Because This IS the moment...

Because this is the moment I'd rather I found out why or what I was told and did not understand than get upset about it and decimate another person's character.
I did not understand what she said. I did not understand what you said. I went back to her to ask.
No rice with this dish in the Entree's section that said rice and soup served with the dishes listed.
Use their box, and it doesn't matter how much it weighs, it'll be the same for postage on the same box of theirs regardless the weight, and will be more, if you use or reuse your own.
I'll reuse the same box that I've say sent you or that you have sent me or whatever.
That may sound like you're NOT going to use the Post Office box. That in fact, you're going to be using a box from the garage, possibly an old brown cardboard one you may have sent us, etc.
It is a pity a person gets upset when a person just simply explains this.
Yes, people don't understand all the time. Yes, just drop it. Who cares? So what? It doesn't matter. So too isn't it wonderful to see to hear to know to learn to understand? To challenge the difficult in life and have tools then when you learn, to better deal with what in life you encounter?
It is obvious at this juncture, I seem to revel in it. Sorry to try to lord it over onto you. I apologize. I am sorry. I don't care any more. I'm tired. I hate you. Oh well, too bad, get over it, whatever.
It is often unknown what motivates another to say/do what they say/do. Folks are irrational. They do whatever for whatever reason or circumstance. It either means a great deal or nothing at all. OR, it is a little of both. Who knows?
All we have is this moment, this here and now, and it is over by the time one cogitates that it is so.
------
I think the main issue, which is a thought you brought up in conversation some time before, which I thought of later last night:
(It is Thursday morning now and you are getting ready to leave.)
Is that of Dad's Anger, to which I think: OUR anger. Mom's, Yours, Mine.
It is too bad we don't have a handle on when it's coming, and a way of channeling or stopping it.
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Phoenix

Sky Harbor was a blur. One piss, three shots of Crown Royal, and we're off. Too bad we won't be with the two Gals from Aspen. Oh well. At least I'm a bit more relaxed, and the 'aspect' of 'every thing' isn't so ... 'daunting'. Too bad too I can't slip off and see my Father & Step-Mother too.
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/rats-with-wings/5108239?productTrackingContext=center_search_results

Okay But Really, Why?!

Ice in urinals at all these Lenny's type grease-pit 'restaurants'. What's the point? What's the deal?
Why, if they ask, you say, that's a good question? (Stall stall stall, the politician thinks up something to say.) Why don't people say: That's a stupid question(?). Instead, they just insult you. Doubly so.
{From The Handheld}

WORD

Today's Reading comes to us from King James Douglas Morrison: "I'm sick of these stinky boots. I'll never wake up in a good mood again". Which we interpret: I'm sick of these stinking moods. When will I wake up in a good mood?
{From The Handheld}

Cold Still

My brown and black, mesh and suede nylon Vasque trainers on my feet, well worn good foot support out. Loose top white crew socks, mysteriously still clinging to my rough, raw, cold, chapped shins. Loose fitting Levis 505's, 33/30 in pre-wash-fadedness, hanging annoyingly off my hips, but not off or below my 'negative-butt' arse, as the style of the day is. Medium fitting, Large size, Fruit-Of-The-Loom brand, Black pocket T, with a Medium, long-sleeved, fine-ribbed, black, polo shirt, over that, by Land's End. A cotton on the inner body, and fleece at the neck, insulated, dark-charcoal, zipper front, woolen sweater, by Carraigdonn, in Ireland, a brown wool ski-cap by Patagonia, from Italy or France. I'm cold this tail-end of Spring.
Delivered Via Aether Space

