned golden. The fog sits on top of and behind them, moving along the soft summit ridge as living curses being whispered into coffee and cream.


Wednesday, June 26, 2019

Coordinating Conjunctions

I don't have any new pics. That is a part of what has kept me from writing. And mortal despair.

I love starting sentences with And

Like dating a witch. Or her sister. 
But without the drama.


Monday, June 17, 2019

Add To Cart

First choose an image, then write around it, or to it. Or, let it set the tone. I tried that, but had to skip past about a hundred pictures of the boy before I could find another image that I haven't already used. Such is the breadth of my laziness.

Well, the picture captures how I feel, in part. 

I've stopped buying myself things when I feel bored. It has only been about two weeks but that's long enough for me to notice a difference, or rather the lack of difference. Buying things doesn't make me any happier. I guess I needed to feel that for a few weeks.

Perhaps I have not deprived myself long enough. It's not as if I'm not online looking at ways to waste my money. I am, I am. I'm just not getting the satisfaction of clicking the Buy button. My money still disappears, somewhere, but I endure less guilt this way. 

I told you, the picture captures part of it.

I have nothing left for this day.

Take this, REO:


Sunday, June 16, 2019

Lucky Accidents


Perhaps this image was a charmed failure, as CS says, but I like it more than just about any other image I've seen in a few months. If I could create images like this, in-camera, then it is all that you would see from me for a while. I have grown too comfortable with the family snapshot portraits, and I have made a few lucky mistakes, but I am unorganized and rarely learn from my mistakes, or remember how to repeat them. My life as a series of charmed accidents. I tried some street photography the other day but only by walking out to the street in front of our house and trying to find anything of interest. There was none, or very little, to my eye. For that, I miss living in a city. I want a road trip, just to take pictures. 

I awoke to songs and praise and love and kisses and gifts. Rachel and Rhys had worked together to create a nice little Father's Day surprise for me. There was a new toolbox waiting on the kitchen counter for me with handmade cards and funny store bought ones. I was asked a while back and it was the most functional thing I could think of that I needed - a new toolbox. They went into secret action, and found me a very nice one. It looks like it will last another 25 years, as my last one did. Rhys is eager to transfer everything out of the old broken one today and into the new one with all the clean compartments for screws and nails and whatnots. What could possibly be more wholesome and sweet, than is his simple and pure desire to just be my son and to participate in my life. 

I've spent so much of my life wondering why people aren't more resilient. They seem to be traumatized by everything. Perhaps they are. Life is tough and psyches are fragile, trauma gives people something private to hold and share about themselves, or to keep bundled up like a secret, still-born baby. Perhaps they wish to reveal the thing in parts or whole, to help explain the chaos that leaps around inside of them at times. 

People make mistakes, and then there are others that are always vindictive and cruel, as if that behavior forms a form of truth about existence that should be shared, to help toughen up those who might otherwise fall prey to those actions elsewhere. Kids and dogs don't have very many options for escape from such situations. I have seen it. I was relatively lucky. My life was free from what would be now considered abuse for the most part, though few believe that and there are some quizzical components to my past, to be sure. But I never felt abused, just misunderstood and mildly neglected. I'm fucked up mostly because I wanted to be. I allowed it, then encouraged it, and then couldn't stop it. So, here I am. 

But not this morning, not with a new toolbox - a fresh place to sort through the broken chaos, the runaway pieces of hardware, fasteners made of metal, sharp little objects capable of piercing the skin,  or affixing boards of wood, the unfinished or never started projects of my life, the chaos involved in a desire for an ability to fix things. Those things that become collected because few people discard what might one-day become useful again. 

Now, I have a new place to repeat the endless partialness of being. If I had ever learned to complete things then I might know how to end this post. Somewhere there must be a fortified plastic box of bright colors designed to hold all of the loose question marks, exclamation points, and of course the ever-needed period, used to pin down and hold an otherwise unwieldy and runaway stream of words in search of their meaning, adhering itself to what came before or arrives next while also magically separating itself from it. Bent nails in uneven timber, hobbled together with the intention of bearing weight. 

