Into It

This post is a return to creativity. It was going to be titled “Over It” but that seemed cynical and silly and there’s plenty of that in the world already.

My God. Where to begin. With the know-how and not now, where do I even start to explain what’s been happening here for the last two years?

It starts as a cute story that has coworkers falling for each other. Involves great occasions and wonderful travels, suicidal moments and homicidal daydreams, beautiful laziness and raucous revelry. Ends like a soldier recovering from battle. Unspeakable thanks for an unforgettable journey.

Additionally, it’s the rebirth of the writer photographer. Thank goodness for love and tragedy, for without it there would be very little art, truth and beauty produced by humans.

Twenty Fourteen

This new embarking of love and life has caught me slightly unawares, my usual knack for cunning remarks and quick replies has eluded me. This humble writer is smitten with a certain young lady that makes him laugh and weep simultaneously. Bless her to death! Additionally, met a fellow blogger at work today who deduced, brilliantly, who I was: Rich Bachelor was drinking at my bar, a talented beautiful nerd whom I wish I had more time to converse with was imbibing on mulled wine and Kentucky bourbon. Thankful for the serendipity that permeates my every step. Thankful for the certain inspiration that encourages my creative dalliances!

Update Status

As much as I love all the pretty girls and buildings and goings on that happen on the west side of the Willamette, the east side has always had my beautiful and grimy heart.

My dog is so soft that I wish I was an inch tall so I could make snow angels in her fur.

Bless you, Portland women and your awesome autumn boots.

At what point in a man’s life does he just decide that his creepiness is perfectly ok to blatantly exhibit? Seriously, stealing glances is one thing but grossly ogling a woman from a foot away is entirely Kareep-O. Plus it makes men look like coarse, single-minded animals…

Waiting for morning so I can ride down the mountain and outrace the past week and blast into a beautiful next week.

To the handful of you working during these holidays so others don’t have to, bless your giant hearts.

A Vietnamese tour guide asked me why I wouldn’t want to move to Vietnam to work and live. It’s warm, inexpensive, great beaches and cuisine. He said it seemed to him that Americans were doing little besides shooting each other. He asked me the same question again. I paused, but had no answer for him. I hate that.

Gawd, I can actually do the Truffle Shuffle. Traveling Cooprider-style constantly involves discussing over a meal where to eat next. Yes.

strangely, today I wore an old Alibi shirt that I never, ever normally wear.

If you can’t be ridiculous and silly then you’re missing out on what life is really about. I’m very serious.

Hospice. Besides teachers, the absolute most noble damn profession ever.

The madness in my heart feeds the beast in my feet.
The taste on my teeth is of a kiss I can’t repeat.
Every moment blown on a woulda coulda shoulda
Oughta be a moment thrown towards catching what we seek.

argh. i gotta stay outta the bakeries like some people gotta stay outta the bars.

It’s my best friend’s birthday today. He’s a heavenly bastard.

12 years ago my best friend leapt from the Vista St. Aqueduct onto Jefferson St. He’d be 39 today. Coincidentally, the paper ran an article today about the city’s idea of putting barriers on that same bridge to impede suicides. A fence, wall, lock or cage has never stopped anyone’s mad determination. The frantic, frightened society in which we live should buck up and realize that our hearts are fragile and soft and the ground is unforgiving and hard. And once a mind is made up, no million dollar fence has a chance at stopping fate.

Went to Vista Bridge for a moment of solace and found some cops talking someone down from whatever rash movement she was about to make. Reminds me that we’re always on a ledge considering commitments and being happy usually lasts about the same time it takes to eat a crêpe.

Oh beautiful Sunday! Imma chomp a chunk outta your juicy butt as if you were a crook and I was a junkyard dog.

Birthday!My day to gonna play day going crazy in the midst of my heyday dentist dope, let’s elope, kiss and grope never growing up ’cause my mind’s a melee forever showing up to grin and waylay some silly joke or sweet secret spoke.

Birthdang-overs are great. For the mere fact that every move I made last night involved getting blessed, embarrassed, cut or falling down, yet my blood still bleeds young and my bones amazingly still bounce. To those who weathered the night and witnessed such misadventures, my dark and playful heart will house you forever.