Insurance Girl As A Naked Baby In My Dream

And so I get my gig, my first Hollow-Wood situation, in decades, and am to appear at an undisclosed location somewhere in the bowels of Hollywood proper. It was one of those nondescript places nestled off a busy street, right next to some houses, that'd been there for years, probably longer than these "studios".
Parking right out front for me, a Producer? Well, I dunno. A simple green car with 4 doors, but without it, my nuts were gone, and I need those. Just, you know, in case.
I get on set, every thing's a mess. People clothes cables lights grip stuff every where. Folks on tour. I'm telling them it's closed. There's a fire I have to call in. I'm trying to turn on the work lights three times and a fire breaks out around a flat wall, out of my view but I can hear it and see the orange light, see some smoke. It's like I'm the stage manager, not even a producer at all, and no one cares about me or the fill in job I have to do thank-less-ly. But of course when every one walks by when it comes time to leave, they're all bragging about how they're having to have their Rolex's serviced and are going to TimeShare's in Acapulco in three weeks. Who cares?
I have ... Oh, no worries. Flash on the old days when I had to bum a ride home or something, but no. I have my car. I can drive my self ho...walking out to the curb. There's nothing there! What?! What? Where's my car? It's not there. And I go into panic mode and find the office and ask all around and am viewing shocked faces. I'm all, over-reacting for them. I get a line on the tow service. I'm yelling and screaming my story to each and every face in the bureau-crazy. Not open today at this time. Will have to call tomorrow. Such-n-such time, etc. Damn. Walking along the crowded cubicles a dog or two come out to greet me, calm me down, etc. I get with a friendly face or three, and finally it's the insurance broker lady on TV. She's naked or partially clothed. She has really odd pale skin. Hairy like I'd never noticed it before.
And she's cuddling with me and I like it. People in the office are making noises about us, as they pass by, but she doesn't care. I smile, and wake up, ready to get into my wacky-weird day. Not all populated with rude, coupon people.
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Rats With Wings

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BUY IT NOW!
{From The Handheld}

TWO DREAMS

MON. MAR. 29th, 2010
DREAM: Emma Watson and I were dancing in a roundish room of doors, after we had been tasting a bunch of whisky. Highland Park was the last glass. It was the lightest and sweetest best taste. Our mouths were burnt and burning from others, the HP was like fresh water. Earlier I had been hiking the hills to the rocky high promontory coast. There had been some land cleared out and soil added around a few trees. One tree was on a high top area in the middle of this high end housing tract, and with my bare hands, I was patting it. I'd followed Emma on horseback, her back to camera, we as ghost flying behind, admiring the beautiful female body shape form. And I was on that hilltop, saying something, and then we were walking the hills together for a bit and then were in a room. A bar. A tasting place at a long table, trying out the whisky. Laughing. Having a grand time of it. After the last sample, really good and buzzed, we left. We were in that room. Pushed a button for the Lift apparently, and then she grabbed me and we began to dance. I followed quite easily, until I thought about it and then didn't step too well, then she stopped. THE END.
---
SOME other dream after, along the coast, car parking under water. Florida I think it was. I wanted to read this magazine article. I was having to check out its length and put a book mark in it, but the words kept going on. There were the photos and they were those moving images ones where the rain drops falling slowly on a sunny day illuminated clearly the overly sunny bright Florida coast, as the raindrops very slowly dropped, making big ripples here and there. How did those people get into and out of their cars without them flooding, much less, start them up?

{From The Handheld}

I Say, Good Bye, True Love.

Giving up writing as a career choice now certainly has freed up in me a lot of pressure from the standpoint of all the heady emotions I used to have. I'll bet now my health will improve as well, no more barrage of oddity squeaks and squirms, the hurts and fears here there that I used to endure. I'll be pain free until death do I part. Well, yeah, sure, why not?
----
People ask me about something and I plainly tell them. I don't wear much of a face on, but what ever I may have in the moment, I ride on the outside, and if I'm bored or tired or any thing, it's broadcast loud and clear, I guess. Or when I tell people something, my family way of speaking like a major authority, comes across as bossy or arrogant or I'm having to stop my day to tell you?
I guess that's what, from time to time people ask something, I tell them, then they tell me: "Okay, I didn't know. I was just asking. I've never been here before."
And I then really chafe. I say: And you asked me and it is my job to tell you and so I'm telling you.
Which isn't best under current circumstance, to be uttering. Just don't say any thing, or smile, mean it, and say; Have a nice day. Or I'm sorry. I'm really at a loss here for what I've done to hurt you. I didn't mean to. I was asked a question and I did my best to be as thorough as possible and answer your question and then some.
That, 'and then some', may not be necessary from time to time. They may only need a 'turn left at the crossroads', and nothing about the weather, or conditions of the sign; the minute descriptions of the myriad confounding little sidetracks, all along the way. They don't all need that, but pity me who's taught to be the best and is trying hard and ends up allowing them the opportunity to say something that you decide hurts you, and since you don't have anything of the sort in re - a poker face, your anger frustration screams out at the world through your visage, sorry!
One day some guy asked What are we shooting at today? You reply Same thing every day, the targets! They say the killer line "Never been here before".
Great, pissed us both off once again. I'm tired of this. I think, why are other people so emotionally super sensitive? Truth is, YOU are!
{From The Handheld}

