My whistle collection. 34 years in the making.
when you live in the most stimulating city in america and your jaded, one thing that makes the city seem new is waking up in a neighborhood you don't frequent and not knowing where you are in relation to your familiar haunts. it also helps to sleep past the point when the sun is half way thru it's day long journey. resulting in a deeper disorientation. i walked outside this morning and saw the bay, the suns position in the sky was ambiguous. i saw 2 beautiful women in sunglasses and sun dresses blowing in the breeze passing by and enquired, " where am i?, i woke up in a strange bed." i don't recall what they said, for i had reawakened my still looming enchantment by sampling the mysterious cups of liquor that remained on the table from lastnights forgotten session. i asked them,"where is north beach? the two of them pointed in opposite directions. i finally deduced that i was on the other side of russian hill and climbed over it drinking a bottle of beer in the sun .the first clock i saw read: 2:15 pm
5 minutes ago i was smoking a bowl and looking into the eyes of a cop, thru an ambulance window. he had been beaten by a street hippy in the library. the hippy is in the small library jail cell with about ten cops surrounding him making fun of his mentally ill answers to their questions. every cop in the neighborhood responded and the ambulance got a police escort. before they pulled away a man implored for the escorts help but was waved away.
when i drank that glass of absinthe last night , the lights were switched off. when i woke up there was a new painting on my canvas and on my clothes.my brow is beaten, probably from testing the hardness of building materials with my head. blood is evident on my painting. hopefully i didn't steal anyone's girlfriend or get thrown out of my favorite bar.(i wouldn't want to forget that) there was white and teal paint smeared across my mouth so that my first glance in a mirror this morn gave the illusion of a missing bottom lip, it frightened me. either i puked last night or acrylic paint has a very similar taste. i could use a couple stitches but i bought a beer in their place.
the i first great song written about me includes lyrics like this: "like an old fucked up dog who nobody wants to love, i can move away all by myself there ain't no need to shove. i got good dirt beneath my feet and blue skies above, even though i'm always feeling like a bullet through a dove.~he's acting kinda shitty but he's really just plain bored and the monkey with the high school spirit (something unintelligeble).... if you can't find a real good time to listen to this song maybe you ought to drive out to the country and just try to hum along. these words they hurt and it's so hard to understand the dog, when its midnight in kentucky and somebody's in the fog. now jimmy bob's a little further down the bypass and all my highschool friends are acting like it's JIM class . i got a secret but it's hidden in the bluegrass, somebody's took my old antiques and turned them into new trash. .....i got a real good mind to dress up like a clown and take some gasoline and burn it down" lyrics by john murphy of the kentucky snakehandlers circa 2004 (a portland oregon band) burning down the city of portland is the idea
Postings by friend and artist James Vain, used with permission.
Tonight. Walking under crystal skies I hear two sounds.
The brittle crunch of my footfalls in fallen the snow.
And the great horned owl in the distant trees,
Protecting his territory.
I sense my fallen friends. I sense my father.
My heart quickens, my pace slows.
I sense excitement and joy.
Perhaps adventure still awaits me.