Sunday

A Purple Splash of Paint on the On Ramp

There was a purple paint spill on the on-ramp to the highway I took to work every day. I love purple. I see it in the exhausted yet still squirming chemical residue light blur at night driving down the road or walking down the road. I don't know the meaning of purple: biblical, secular, art historical. Purple for me is the life or light that leaks out of the form of the expected structure - purple is blood. I don't know how else to say it. It spills out of my optic nerve when there are no other visuals making any sense to me. Exhausted flashback. Stoned or drunk light leaking from the containment of my visual expectation of shape, leaking from shape. Connecting everything - connecting energy from every energy source to every other energy source. Purple is life, I guess. Comforting me, clarifying purple arising, bleeding, sweating from a long day that has died off into an interesting night. It's a funky old pimped out color - a color with a sense of humor. But it is noble. It is potent. Purple can be a surprise. It is all colors combined. It melts and impacts the negatives reeling in my eyeballs. That paint spill seemed to occupy a plane slightly above the actual roadway. It made no turbulence in my suspension as I passed over it day after day. It altered my vision, adjusted it proper for a clear and sane day of viewing. The shape of that paint spill definitely conveyed a 45 mile-per-hour and accelerating G-Force scenario of vandalism and escape into highway congested anonymity. Maybe some tripper sat in the bed of a speeding pick-up truck, and he threw a can of that paint out the back, and it exploded on the pavement, "Wew!!!" I wish I could have seen it! A paint explosion - what's more vivid than a paint explosion? The blob of paint in mid air beating gravity momentarily reaching out with growing blob arms and legs tumbling and traveling in mid air, sprouting out in all directions, and then it dives and splats on the pavement. Damn! I saw the paint stain while I was tripping on acid. After driving over it a million times on a sober head, one day I drove over it tripping on acid, and the experience added a dimension, altered its hue, energized it, electrified it, animated it - it was the same paint stain - the same shape - but something new emerged from it or emerged within my perception of it. Days, weeks, months and years after that trippy day, the added hue or added frequency or wave or additional energy was still visible to me as those chemicals diffused into my spinal fluids never to leave, and that vision squirted into my mind swirl, becoming an active ingredient. That spill stayed there on the pavement a long ass time, it might still be there right now - I have since moved away. Who will go to the trouble of re-paving a road just because of a paint spill? I think other folks loved that spill and depended on it as much as I did. It was accidentally beautiful, or I wonder if it was intentional. Did a paint can just fall off a truck? Or some art student or some commercial painter or some psychology experimenter or some visuals donor or whoever thought about it and did it, "I'm going to make a mark. A beautiful purple mark."

Everybody should do that.

Everybody should dump a can of paint on a road somewhere.
Just as the so called ‘civilized' man builds his home next to nature or some resource or fruitful place, the super civilized man makes his home next to the works of man - and finds his living in the folly of man, the surplus and the inefficiency and the carelessness. In other words, he digs through his trash and steals any unsecured object laying around the property and picks up discarded items around town.

+ Live in the woods next to a driving range. Collect all the stray golf balls that the hacks slice off into the woods and sell them by the bucket.

+ Build musical instruments with objects and scraps I find beside the road. Play tunes for the tourists and let them fill my hat with money.

+ Build a small plywood shack on a flat push cart - carts like those you see listing along in hardware super store parking lots. Three small walls, a small door and a ceiling - all nailed together and attached with wire to the push cart. My sleeping bag thrown in there and my clothes. Wheeling my home down the sidewalk.

Wednesday

not much to say - not worried about it - an empty head is a receptive head

Sunday

Toothpaste was one of his only requirements of the civilized world. Hand soap could be found in off ramp gas station bathrooms without too much interaction with civilized beings. Hand soap could be used for deodorant, though it stung the arm pits a bit. Just slather some up under the arm pit, and you're stink free for the day. Hand soap lathered up well for shaving, if he had a razor. Hand soap could be used for hair shampoo, though it dried the hair and the scalp a bit. Hand soap could be used to wash clothes. There was no substitute for tooth paste, however. Once a month or so, he would go into town to beg for a little money. He would use the proceeds to buy a few tubes of toothpaste. It did not take long to raise the sum required. People walked by him as he panhandled. Many refused him. Maybe they thought he would just use the money for booze or drugs, or they were greedy or wary or just wanted to remain oblivious. He would just smile at them with his bright, white, healthy teeth and ask the next passer by.

whole story

Tuesday

I might be broke as hell - barely able to maintain a residence and eat - but I can still buy a red ink pen and wield all the authority that goes with it - and equip myself at the Army Navy Store - and go in the trophy shop and buy a trophy with the words " World's Best Human Being : All Categories " - and buy a blank certificate and certify myself able to perform open pants surgery - but I think I've exhausted all my merits on this subject, on this better than better horse shit. -INSTEAD- I'm going to slide under the fence with as much property as I can steal.

