We met Wayne Coyne from The Flaming Lips and he drew on some art I had in my notebook. Talk about achieving a life goal!!!!!! He was so nice. Talked to him for five minutes!
There’s this sable behemoth
Just like me,
After scrapping with the one I love,
Running circles of fire, burnt by the tales of flame,
Claustrophobia, draws me outside
And I don’t know which void is larger,
The night’s sky,
Or her heart, because mine is full of sorrow.
Somebody has a duplicate of our car, Kandice! LOL
An echo presumes
A sound never ends, fading
Until it transcends.
Today, the PlayStation 3 works, the biplanes of sordid colors thunder on above me, setting car alarms to chime in response of its supersonic vibrations due to its low flight pattern. It dips and twists like the formation of a soft-serve ice cream cone, and I feel obliged as the child eating it.
Today, the 63’ Mercury Comet sets off with an efficient ease. The coffee is strong as the sunlight on the first of February in Sunny Diego. I just finished The Rolling Stone’s Special Edition of Pink Floyd, and now it is time to crack open Doctor Sleep and continue the excitement of The Shining. I’m out and about today, gaining inspiration to hack down the tall tree that represents my first full length novel. Also, life is inches away from me beginning my job at The Goodwill in downtown San Diego, spinning records and selling/ organizing a library of books on its own floor.
As fresh as the first day we dated, my girlfriend and I have a wildfire of passion; a love that began with a match. And though times may be difficult with an impending reality prodding my ass to do something about it, everything is worth it because I am exactly where I am supposed to be. That a blink of an eye ago, I lived in my aunt’s second floor room, paying $150 a week, bitched out daily about how inhumane and irresponsible I was, mentally tortured like some of the greatest protagonists we read about in literature today.
It’s easy to lay in bed and watch the day turn to night. You can stay up all night with your eyes blindfolded, and it’s simple to watch the sun come up to hear the birds sing. What’s difficult is putting on your clothes and stepping out the door to explore it all. If you can do that everyday, you’ve achieved something. Knowing that you did something instead of nothing might make doing nothing more and more difficult. Nobody wants to do nothing. But some of us feel it’s all we can do at times. It all starts with stepping out of your cave.
About three weeks ago. I decided to step out of my cave. I had been in there for a while because my job at Barnes and Noble was seasonal and they had no intention of keeping me on payroll. It was the best job I had ever had. But life isn’t emotional, it just is, and I had to accept that. So I got out of that cozy bed with all the fluffy feathery pillows and soft fuzzy blankets, and I stepped outside to go change my address at the post office to my current residence. I got there and waited in line. Some punk waiting in line stepped up to my face and said, “I won, bitches.” As he sold his text books, a program this specific post office has. The remark got under my skin, and I wondered why I I even went out in public. When it was my turn, I asked the clerk to change my address when she said that they don’t do that service anymore, but it can all be done online! Of course, just another reason to never leave my house, I thought.
As I was walking back, I saw an old lady passing my house. I was just about to open my door and go back into my cave, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her tumble like a broken bag of groceries on the ground. She had tripped on a long piece of plywood the rowdy neighbors threw there. I ran up to her and asked if she was okay. When she got to her knees, I saw she was bleeding from the forehead and her hands. Her eye glasses had broken on impact. She had hit her head very hard. I helped her up. She seemed discombobulated by the hard hit. I brought her to my house, had her sit in a chair, while I got her water, paper towels to stop the bleeding, and bandages with Neosporin so that the injury would not become infected. I put the bandages on her forehead because she could not herself. She called me an angel that came out of nowhere, and I tried to keep conversation with her. Her name was Pearl, 83 years old, as old as my grandmother when she passed away this past year. I had her call one of her granddaughters to come pick her up. I helped her to the front of the house where we waited for her ride to come. When that ride came, I told that driver she needed to go to the hospital, precautionary. They thanked me and off the sped.
Hours later I got a phone call from her. It was Pearl. She told me she was okay, thankful for going to the hospital, and very thankful I was there on a not very busy street. She told me she got 6-8 stitches, but she didn’t have a concussion. Days later, I received a thank you card for being a hero. I had never saved anyone’s life, but the feeling I got from doing that good hasn’t died out three weeks later.
What I’m trying to say here, is that if I hadn’t gone out of my cave that day, Pearl would have tripped on that piece of wood, collapsed, without help, and me being inside my cave, not even knowing what had happened. That idea kills me to think about, but it’s the truth. So instead of hiding away and watching all the seasons of Breaking Bad in a week, (totally worth it, but) go outside, even if you’re broke. I have no money, but I still go out every day. Because you never know what will happen. But you’ll know what will happen if you stay inside all day. Nothing.
- Jasper Quince
Under the pines or palms, on leaves or the sand,
Thoughts that West was just a breath, the stuff that blows seeds just enough,
Waves to land, woman to woman, woman to man, man to man,
To a place where faces meet, grow, weep, glow, sleep, know in safe keep.
The East in the least, made plaster to keep, the “freaks” from leaking
Their feelings to be and succeed, but you can’t contain what’s meant to be freed, and the need, after years of refrain and suppression, outgrew their recession to become the history our children will read.
The mouth of the South, the Georgia peach ,outspeech their remarks, and though they’re a part,
They pretend they’re apart, to kickstart beliefs, loud like bullhorns, their rights, their law through clenched teeth, in anger and guns, to warn us, that the time is upon us and preach to the One, but maybe they’re wrong.
Quiet like mice, The North hid in their rights , where what wasn’t seen couldn’t be, until made a rouse, to get out of the boundaries to riot for a dream, where everyone was created equal, we all live in the same house, and only acts of evil are the things we should be calling obscene.
The instinct always points in the right direction, the compass inside,
Knows things you don’t understand, until it becomes an obsession, Until you speak your mind, and act on your part, to stop listening to the bullshit, that spreads the world apart. We’re coming out of the dark ages, to eliminate the sadists,
We all are the same strain of something incredible, to share a belief that every breath is a miracle, and that what you hate on principle is the same blood that made all of us.
So be gracious.
A faith in friends tumbles on like the urge in cannibals,
Wrapped up inside the bandages that sap the color from the jowls.
Around the bend, we’ll always find them,
You can’t live with them, and you can’t grow a flower without its stem.
Where do we pick up the eggs of each day to juggle, toss, to eat?
Shall we embarrass our mayor, smoke crack, but be discreet?
Or wait at the mall, school steps, the army barracks for excitement to happen?
Are you the one that starts the war, orders, and lights the dynamite, captain?
I wonder, what we’ll make of all this,
When the sun has cycled so many times,
My mind crumbles, letting in less hits the more I miss.
And the friends I once had, fall apart like broken nursery rhymes.
Will I still be hungry like the cannibal,
Or will the bandages grow part of me,
And the inner animal,
Dies inside and hardens into the mummy?
Poem by: Jasper Quince