Measure twice, once cut.

It all seems so simple - I hug my son often and tell him that I love him and believe in him, and hope that he remembers that. I feel comfortable growing old in front of him, more than anyone else. It's likely because I can not possibly keep up with him. Trying to would prove the fact. 

Saturday, June 15, 2019

... then of course I would

I hate Apple's Photos app. Truly. It is an embarrassment for them and they don't seem to notice or care. I just spent about 20 minutes wrestling with it over a simple file management and editing issue. The best conclusion that I could come to after multiple efforts and some online research, and years spent troubleshooting technical problems, is that Apple is a company that deserves to suffer and die a shameful, expensive, public death. I hope that one day happens after my own, of course.

So, here is a 35mm pic from maybe two years ago. It is one of the boy's school buddies. They are all getting older around me at an noticeable rate. Why does every mention of the passing of time cause me to think of my own death, now? It didn't used to, and I'm still young, or so people say. Are others this morbid, though only privately? Or, perhaps other people healthy in their hearts and minds.

Answer me!

Tough call on the relative health of others, glad I don't have to be the one to make it, at least not this morning. It is the morning of Father's Eve.

As I age I value most people less, though I still see glimmers of beauty and hope and mystery in many, but few my own age. 

Age is among the great discriminatory categories. I see it everywhere, now. How it is allowed in almost all regards, short of cruelty or flagrant discrimination. But so much is subtle, particularly when it comes to how groups tend marginalize types, without ever needing to agree on it openly. It just happens, you start out as one thing and you gradually become another, without realizing how the gradual becomes the inevitable. Until. 

As you age you matter less. Of course this is not true for everybody, some accumulate useful resources. They somewhere keep pirate treasure maps in locked trunks. If you are a parent then you might matter more to your children, or so the hope goes. But this simple recognition doesn't prevent me from observing that the other thing is still happening, also, everywhere now and forever. If I was younger then of course I would fight up against it with the sudden fury of what was once me.  


Monday, June 10, 2019

The mighty diamond of depression

Back in that other life I went to a getaway wedding at a getaway destination - Mykonos. In an attempt to appear normal, and to sustain a sense of normalcy for a week spent mostly without sleep, I stopped taking some medications that were ostensibly meant to treat manic-depression. Mine, they said. 

Now, whether you are afflicted with manic-depression, or only lightly touched with it, this has only marginal bearing on what the cessation of those types of medications - lithium bicarbonate and Lamictal - has on the psyche and well-being of the patient.

I was being the patient. A stumbling buddha - the sound of one hand laughing. 

I remember there being this immense clarity of just how full of shit everybody was, how false. I could not be reached by love nor by reason. It was overwhelming, to see my friends seemingly as they truly were. Similar to having recognitions concerning yourself and others while on very strong acid, and after. It burns a nearly intractable impression - even about those that you have known so long - on the fragile and perhaps weakened mind. Perhaps damaged. Don't be weak if you're also going to be vulnerable. 

The actuality of such de-acclimatizing from mood stabilizing cocktails works in a very stark and somehow unknown reverse order of operations. 

I learned and suffered a little taste of this with a friend of mine recently.

The details are irrelevant. But. I was given a glimpse into the odiousness in which I operated, and what that must have been like from the perspective of the other person or people around me. The one(s) hopefully operating at nominal levels of regular sleep, food, and meds. 

Nothing can be done. Or, nothing that I will ever do. I have few regrets, or a few, none other than how unlucky time and love can be when arriving and departing at such erratic and regular intervals. 


A feeling of duty

I'm on my new computer but I have no new pictures on this technological terror, and I need one. 

Do I? Fuck it, take that pic ^^^. It is the only pic by this photographer that I have ever seen. I linked to his site out of a strong feeling of duty. 