Thank you all for all the birfday wishes and special thanks go out to to those who showed up last night and saw me in my ridiculous birthday tshirt. Love you all so much that there’s an awesome taste in my mouth today to prove it.

Absolutely bombed the Skamania loop and despite SR14 being shaved a little here and there, the stretch of twists were still swooping and royal along riversides and heavy rail. Midnight motorbike, no love I’ve ever known. Street light mountain night, outrunning being alone.

He is independent. He has his own place. He is a responsible pet owner. He has semi-legal income. He reluctantly loves his lunatic friends. He is generous and compassionate. He is grounded in reality in a world ruled by selfish delusions. We could all learn a lot from Bubbles

Why I miss living in NW Portland:

It is approximately 540 steps from my previous apartment’s front door to the grocery store. In those 540 steps there was on average 10 to 12 (I conducted a small study) random women who also happened to be walking around, whose beauty transcended the last until the absurdity of the whole thing overcame my senses and I would just break down. Weeping with laughter. Going to the store to get a carton of milk was a sweet journey into the wonderful reason why boys do anything in this world. Girls.

I Am Who I Am

There is a need to write, express, impress, elude depression, devote time and thought into finding ways to seek acceptance and accolades by organizing words. This need is in my blood, my steps, my everyday meandering and whether I take the time to write or not, its always a conscious thought on the brink of action. Or more often, inaction! And as I face myself in this morning mirror about to attack a day at work I’m really not entirely excited about, I remember how fun it is to write. Regardless if it’s read by anyone or if it’s thoughtful or considered as anything but quick, silly, drivel. Having fun is paramount, everything else is droll duty. Haha. Doody.

10 Things Imma Someday Write About

1. A woman from the dark side with a Vader mask and baker’s apron, doling out decadence with a sharp-witted jaw and perfect venom.

2. Oh my word…Shock like a light socket right in the flesh. Oh your words…Shot me like a rocket like a frightened wretch.

3. There are so few muses nowadays, rare, inspired, quick little ghosts slipping from one night to the next.

4. Soaking with blood, her uterus feels like it’s going to rot out of her vagina. Her young child is a reflection of herself, hips about to beat the daylights out of boys and bring the dangerous night into their barely weened world.

5. Insipid urban creatures whose dangerous, mainstream oblivion driven by consumerism is somehow validated by parading their vapid little children around like shining badges of absurd, accomplishment.

6. Now that the illicit affair has become passing moments of cordials, the strange metamorphic shock is still in my bones.

7. Many times, recovery uses condescension as a weapon of survival in situations where sobriety wavers on the tipping point.

8.  Hard to imagine an entire generation that had to endlessly toil just to stay barely fed. Or a single mom with two jobs riding the city bus.

9. I was out of money by 11 o’clock, everything doled out and squandered, my pant legs had become quonset huts,  storing things like winekeys, straws cut for toots, lighters, cocktail napkins with directions or phone numbers, a jumbled mess of items spelling out a mystery about to unfold.

10. Oh good lord, boozer brain with an ineffectual, intellectual hat and cane, impish like a simp, implicit asinine behavior that can only be blamed by tortuous amounts of whiskey, oh, the carnage that remains!

Insert Title Here 2

She takes your face in her hands and attempts to bite your flesh like a starving carnivore and all you can think of is how these marks are going to look in the morning.

Bruises from beatings that demand equal pleasure measure are only visible by rifling through the blur of the blackout from the night before.

Your flask is drawing dry and the mileage of this moment is stretching so far into the night that dawn is hunting you down like wild game.

The length of her desire is unmatched by any natural animal and the strength in the fishhook of her grasp is more than just words.

More than just spilled blood or undergarments torn down the southern swath of wild legs, these forbidden, fleeting seconds permeated with impropriety define all things terrible and assure that sometimes terror can be perfectly beautiful.

Along The Willamette Wall

Disseminate. Desecrate. Alleviate what’s on my plate, take a break and contemplate why appearances tastes so great but eyes comprise of sweet hate with nothing proper that escapes from venom lips of mouths of late…

The terrible genius of genus homo sapien has nothing on the stars that fill and fall from the night along this city’s river. With cold slaps of wind like sudden hands of drunken wistful lovers, reels heads and flesh in the midst of beautiful violence. Unpredictable and almost rueful with stern intent, September’s calm awakening has grown a chill in my bones as I straddle these decisions…