RELAX PARTNER!

Had wanted to sit and think and write a spell. Got on this thing after yet another pee and spate of reading Lehane's Shutter Island, which I was inspired to read after seeing the film. I usually do it the other way around, esp sic after I know the film based on the book is coming out. And after a dump of some stomach wasting toxicity, and reading again. I got back here instead and began to read yet another one of these huge It's A Conspiracy of some sort emails my sister sends of someone on a typo/poor argument bound thing about Vaccinations, and how folks are getting sick from them actually. Had to stop. It was all over the place. Gave me a headache. Well, I read some more of the book after the pee as I said and after the Lehane book reading, which I at first at one point wasn't interested in picking up again, I got on email and then got back to the book, again, after peeing, long after the shit...and boy oh boy is this confusing or what? And who wants to read this any how? I can't even clearly write it, the order of events, kept straight, I think, in my head! Dammit, man. Shit!
It's 7:05, I start at 8:15, and I usually go in from the parking lot a half hour or so beforehand to make sure I'm on time. And there's plenty of time and re-reading this, it isn't so bad, but in a better frame of mind I'll be better able to sort it out. What to do?
Well, I can cull some pens, just a few, simple dealios and have that be my bag for Mexico. Not like the crazy stuffed bolsas of past visitations. I just must maintain a semblance of peace before ... before work today, and the trip then which I hope I can do without the dizzying low blood pressure relaxers for plane flight, but still be calm for the journey. Fuckers moved the cones next to me and though there are plenty of other places closer to the shuttle stop this short fat chick w/radio blaring door open blocking my exit too, just taking her time setting herself and her car up for the long park exposed to the elements of the day. What with clouds, I don't think much sun, but she's putting up her sunshades. Radio still on ... yet another apron put on. And now a sweater or two. Shit! I have a window open here on the other side of my car, but I'm so frazzled, irritated, and choking, I need to get air on her side (I'm in the front passenger seat.) so I open the window there, and still nothing of radio silencing or turning down. It's not that loud, but fuck! Close your damn door! She gets now into her car and still, ready for work she sits a spell. Putting on make up? I don't care. Just, you know, I got here because I figures no one'll park next to me. Already a car on my left. Cones and spaces for the shuttle-buses next to me on the other side. No one'll park there. Can't move those cones. Well the shuttle guy's moved bus after bus and then moved the cones!! I just can't handle people and radios and car alarms when I'm trying myself with a full bladder to sit and read and relax, to sit and read and relax!!!
{{From Unit # 9630}}

Wig City

Dig you freak out when Dylan went electric? Have a conniption with that "wild" guitar solo in the Carpenters Good-Bye To Love? Are you prone to massive seemingly erratic emotional out bursts? It's only human, you're supposed to make mistakes. Thanks Billy Joel, feel much better.
{From The Handheld}

Yeah And Aint It Surprising?