Ha - duty

I can never seem to recover very well from childishness here. I think I know why that is but do not wish to fix it, and only part of the fix is with me, or cause. There are readers' expectations to which one should also offer their duty, the effects

Ok scatologists, I admit defeces. 

Damn it. I wanted to write something good today, something that made me feel good.

I wanted to expel the troublemaker.  


Saturday, June 8, 2019

The skin of the fruit


Turning in this sleep
One hand finds this other hand
Teeth breach the skin of the fruit


Thursday, June 6, 2019

Sailing Along The Southern Coasts

Went for a bike ride yesterday, my first in weeks. There were problems. Some time was needed off, but a bottle of wine or more every day started to make me feel more lethargic than enthusiastic. I enjoyed it much. Then its time had both arrived and departed and departed again. 

There is some building hope for another ride today. That is sometimes how exercise works. You get a little rush when you return to it, suddenly you have a challenging personal secret - how you feel when you try. Of course when returning to riding after an extended break of any kind I immediately start dreaming of buying myself an extravagant reward for having done so. Yesterday it was of taking today off from work and going to a few bikes shops, ending the day with a brand new gravel bike. It brought me much pleasure yesterday to imagine such a series of events happening today. But they did not happen, not yet. That's my nature, as an imaginative guy. My imaginings often involve the many things I would buy and enjoy if my life were little else but leisure. If freed from the shackles of employment. My wants seem modest but often involve the purchasing of things that are several thousand dollars - cameras, lenses, bikes. Everything else that I want I just buy without much hesitation. 

I rode my bike by an all wooden sailboat yesterday that had a For Sale sign on it - $3500. I wondered if that included the trailer and I told myself that it must. I came home and told Rachel and Rhys about it and for a short time we thought of what it would be like to have a small sail boat, what learning to sail together would be like, or what we believed it might be like. We all loved the idea of summer sailing, visiting lakes within a day's drive that we probably don't even know about yet. That is what we all talked of as we drove through the lights and towards town.


Wednesday, June 5, 2019

The Beach

Family pics - they are what I'll do more of now. They are fine with me. They are mostly all I've done. I take lots of pictures, and tend to post images that matter more to me than perhaps the viewer. So be it. 

I only took one of these. 

And I still find it so hard To say what I need to say
But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me Just how I should feel today

I see a ship in the harbor I can and shall obey


Tuesday, June 4, 2019


I don't know what pushed CS over the edge but he has stopped talking to me, ever since he threatened to do so. Who knows - old people are unpredictable, except when they are angry. 

Mom also gets mad when I talk about how much hippie-pussy the boy is going to one day get (see picture above). Maybe CS suffers from a similarly arranged moral apoplexy. He's always aligning me with some other values dressed up as bohemienne. He will make a great housewife also, someday.

I can never remember if it's the Philistines defeating the Israelites or if the other team won and the good guys are still allowed to love art modestly. You tell me.  

The Old Testament is fading for me, like so much Faulkner that I never bothered reading, any more than about rather than the thing itself. 

It is all heard by this idiot, fluff of sound and furry, 
signifying bread crumbs. 

Out, out, Greek salad, 
this way to crouton crumbles.
all of our cucumbers have olived feta.
Horiatiki, Horiatiki, Horiatiki
Caper berries in this petty place, 
from day to day.




Sunday, June 2, 2019

Still Dead and Companied

A second night at Dead and Company. It's as if the music never stopped. I don't have any pictures from the second night, but they would have looked just like the pictures from yesterday. The show was good, again, though I'm not sure how much I need to go to multiple shows of the same band over the course of a weekend any more. This is the second time in about two or three years. Last time it was the Grateful Dead, also, with Trey Anastasio. The Fare Thee Well tour.

Well, once my buddy wakes up from his late night journey to Jupiter then we can start getting back on the road, maybe drive through SF and get some dim sum. That always makes things better. 

I bought the boy his first tie-dye t-shirt. He will be happy that I brought home something from the show. 

