Busted up

There was something in the air last Friday. It was a full moon and hotter than hell, but still.
Two couples I know broke up.
A sometime amour read me the riot act via text messages.
Walking home from the block party, I came across a girl sobbing her way along Boren Street. (When I asked if she was okay, she managed, through tears, I'm fine, I'm just being silly, and then she sank to the sidewalk.)
Yes George, I know I need to live in confusion, to examine and endure and even embrace it, but sometimes I'm not sure how much I can take. There seems to me a certain comfort in being settled and incurious.

Shabiby

Finally.
Here's a scan of "The Shabiby Express," the story that placed in the Dylan Days writing contest.
I hope you like.
(PS Click the little box lower right to see a full screen version.)

The weirdo...

These scribbles, written on a wall near Harborview Hospital, stopped me cold. As I read them--amazed, amused, bemused--a homeless woman called out to me. Could I give her money for food?
I just left the Cherry Street Food Bank, I said. It's less than a block away and they're serving lunches right now.
She swore at me, and, hitching up her skirt, sat down on the trunk of a parked car.

Only when I larf*

No Important Movies for me right now. I crave the funny stuff.
Russell Brand and Diddy (surprisingly) killed in this one.
My pal and his kids and I giggled through this.
Nothing like a belly laugh to chase you off the ledge.

*ht to Len Deighton, superbad-ass spy writer.

Wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst..

Got some coolstuf I wanted to share, a story and then some, but instead I stared at my computer.
Listened to some new hip hop on Soundcloud.
Stared some more.
*
Last night someone said a mutual pal was "too much of a pussy and a Buddhist" to make a decision.
C'est moi at the moment.
Wavering.
Doubting.
In a death spiral.
I know I need to ride it out.
One must use caution, as Nietzsche said, in looking too closely at the abyss.

aitch 2 oh

See the sea: cross posting with BusySmartyPants Tumblr.

Portals

I have an obsession with windows.
Which of course has metaphorical implications.
Of seeing, looking, peering, snooping, spying.
Looking into the now, or the future,
or the past,
into someone's most private areas, their home or shop.
The idea of a portal, of movement.
Of reflection, obliqueness, distortion, refraction.
Glances through.
Glimpses blocked.
There's the poignance of a broken window.
Or one that's painted shut.