Yeah, and aint it surprising? The good news is very good and sad. I mean, here I am feeling so good at work this week and things have been good and bad and for some reason I'm not terrorizing the hell out of my self that I'm thinking when is it going to break? But isn't something terrible going to happen? Of course, and it does. Both local and afar. With people I know in hospitable and then strangers, even more just flipping out, going off, and it's very very sad. I'm older than every one else. I should be gone, but I'm not. I haven't a thing to do or say and all around are all these cool people and they're doing things in a publically acknowleged way, and are making money from it, something I desperately want, but have no inkling for and means to, and though I don't want their lives as such, I don't want to be like them do like them, I do want that acclaim or notice for what I do and say. I want it to have meaning, resonance, be of higher accord, and, to have to be able to do that alone, and NOT HAVE to do what I do now. Yeah, and aint it surprising, they make sure these people aren't listed as terrorists. They shoot their co-workers and they destroty company enemy workers and property with their airborne vehicles, and their end result is terror, yet, aint it surprising? Yeah.

Winternationals

Used to go when Ontario had a motor speedway. Riverside as well, met Dan Gurney way back when. It was all so cool. Then all the key men folk figure heroes in my life began dropping like flies, literally, right before my eyes, and I never quite recovered. And yeah I know, boo-hoo! Get over it, but didn't realize such the impact until 40 years later. Who am I? What should I be? What care to sort anything out about any of it any way? Nothing. NOTHING!
{{From Unit # 9630}}

ON THE LIST OF THINGS TO DO

Read Warren Hinckle's WHO KILLED HUNTER S. THOMPSON, if it will ever be released. It's told to this author by ed and proprietor of Last Gasp Press of SF that spring this spring will see it. Was in final 2 weeks of final editing...and that was it seems about a week or three ago now. Been pining for some HST screed, but MUTINEER, the final book of letters, is now due 2011 or so, FEBRUARY, of that year, oh well.
{{From Unit # 9630}}

The New Month

MON. FEB. 1st, 2010
Don't know precise methodology for speaking here, right now. For what should be written, who knows? Can't say as I'm of any help.
There's too much. Much too much to say, that needs relating, etc.
Life is god masturbating. Just, living life, being, experiencing, in all its myriad, seemingly sourceless permutations: animal, vegetable, mineral. In the vast array of creatures' thought, emotion, etc. That is its "essence."
Is it more important for me to control my temper, my thoughts, et cetera, than it ever will be for me to write stories and sell them? Is it more important to learn what happiness is than to get a job/career that "means" something?
Will curing me of my infantilism cure me of my creativity? Will discipline to sit and read and write without missing a day of it, make me a better person or will the reverse do a better job? How will I know either way?
A person knows only what they know. They go for that. Their instincts those voices all that chatter, from within from without, they take all that into account, and act, for good or ill, to for of by themself/others, and that is life. And if in any retrospective view is measured, some things worked some did not and there are other deals wanting. And that's just about it.
I was not in the mood to read or write or stay here this morning of a later start day, but here I am writing, and soon I'll be reading, and maybe just maybe we'll get every thing covered.
{From The Handheld}

SAGE ADVICE TO CREATIVE TYPES

Do not depend on the hope of results. When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the rightness, the truth of the work itself. . . .
 –Thomas Merton, in a letter to Jim Forest dated February 21, 1966, reproduced in The Hidden Ground of Love: Letters by Thomas Merton (W. Shannon ed. 1993).
{From The Handheld}

Stuff

Got stuff on my synapses here that shouldn't be. 1) Care over what people around me are doing. It comes to mind that the less I care about what I think normally people should or should not be doing around me, the better I feel. Having said that, it suddenly occurs that, therein may be a key to happiness. I just don't care. That perennial apathy. Key on a chain around my neck. One or more of them. Plugs, dragging the ear lobes of some jolly passing travelers, so what? And if you can translate that or carry it onward to the other drivers on the road or co-workers and their mess, etc. Shoot! Success City Arizona!! Sociopathy here I come, eh? Just where is that substance (some kind of neuro-nutralizer) that supposedly these suicide bombers take, the don't care don't feel pain stuff (But why then would they even care to complete their missions? How does that work??), that magic "happy pill", to take me to that faery land, a rabbit hole, across the river with Lenny in Of Mice and Men, all soft and cuddily, ahhh, yeeeesss!
{{From Unit # 9630}}

There Has Got To Be...