CS says that he can't know me any more, in yesterday's comments section. Who knows what combination of things said yesterday could have been his final undoing, that I went to a Dead show, openly admitted to eating acid or I found John Mayer's behavior to be sleazy. You know, it is possible to get very young girls high on drugs and still be a creep. 


Saturday, June 1, 2019

Dead and Company

(Shoreline Amphitheater)

Here is the setlist for last night's show, for people who love such things, of which I am an occasional one who does. We're returning tonight for another show. We still have some acid left, I think. That stuff is best eaten in the afternoon. Anything later in the evening becomes too insisting of its effects.  

John Mayer is a douchebag, but a very good guitar player. It is an odd combination for him to be playing with these old hippies, but I suppose that he and Bob Weir share the love of sex with young girls, so they have more than just the tenuous musical connection that I perceive for them. 

They are in a band together, so my opinions matter very little here. That I am at a weekend's worth of shows to watch them further dismantles the flat argument of my opinion. It must bother me that he was born in 1977, or something. It's okay for me to be an ageist, now, I hope. 

Mayer is douchey. I met him one night when I worked at Apple. He had a fourteen year old girl with him, high on drugs, at 4 in the morning. He was gloating a bit, that he gets to do such things, in a very sleazy way. Perhaps it was some moral sense that I'd like to pretend I don't have, but the fact of his creepiness was unavoidable. I was not alone in this feeling. Even by my liberal standards, it seemed wrong. 

She could have been a young looking 17, I suppose. I mean, she was very high. Cute, etc. 

Seemed for some wrongy. 


Tuesday, May 28, 2019

The physicality of fumbling up

Few things remain simple, or only hauntingly so. I've had to learn to keep quiet about almost everything, which doesn't always make for good writing, not for a confessionalist. 

I'm going to start telling people that I'm heavily into Civil War reenactments, that I'm on the side of the Confessionalists. I go every year. Make up some plausible name for a city in Virginia. If anybody challenges me then explain that they're confusing it with a city in Tennessee. Do this of course with confidence. 

We were in bloody battle with the Secretists. Family against family, brother against brother.

For no known reason, the other day, I started telling Rhys about the biblical story of Cain and Able. God's question to Cain in the garden, to which he responded, Am I my brother's keeper? A shitty attitude to have with God but good question. 

I tried to explain to Rhys why I believe the answer to the question is Yes, that we are culpable for the well-being of one another, and it is best to acknowledge that to one another. Immediately I started following it up with qualifications, of course. 

Does any of this become easier, or does it ever become any easier? Any of it?


Saturday, May 25, 2019

Are all ghosts clairvoyant?

(Musée Mécanique, SF)

Last night Rachel and I went out to dinner, a date, if we are still allowed to acknowledge such things it that in this post-binary world. There was a newly renovated restaurant space that had opened up - Layla - that we wanted to try. It was lovely, better than Olive Garden... As we were leaving I pointed out to Rachel the bowl of apples in the entrance hallway, a reference to the late rock promoter, Bill Graham. When we got in the car I played her the song, Layla, because my singing of it did not evoke a memory for her. The only version I had on my phone was the acoustic one, which was shameful but unsurprising. Or, so I thought. After playing that one for her, and picking up Rhys from the sitter, I tried to play the regular album version, the classic, from YouTube. Somehow that was even worse. 

Freedom Rock, etc.

Ah well, it was not even my past but the past before that, so what do I have to be ashamed of? My generation produced We Built This City on Rock and Roll. If you ever need any additional reason to hate Bernie Taupin then look not further than that late career hit for Starship. Yes, Starship was what they changed their name too, when the concept of a Jefferson Airplane perhaps seemed too attached to a past that they were clearly breaking free of. 

Can I end a sentence with the word of, twice?

My official position is that Eric Clapton has always been a useless douche bag. This was a required stance for anybody that listened to alternative or new wave in the 80s. He was from the oafish and loathsome past. Exceptional guitar playing could not possibly save him. It was his stance towards being a rock star that was unacceptable. Then, he wrote that song about his son dying. Tears, Heaven, Etc. Quite possibly the worst song ever written. Unforgivable. 

