Late night photo session, Pasadena

Aliens made me do it, they got inside my head

You lie back on the couch and hit play. Surrounded by your noise-canceling headphones track one begins. As you listen to the entire album start to finish, the music coming at you from every angle, attacking you, you start to think, some one created this. To me it’s just a recording, some bits on a microchip, but someone played those notes, sang those lyrics, wrote that music, created those words. It didn’t exist before a brief moment, a flash in their mind. Somehow from nothingness, to a burst of creativity, to what I am listening to. It hits my brain and I know to enjoy it. If that isn’t some alien shit, I don’t know what is.

Talking shit about a pretty sunset

Connectitude

Steven Pressfield wrote The War of Art, a book which I heard recommended on a podcast. I purchased the book, gave it a read, and it changed the way I approach writing. I have since recommended the book to others, who have in turn recommended it, and so on. Recently I sat down to write and thought, “my writing process is directly linked to people who are completely unaware”. What I mean by that is, if Pressfield hadn’t written the book and it hadn’t been recommended on that podcast, I wouldn’t approach the task of writing the way I do today, yet neither have any idea of the influence they’ve had on me. As my recommendation has been passed on, I too may have had a small influence on a piece of a stranger’s life. The chain of connection will continue to grow as the recommendation continues to be passed on unbeknownst to those who it originated with. It’s a strange concept to think how connected we can be to those we have never met.

My vagina is ringing

“Someone must be talking about you”, that’s what people say when you tell them your ears are ringing. What if other parts of the body had the same power. Can you imagine if every time someone watched a pornographic film the participant’s genitals started ringing? “My vagina is ringing”, “someone must be watching that interracial threesome you did”. What interesting conversation that would produce.

Ramblings of a Madman

his fault, we don’t understand
talks of quirks, quarks, and quasars
ramblings of a madman

indecipherable shorthand
piano music for guitars
his fault, we don’t understand

dancing with the sandman
recalls in his memoirs
ramblings of a madman

from society he is banned
for his safety and for ours
his fault, we don’t understand

claims I am the spaceman
seen the heavens, traveled the stars
ramblings of a madman

his mind considered a wasteland
his writings fill bell jars
his fault, we don’t understand
ramblings of a madman

Mornings

A spring or summer day, I can’t remember for sure. The sun hasn’t been up long, no curtains on the windows, morning light gently touching us with a hint of warmth. A slight breeze makes the warm sheets feel especially good against my skin, they smell fresh, clean, hopeful. As she lays beside me not yet awake, I look at her, the gentle flows of her body, so peaceful. Jealous she is still able to sleep, yet thankful I get to watch. These mornings I think about the future, about all the mornings we’ll awake like this. Those mornings, now just memories.