TUE. JAN. 19th, 2010
DEATH be not proud. Please, do not let me go messy. Don't make me stupid, lame, and dumb. Let me not be forgotten, as we all are and all will be. Much like death, denied or life, lived in oblivion of. Think of me once in awhile dear world, yes, self-same I cursed and yelled to take me out occasionally. A flair for the dramatics, which truly wasn't or isn't necessary; I am not a writer or actor of any repute. I am nothing of course. Don't exist any more, so why should I care? Once said this morning on a whim, when I'm dead, an angel, of evil or good intent, I'm sure somehow (I don't know how I'll know.), I'll miss this, being alive. Now, ultimately, nothing matters. That's what lesson is available from thinking and growing rich. The book. Pretty bleak. If you ask me. Stupid too. Lame. Dumb. "There has got to be a better way". Thanks to screenwriter of Bill Mckay (The Candidate), Waldo Salt? ((JEREMY LARNER actually. He also wrote: "Drive, He Said."))

{From The Handheld}

What I Really Want

SUN. JAN. 17th, 2010
Don't know how or why it was to me my way of thinking a bad idea to take a shower this morning. Feel so good. Cue Chuck
Mangione muzak. Maybe we should just pee now and meditate. Ah yes. But really, trouble is, don't want to do any thing, not even drive away from here. Certainly don't want work at same place where we've been all this time. Don't know what I want. Don't know as I could have slept in much longer than I had. Don't know that I was or am any more glad happy satisfied for any thing that I have. I am so grateful thankful indebted etc esp sic my mother for protecting taking care of me. My sister my dad as well. I'm overwhelmed by grief and hope and worthlessness. Don't know exactly what to say or do. Maybe I can write about it, put it into a story that appears out of me soon, much like the shopping mall story where the man's head went down with a ker-klunk, the screenplay and short work of prose out of it that is Rats With Wings.
What's on my list? Gaa, I dunno. I've done it, but haven't made a full time career of writing, the arts, the movies. I've been in and have worked on many. Yeah. I have. And so...but nothing long term and or making profit creating nest egg, etc.
----
What I want to do where I want to go involves flushing toilets cleaned by me on a regular basis but not under duress. Pockets full of nice shiney clean expertly working new then because they're taken care of, old things, but are still rich cool expensive good but never boastful or bragging about. Clean well lighted places, yes, Hem. For books or living. And I want to be in and feel to be a part of.
Would love to learn how to survive in the wild, but wouldn't want to have to now or forever have to be roughing it in a real way, forever. Sorry Sam (uel Langhorne Clemons).
Don't...I don't want to say I do not any more. I want to be able to say, I have an ISBN or 8, and glow in the dark legible watches. Eyes that don't bother me. A girl that doesn't either, but HELPS, in a good way. (WAYS) I want things I have to do, doing done. No grief angst misery protracted nonsense from elements of society weather universe. Or the cast iron stainless poly-carbonate diamond whatever constitution to endure, the faith of a Brazil Nut in sitting meditating with my vision to get it done, forever.
{{From Unit # 9630}}

I STILL DON'T GET IT

All my life I've searched for something I cannot name. I really don't know what it is. I really mean that, if you know, you know something when and where you find it, you know what it is, then, before that, it's just something you can't name and you spend all your life searching, searching, searching for it...
Now, all along the way, by and by it comes to being that you find it...all these little things that amongst the big or bigger photographic still-frame in your mind, you find, and you go: A-HA! It's a satori, a pop blast between the eyebrows (iffen you don't have a mono-brow) and it's IN to your third eye itself.
Here and there you have your little get its.
But over all, to keep you going, you don't get what you want, get it? You don't because that's what keeps you going, all along the way, and you say to yourself, all along the way or all my life I've been searching for something I cannot or my heart cannot name...and, yeah that quote is attributed to Francois Villon or some one some times, and is paraphrased here, from the book by Hunter S. Thompson, Hell's Angels, that is really, I feel, something he wrote himself.