Well, my report of our date seems unnecessary now. We had fun; it was sweet. We talked of the future and what possible trips we could take with the boy. There have been a few possibilities that we have discussed now - Yellowstone and Jackson Hole, Tokyo, NYC and Washington D.C. Maybe there were other places mentioned. Those three are high on our list, each for different reasons. 

We talked about Jackson Hole and Yellowstone as a mixed snowboarding and camping trip, one in which we could maybe bring one of Rhys' friends with us. He would love that. He wants very badly to get a camper and do a road trip with mom and I. He mentions it often. Tokyo is a no-brainer. We all love the culture and food for slightly different reasons, I suspect. The foreignness has much appeal. Then, a late entry was two trips that we have been talking about that we realized we could just roll into one. When I mentioned last night that we could stay at the Mercer or Soho Grand in NYC I could see that I was saying the right things to mom, who was two flutes of champagne deep at this point. I spoke of all the fun things we could do - visiting friends and sightseeing, a Yankees game, the Statue of Liberty, The Met and MOMA, our favorite restaurants. Then we could take a train to D.C. and have two days there. The Smithsonian, the National Gallery, the Mall, the White House, the nation being greatly made again.

What wholesome family fun - just crimes, misdemeanors, and vacations. 



Thursday, May 23, 2019

Helps me, Jesuys

I started to post something vile again. Cato and I had a joke yesterday that made me chuckle. But then I couldn't find the right picture to match the joke, so everything went the way of the Dodo.

I find myself having the strangest of conversations with my friends lately. The mechanics of being an age. This age. The talk is more private and more pragmatic than what I am used to. There is talk of the treatment of common ailments. Nobody wishes to be interested in these talks. 

I took a few minutes away from a mildly stressful day to write here. I avoided the vile but became trapped by the mundane. 

You saw it happening and you did nothing.


Tuesday, May 21, 2019

Akira Ichiban Q6

I'm not sure if I've ever seen two dogs have consensual sex. Having lived in Florida for the irresponsible length of time that I did it seems nearly impossible to have not seen such a thing, though I have no specific memory of it. All I see now when I close my mind and think of the Sunspot State are dogs fucking in the dirt. Mostly in the backyard. Everybody has a backyard there, and every backyard a dog. It never seemed to me as if it was the female dog's choice. 

I see this all the time at the dog park now. Dogs just rape each other. They try to get some playtime in before and after, but every now and then you witness some sort of sudden assault. The owners are mortified, of course. I try to stop the dogs when I can, as if my dog is partially to blame. She was wearing a brightly colored collar.

If you've never tried to stop one dog from fucking another dog you'll know this is not exactly a one person operation. It requires practice and training, and life affords so few opportunities, and few partners to do that dance. I try to match everybody else's enthusiasm for separating them, but sometimes I suspect that people can sense my heart's not really in it. I suppose I could just grab the male by the collar and toss him away somewhere, but that somehow seems worse than the sex crime itself. 

Since I have a female it is usually some male that is being indiscreet about their amorous feelings towards my lucky lady. So, it is up to a variety of Sonoma hippy-chicks of all ages to stop the assault, mostly. I'd be lying to say that this doesn't make me giggle a little bit inside. Not because of the act itself or their reaction, but you can see how much they project human morality onto their animals and expect it to come to life there, fully formed and evidenced in modesty of behavior, discretion. I always take some time out afterwards to tell the offending dog about my best friend, Jesus Christ. This will have about as much influence on their desire to rape as will the frantic stream of invectives and direction emanating from their owners - No! and Stop! and Insert Dog's Name! here.

The one that really gets me is Bad Dog! 

I suspect that in a dog's mind screamed phrases like No! and Stop! only mean Hurry, hurry... to them. It only seems to increase the urgency of the act. 

