Super Silly Larvae

This town ‘o mine is humorously split into two social distinctions by the mighty Will-Uh-Mette river. These broad, sweeping profiles of people are distinguished by tattoos, luxury brands, cliches, dirtbags and douchebags. Both sides seem to exhibit an image that implies that they belong to either a higher or lower economic class than the bourgeoisie from which they actually exist in. Whether it’s downplaying cleanliness and looking like a street urchin while wearing designer clothes or buying irregular designer clothes at a discount store so the M3 can get some ground effects. These fashion statements are sometimes painfully obvious and always a joy to mock.

Collars are bluer on the east, flipped up on the west, choppers and beat-down naked bikes ride on the eastside while only Ducatis and custom Harleys are found on the west. Women are closer to the earth, hippie, rocker, unkempt artist types in the neighborhoods of the east while the salonified, meticulously preened swans of the west stride the hills, gratuitously unapproachable.

All the demarcating and stereotyping in the world won’t change the fact that I’m from the east side of the river and have now recently transplanted to the west side. And I must say, my inner swank and humble desire for fine things in life has found a neighborhood that wallows in all things old and beautiful as well as things new and flashy.

Generalizing never did anything accurate or positive so it essentially means absolutely nothing that a river decides who you want to be and for every phony there’s two legitimate characters that just passed by, unnoticed. For the record. (I rarely and barely ever know what I’m talking about.)

Regardless, I’m 60 seconds from downtown and 10 minutes from every neighborhood in town and my awareness of the couture and culture in this city is a new-found infant yet growing superpower. The streets are a fascinating display of styles from varied backgrounds both pedestrian and garish, a vision of vast economic disparity on one corner and the organized generosity that helps those unable to help themselves on another. The intricate architecture and ornate design of many of the buildings that sit on old, tree-lined streets that lie in the midst of the city is a step back to another century while the sharp-edged modern movement of downtown still hums into the night.
I’m a baby bug acclimating to the beauty of the city and the only thing a river ever divided was a gorge or a canyon.


Burn, Baby, Burn

A quarter year burns like an upscale California forest, so quick it’s almost incomprehensible.

Consequently, it’s important to always be creating something every day. The end product isn’t nearly as relevant as the practiced motions used to create them and keeping the machine properly greased is essential to one’s passion to create. It’s also having the discipline to simply produce consistently without necessarily being concerned with the quality of its results. Take at least one picture or write something, create anything to mark the day, once a day, leave something on earth that wasn’t here yesterday. Even if it’s a complete piece of junk.

Otherwise three months burn by and one wonders if all that smoke won’t someday become a pack of cancer lit with a book of tumors and the stretches of time that were lazy and complacent will begin to taste sou and turn rueful.

What great inebriation! What a glassful of cool rye will do to a heated mind. A mind still full of adolescent confusion fueled by youthful passion and ardor for all things human and beautiful. Now that’s a quality burn.

Willkommen, Oh Desperate Writer

Been a month in the making. Been damn near a year of waiting and biting nails till the sale and watching tv that says the economy is waning and listening to realtors say the market is abating as I’m now quietly laying and living in the city in the jewel in the cradle, smiling and loving instead of frustratingly hating what they say is unstable. Ah, life is always destroying and creating and I’m elated to be staying in a town so alive, anticipating every new artist who arrives.

My goodness, how the block sometimes becomes greater than the avenue on which it sits. The block of the writer can be sorely insurmountable and the words which elude tend to taunt like a schoolyard bully until they’re pushed back into the void where they’re hidden like a fugitive. Waiting to be caught, to be harangued and harassed, lassoed and brought back before authorities to face their consequences and be forced to perform like the animals they’ve reluctantly become.

There are days when not writing haunts, a relentless apparition that travels through dreams and prods one’s conscience that sprawls blindly across mattresses like a rock star or a junkie. Preferably like both. The spirit constantly emerges to spur inspiration but is never let loose, a stallion in the stable tied down until race day, banging against the slats of it’s barnyard prison, chomping at the air that stifles it’s mission.

Sold the house built in 1912, with it’s Arabian archways in the living room and it’s ridiculous square footage, the deed is done and it’s now titled to finer folks than I.

Moved into my first apartment in a building erected in the 1930’s and somehow wound up in the the best apartment in the entire joint. The penthouse sweet, if you will, top floor corner and I’m the luckiest bastard to walk the planet because I’ve no idea how or why it all came about.

Living in the city brings me closer to my roots, allows me to spread wings and absorb the culture and happenings of people whom I both admire and despise. They’re all here, in what’s now my neck of the woods, filling the busy little streets where I grew up, these people compose the fascinating tapestry of artistry and architecture, setting itself far apart from the rest.

“Fortunate” is how I would describe my blood and timing and I give undying thanks to the chemistry of the universe for allowing me to experience life at such a wonderful level and have the limited ability to share it with others.