I’ve written a few things since I last posted. I haven’t put ’em up. Maybe I will…


Life has been grand. Life IS grand. Life changes, the creases in wet sand become the geos of the sea-front cliffs. And tempus, that simple commodity we take so for granted in our earliest years, suddenly seems to fugit like a motherfucking swift on crack. time… time… time…


I listened to Townes van Zandt and Bruce Springsteen this morning. Racing in the Streets. It suited a yearning, aching dissatisfaction that set in me last night, a bubbling scream deep in my soul right now that wants to tear through my skin and run naked into the desert, out into the waves, and up into the heavens. I don’t want to grow up. I don’t want to be stuck in this house not creating, not living life close to the skin and bone of it all.


Bruce said it pretty well:

“…but now there’s wrinkles around my baby’s eyes
And she cries herself to sleep at night
When I come home the house is dark
She sighs, “Baby did you make it all right,”
She sits on the porch of her Daddy’s house
But all her pretty dreams are torn,
She stares off alone into the night
With the eyes of one who hates for just being born
For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels,
Rumbling through this promised land
Tonight my baby and me, we’re gonna ride to the sea
And wash these sins off our hands.”


I got handsful of sin. I got sin and ache and need and love and pain all over me, and I need some holy water from the ocean to wash me clean. I need to break me a law, to earn me a bruise. It’s that cutter feeling.




(start this clip at 2:30)