The women always apologize afterwards. I am tempted to ask them if they let their dog masturbate enough? Other times I am enticed by my inner demons to say that I can't tell if my dog's in heat or not. I sniffed all around her butt the other day but I couldn't be sure. 

She has been spayed, I'll explain, but I don't know if they cut off the flow of all of her woman parts.  

She seems flirty.


Sunday, May 19, 2019

Fighting death and kissing nipples

I promise not to write about dub or reggae today, though it is almost all that I wish to write about. It is sad and beautiful and yet somehow triumphant and strong and filled with faith so foreign. 

I am standing up at an adjustable desk that holds my new computer. It is difficult for me to stand for any period of time. Something has changed in my lower back. It no longer has the will to negotiate. I need a desk and a chair, but I keep telling myself that standing is better for me, less sedentary, but the truth is that my body needs the sediment. Whatever sediment used to protect my aching vertebrae has long since abandoned me. One of the results of living is pain. So be it. Let it be. Let be be finale of seem. Keep on keepin' on, and don't ever stop truckin'... whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother... we are probably family, though there's less fish in the sea than there used to be. 

Great minds, quite noticeably, do not think alike. Though that is no reason to presume that you are great when everybody else insists that you're a twat. 

I speak God's truth, you see. 

I just read that this is the wettest year ever. Or, I think that's what I read. It was a headline only, probably about the east coast, but I'm certain the author lives in Sonoma, on my street. 

It is dispiriting, this endless rain. Shifts in weather patterns vex me and they should vex you too. It is an omen, I say, a portent of what will come. 

If you're not wet then you're not paying attention.

Saturday, May 18, 2019

From the well of exaggeration

It's been raining for a year.


"A day without music is a day lost forever"

Have I really not written since Tuesday? It doesn't feel like it. I worked all week and I worked all day today. It happens sometimes. It's never fun, but at least it has been rainy all day, which lessens the sting. I may take some time off this week. 

I don't have anything to say, really, I just finished with a long, intractable problem that neither myself nor any of the people working on it could solve, so I wanted to look out elsewhere into the world, where solutions were not required. 

It is just a day gone but it would have been my day and now it is not and never will be. 

I did have a few newly acquired albums playing in the background today, so there is that. If you want to hear what reggae would sound like without the obligatory guitar strums on the upbeat then listen to the link below. It is my favorite album of today. 

The pup has been at a kennel all day. We'll go to get her soon and she will make me feel better. She loves me and I her. We let each other know by rubbing our faces together where I can smell all of her soft puppy fur. She will lick and nibble at my ear lobes. It is sweet and makes me giggle. 


Tuesday, May 14, 2019


In my battle with the world I should have backed the winner. Today beat me senseless, lifeless. All day I ran like a three legged lizard, scrambling to escape a bored scorpion that just wants to talk.


Monday, May 13, 2019

Basic Age

I've had an unusually difficult day at work. Don't want to write about it, but it's how I spent my day, without any cycling to force the arrow through to the other side, to be broken off and pulled through.

Listening now to one of the most beautiful pieces of quiet music. Hoping. Haven't listened to it in years. Could not find the right recording online quickly. So I've posted one that I have never heard. Fuck it. The recording is almost as important as the music, so I hope the one below works well.

I read an essay about Susan Sontag's essay writing tonight. That is how I should spend every afternoon or evening: reading quietly, music in the room. There is some recent scandalous news of her out now in the panopticon. Just saw it.

It has been between the sixth and seventh year of my son's life that I hardly have time for myself. It becomes the thing that I do. It's not terrible. It is everywhere, all for now and for soon.

Standing up and typing at the keyboard of my new computer, some years underneath me. Can't imagine having to stand to do anything any more, having now already exceeded this basic age.


Sunday, May 12, 2019


Having been loved by my mom is one of the few feelings that has stayed with me from childhood, that and my crushing uncertainty about being loved. 

