The ocean breeze is creeping through the air, without a force as is necessary to push along the salty clouds that loom above. Although the natural flow of the things encompassing seem lulled, there is no suspension here; mighty palms, lit by lamps, suffice as my company this evening. My shoulders are sore, my legs ablaze with the ache of many tens of miles trudged… I am happy. This place instills an innocence in me - not one that is defined by naivety, or is wrought with inexperience. However, a kind of sense of unburdened calm that is claimed only by those who have lived questionably, perhaps from time to time, and have washed themselves of their fatiguing apprehensions. Losing sight of value and mirth is not unlike dancing dangerously with devils. Reclaiming it, or, at least, realigning yourself to the appropriate trajectory, is enough of a saving grace. I’ll let the waves wade around my ankles awhile and smile, in unison, with my own silly and twisted face, reflected to me in boughs of moonlit sea-foam. Is deep blue, and golden.
iPhone = portable porn.
Who dun thunk it?!
Blogging from my phone is supes weird, hombres. I paid for the minimum data plan and, apparently, have already gone well over my limit, forcing a charge for a secondary data package. Fuckin’ Instagram bullshit! I guess I have a few days left to get my moneyz worth.
I spent the earlier half of the day walking from one destination to another in this horrific, sweltering heat. I bought a spray canister of sunscreen on sale because I really can’t afford to not have any. I’m no vampire but I’m not about to be a raisin, as they say (they being nobody. Nobody has used that phrase, ever).
Angus and Hollywood are barking at little chicanos lighting firecrackers. They also like to slobber uncontrollably all over my arms. All I can think of when I spend time with these dogs, little horses that they are, is how tragically awkward Aaron is going to look walking Damien in six months time. Danes are massive, and if bull size is any indication of the brood, Damien’s just going to be too damn big.
That’s third time now I’ve heard an ice cream truck pass this afternoon. Either this neighborhood is a dynamite ice cream market, or I’m calling shady drug runners. Viva la Tucson!
I’m not looking forward to San Diego on Thursday morning. Long stretches of highway and salty ocean scents I can deal with; death in the family I can deal with (as I’ve been finding ways all the week); but I’m not sure I can deal with the emotional-political landscape of my Uncle’s dining room table. I know the importance of my presence, and am fully aware that this is ultimately in the best interest for all of our grieving hearts. If the repetitiveness of history has taught me anything, however, it has taught me that this will prove more tasking than anyone needs right now. Words will be misconstrued, differences will be had, and the responsibility of issuing diplomacy falls to the few of us who are not already fully crippled under the emotional burden of death. Nobody needs that, and so three cheers to hoping I’ve made a poor assumption. It is my only wish for everyone to see this through, to unite in the bonds of love and family, and to put aside all else.
Because, really, what else matters if not those things?
Ice cream truck is still at it. Dayum son!
I need to get the Internet or some paints or something.
What a confluence of bullshit. The blurred combination of drinks, wobbling Rastafarian beats, and facebook photos are hitting me in the absent ways of a lifestyle past. I’m having trouble registering truths against falsities… having trouble delineating reality from dreams and nightmares. There is so much to care about, so many to follow zealously. Yet, I feel confined, peeking out of a window smeared with doubt, my face pressed too closely to the glass. A housewarming or a funeral, and no money either way. A job of service or the job of being dedicated. All things lead similarly to confusion, and my only sensible choice this night is to order my soda water without poison.
Can I handle you?
Maybe and likely not, but god I hope so. Not silver tongued.
Taken with Instagram at Tombstone
I just want a friend…
…who will get stoned and listen to Frances the Mute with me in the dark. I won’t even touch you inappropriately. Promise!
(via alexanderchang)
