The Braggart

Thus does the Celtic warrior in his battle fury stand out larger than life, a swaggering braggart, his hand twitching for his sword, alert for insult, intended or accidental, through the swimming haze of alcohol that befuddled his mind. Classical writers marveled at him, his fellows set him above all others and accorded him the hero's portion at their feasts...

After various spasmodic troubles over the centuries, serious unrest came to the northern Roman frontier in 367, when a Celtic alliance of Picts, Scots and Attacotti (the identity of the latter is obscure) overran Hadrian's Wall. To deal with this 'Barbarian Conspiracy' one of the greatest military minds of the day, Theodosius, was sent to Britannia where he reorganized the defences (sic). Hadrian's Wall and some northern forts were restored to working order, signal stations were built along the Yorkshire coast and some towns had bastions added.
(Celtic Britain) Lloyd Laing

Sometimes others' words touch places that haven't been touched in years. I am going to re-read the book that brought me back to life after last summer. I don't believe in coincidences.

He said, "This is my biographical index!" "Your what?" "I started it when I was just beginning to write! I'd create a card for everyone I thought I might need to reference one day! There's a card for everyone I ever wrote about! And cards for people I talked to in the course of writing my pieces! and cards for people I read books about!..."

"...How many cards do you have?" "I've never counted!..."

"...What do you write on them?" "I write the name of the person and a one-word biography!" "Just one word?..."

"Henry Kissinger: war!
"Ornette Coleman: music!
"Che Guevara: war!
"Jeff Bezos: money!
"Phillip Guston: art!
"Mahatma Ghandi: war!"
"But he was a pacifist," I said.
"Right! War!"
...

"Do you have a card for yourself?"
He slid out a drawer.

A.R. BLACK: WAR
HUSBAND

TEXTS. SEXTS. WAT.

"So I asked him what he meant and he just looked at me and said 'TITS'"
"I took a leaf outta yer book and succeeded. Lil Fish Life '09"


In thinking about Vegas (which I hate) in November, I realized the one person I would elope with and randomly get married to will be the one providing me with a place to sleep and booze that whole weekend...so I should probably have an emergency phone tree, should the mood to get hitched by Elvis strikes me.

and still nothing moves you

A couple thoughts:

I saw something of a ghost tonight. A shell of a reminder of a past life. Two shooting stars (not satellites) and the North star.

Two days in a row I will be awake to watch the sun rise.

Give me one good reason to stay, as I can't find any. I can come up with seventy five (really) as to why I should just go. No one would notice, and few would care, and those who did care would know why I did what I did. It's not like I'd never be back, but what was tying me to this place and these people is no more.

This insomnia is getting to me. And yes, really, that's what it is. This physical inability to sleep until five in the morning and only for a few hours at a time if that is beginning to be very wearing. I think it really boils down to the question "When" for me. Not "if" but "when."

And by the way, a big old "FUCK YOU."
"If you think this song is about you, you have a guilty fucking conscious and you should get hit by a bus." Epic lolz.

you're still ugly

"THANKS CASH4BABIES" can't wait for this shit to be posted.


ally sits like a bear!


maisey farts.

i want a mini dachshund!



i wish i would have done something like this today - but i'm in a foul mood.

we always knew it was too good to last

I didn't realize it had been four years on what would have been the anniversary. Last year I was painfully aware of how things used to be, and this year, sans the anniversary of "the worst day" I was oblivious. I went about what I normally went about and had a great day and night, and now a few weeks later I look back and go: "huh." If it hadn't been for a passing comment made by a friend and coworker, I don't think I would have even remembered.

I wish I were in Seattle right now, not even to hang out with JH, but to see some friends play a show with The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.

I need a drastic change. Drastic.

Fake Problems

At what point do you just bite your tongue and finally let go? At what point do you wash your hands of a situation and say "It's your funeral?" And when it all goes to shit, like you know it will, can you resist the urge to rub a nose in it and say "I told you so. A hundred times, I told you so."

It's just so frustrating to see friends walk down a path that you can't follow and pull them back. People don't want to hear: "I've been there, I've lived that, please listen to me."

It's frustrating to be asked those questions and not have the answer that is wanted to be heard versus what needs to be heard.

In less stupid and insipid veins... grave maker was super fun. Ill Intent is super good. The blastomat is hot, and I remember why summer shows rule...you leave covered in sweat that is not your own. And that's only a little sarcastic.

I made delicious lasagna for Ashley J and I tonight. Girl date.

Getting up early(ish). Bike ride, yoga, Africa blessing, church, bike ride home, nap, project.

a little nothing

It was only six words, but they burned none the less. A hand left casually on the small of the back was more distracting than what was ear drum rupturing from just inside that broken screen door. That single glance and that single raised eyebrow and everything that was so certain and so sure just moments before no longer exists. He can't hold still; he fidgets and gestures as he speaks, and every intonation is a little lyrical, as though he can't help but vocalize in pentameters and AB rhymes. His entire presence and body weight (which is significant, to be sure) shifts back and forth, from his heels to his toes, and back again, in some kind of two step (ha, ironic) and everyone in the vicinity is drawn in to that motion, as it's infectious and all encompassing.

A blaze of light overhead caught us all off guard. There are certain symbols and ideas that I can't escape. Shooting stars, burning cars, the number 24, multiples of three. This wretched life of outcasts and miscreants still has me tied to it, no matter what I do to escape. There is no other place that feels like home. Don't sit on the couches, don't touch the walls, hover over the toilet seat, keep both eyes open, get knocked ass over tea kettle, bass so loud you can feel it rattling your rib cage, an aggro machismo that is at once annoying and attractive.

Shooting stars. Satellites. The number 24. My own youth and wasted life. Promises of what was, what was to be, and what may never come. No more lost boys. Try and keep up.