I asked myself this morning when I woke up, What makes a mother's love special? Of course there may be some inescapable biological aspects to those feelings, but I've known enough orphans and adoptees who feel the same to know that biology alone does not explain all of it. Having felt loved, from an early age, is something that stays with you. Or, it can. People need to feel nurtured, at times, and safe. I never got the feeling that one day I might have to fight my mom for a pork chop. I remember building forts in the living room with my brother and her. 

Feeling loved seems to be a mixture of the love that another person shows for you and what you repeat to yourself about it. Once your mother is gone you have fewer things to repeat to yourself. It is best to stick to the stories concerning the glory of love, avoid the other stuff. 

To watch the boy express his love for mom is really something - sweet and pure and true. It is enough to make me happy. 


Saturday, May 11, 2019

Dr. Satan's Echo Chamber

Oh yeah, I forgot to post, or started to but never finished, ran out of things to say, or have said them before. Like CS, I also have no stories to tell. What do I do that would produce a story? I spend my days repeating daily things, not discovering.

The boy's behavior improved. Did I write about that here, or has it just been tumbling around inside me for a month? Could be both. He was being naughty, disrespectful, and mom and dad had to drop the sledgehammer on him. To give you an idea of how tough we are: we took away all screen-time.... Not sure if you know it or not, but that is about the worst thing you can do to a kid now. No more terror, no more tyranny, no more discipline too. Just reasonable conversations, one after another after the other following the one before that.

I have nothing to say today - no stories from beyond the womb. 

Lee Perry is Jesus. I mean, Jesus. I won't bore you with writing about music, but when he was brilliant he was like nothing else that had ever happened. I am listening to the Black Ark mixes of this album. They are among the deepest, coolest, most bad-ass and beautiful pieces of music I've ever heard. I couldn't find the same mixes that I'm listening to online, and that link is to the already known and famous album. It's criminal that the dubby mixes aren't available on YouTube.

You guys should come to my house and hear it.

Tell you what.... I'll make you a real sweetheart deal. If you think that dub isn't right for you then I'll let you walk out that door right now without signing on for this once-in-a-lifetime generous timeshare offer, but if you're wrong then you might have to live the rest of your life regretting the decision that prevented you from ever getting involved in South Florida's Gardens of Inspiration single and double use units.

I'll concede that it is a bit strange that at 50 all I want to do is ingest THC and listen to old dub albums, mostly from '75-'81, the golden years. But what the fuck, I've reached that stage in life early where you realize time is truly limited and you may as well do the things that let you avoid doing things you just don't want to do.

What happens to people?


Tuesday, May 7, 2019

Unwritten jokes

Well, I was going to make a joke about Rachel, Ann Coulter, and Celine Dion getting it on but my sole reader stole my thunder in yesterday's comment section. I was going to try to add Phil Collins to the second portion of the joke, because of me. Something about us all checking for Ann Coulter's Adam's apple. I bet she has a nice big, protruding laryngeal prominence. 

I don't have a pic of me that suggests Phil Collins handy, but you get the idea. The joke works, even in its current crude and unformed state. 

Rhys is in his room right now. Punishment. I had to go to school to pick him up. He has been misbehaving. Shockingly, this brings me no private internal joy, as I might have long ago guessed that it would. I'm not very good at punishing him. That may be part of the problem. I'm not sure. I'm so used to being around people who regard every one of my emotions as being over the top that I have a difficult time gauging much of anything. There is always a low level hysteria waiting to respond to anything that begins to suggest randomness. 

I used to be afraid of misbehaving. I don't mean physically afraid, just afraid of what my parents would say to me, of being ashamed, disappointing. Rhys doesn't like me being displeased with him, but perhaps not adequately. He doesn't seem afraid of anything, specifically of the consequences we decide for him. He has too much confidence that he can avoid most the brunt of any punishment we throw at him. This is in part because he's an only child. He knows that any justice we dispense towards him is almost equally punitive for us. 

Yes, this life is and always has been an unwritten joke. 


Monday, May 6, 2019

From the Hand of Favor

Going through old pics is a mixture of fun and then something else. Time passes, that's a fact that photography insists upon. It is nice to get those little glimpses into what was, though. It was the trip that I was on from today's picture that caused me to really get into photography - France, circa 2008. What little cinematography I learned in school was long ago lost to excess. I don't remember what a t-stop is, etc.

I like the Terry Richards look of the picture above. Now, I know that he is not to be commended, because his sexual impulses are destroying people, but he did make his mark with a certain style of photography, one that I happen to like for candid shooting. I've done some nudes in this style, but they did not come out well, unless Terry Richards also shot crime scenes. I suppose some would argue that every picture he took is a form of evidence of same.

I don't really know that much about him, or the accusations against him, but I do remember the visual style and it is one that is fun to imitate.

Eventually women will get tired of accusation destroying the sexuality and sensuality of their shopping experiences. They will silently overwhelm those who have claimed them as their own. Advertisers are rightfully afraid, now. Well, the ones that aren't trying to capitalize on the times by standing with it. But you can't successfully suggest sex without implying a power disparity, because that is what creates the dynamic, though that is the world that is now demanded of us. What was is male privilege at its most loathsome, say some.

Can you believe women have to suffer the insults of fashion photography? It perpetuates objectification. Look at it.

The first major publication to reintroduce aspects of the lurid in their campaigns will be touted as bold and provocative. Or rather, the first one will be roundly denounced, then another one will pull it off. It will fly. That is how time passes; greater minds need lesser ones.

The online personality that I most resemble lately is Ann Coulter. I don't use her nouns. I try to occupy myself with different subjects than her, but we have the same basic outlook and use a lot of the same verbs: people are full of shit and should be mocked, claims of victimhood far outpace victimization, everybody's a fucking pussy, and individual personal freedom is more important than we have been telling ourselves.

But who wants to sound like an old crank, especially one that is indistinguishable from the harpy of the GOP? Who among you wishes that, for little old me?

That Rachel resembles her does not escape me. This has a preventative influence on some of my various sarcasms. I am trying to learn how not to be honest about every single thought that happens upon me.  That is where people begin to confuse the distinction between types and the thing itself. I know I have before.

So, anyway, Terry Richardson. I looked him up for the last month's worth of news and it seems the accusations have subsided, though so have the jobs. The once chic temptations, garish hints of unashamed sexuality and even that of - gasp - the brash suggestion of porn, have fallen from the hand of favor. Apparently there were some who felt that the expectation should not be that the rock-star fashion photographer should pursue the craziest pussy he possibly could, and would not then be rewarded for his satyrical behavior through satiation.

I have listened to their complaints, in a general sense, and have found them to be sensible when heard in great and suffering detail. It is the in the abstract where it all comes together and makes perfect sense.

Still, something about everything always  feels so wrong.


Sunday, May 5, 2019


Upon recovering my iPhoto libraries and scanning through old pics I have found a handful that are among the most precious and beautiful things that I have. Making babies is something special. It is a form of public intimacy - the evidence of a known secret that is as yet unrevealed. 

The images are a series of her as she was becoming more and more pregnant. The one above was in NYC, the one below about three days before the boy was born, in Sonoma. They are incredible things, for me, both sensual and complex. I took them quickly and without much concern for technique, which haunts me now, though even some of the ones that are blurry have a special charm, a paired innocence with the subject. The blur seems to remove any lingering erotic intentions or purely documentary purpose. The ones that are in perfect focus seem somehow too explicit, too well lit, too literal. I would show more here but most of them are nudes and Raquel might not sign off on them as being too unflattering. Though of course she could not possibly be any more wrong. You can't tell a pregnant woman that, or much afterwards either. I have learned that you should make a woman feel beautiful, but carrying a baby can impede most any efforts.

I would do it all over again, twice or thrice. The images roam around as magic inside of me. They are mysterious and powerful, incantations that come back to tempt. 

That's my morning truth: I like getting her pregnant.