Sunday

Either somebody has gone insane, or there's some supernatural shit going on around here.
Each Garment Is a Thought

I worked as a temp stocking up a brand new Burlington Coat Factory, setting up the store right before it opened for the holidays a couple of years ago. The store had just been built. I helped in the child coats section first. I must have carried a million little kid coats - really weird and funny - these little shiney coats made of such crisp starch new stiff material stuffed so full of feather filling that the arms on these little kid coats stuck straight out from the bodies even as they hung on the little hangers - as though there was already a little kid in the coat and the kid was trying to give you a hug - I picked up stack after stack of these and carried them - carried thousands of these little coats to racks and hung them up. All different colors and textures and sheens and some with little hoods and mittens attached. I also assembled dressing rooms, prefabricated, pre cut and pre finished panels of wood and instructions included, this peg here, hinge door there, screw this under there, the seats the mirrors and stick on stickers bewaring of shoplifters being prosecuted. Just like little apartment houses I was building - door next to door next to door - I'd get tired and hide in there a while and rest, and I wondered if I could just hide out in the dressing room until the store was set up and opened up in two months and just pop out. I worked in a massive massive warehouse with hundreds of clothing racks, racks on wheels, full of all kinds and colors and cuts of clothes. I was stranded in a maze of clothes racks. Workers came along and wheeled them away, and it was a maze - a maze of walls - but the walls were moving every minute - the walls of clothes swirling and waving, clothes which were constantly moving and disappearing and wheeling away and reappearing and you didn't know where you were within the massive massive warehouse because your multicolored surroundings were constantly changing and you were crammed in there, lost among a million million garments unable to see over the tops of the wisps of fabric, like a theater stage with the only performance being the actual opening of curtains to the opening of another set of curtains which will open to another set of curtains which itself, too, will open and the whole performance is just one opening of fabric after another, or sliding set constructions of cloth slipping on by and gliding layers of fabric making surprisingly little noise for the amount of visual commotion you are witnessing and it is spontaneous performance art and it would be a beautiful play - inadvertent art - or organic like I was eaten and I'm now passing through the fabric folds of intestines - or like being born and I'm passing through the fabric of a birth canal - or geologic like mining a fabric mountain - or like bobbing in an ocean of fabric - a storm surge, and I see other folks drowning in it too - or all space is but fabric - the fabric of space is the fabric of fabric - and I'm out there in it - or it is time and I'm passing through it, I'm passing hours, days and years and these fabric garments are the ticks of a clock, the pages of a calender - or - I AM DEAD, and I'm making much more out of it than is actually there, blowing my surroundings out of proportion and imagination = the fabric of my own coffin = and there I am with wild visions pulsing and spitting in my rotting, dead brain - outfits and dresses and skirts and blazers and shirts and pants and tumble and dance and zooming by, and sleeves and pant legs swinging up synchronized, a chorus line and rippling in the momentum and hips of pants and skirts boggie down on the rack wheeling along to be wheeled in front of me and, uh oh, that one fell off the hanger and "Put price tags on these please." And away they go, chaos and color and you hear voices a few feet away but you can not see for all the clothes hanging in the way and then you catch a glimpse of another confused worker between two London Fogs and there seems to be no method to any of the madness just more and more clothes coming in to be processed, eighteen wheelers back up to the dock and out come boxes and the clothes - the clothes jump out of the boxes, and workers unwrap them, put them on hangers, hang them on racks, the racks wheel away like a trolley taking pedestrian clothes to the next processing place - wheeled up to me and behind me and I do my thing and turn around to the next rack and then the next and a new rack comes into view between two suits on the rack I am tagging - tagging each and every sweater and then setting it free into the wild with a warm word of encouragement and an earnest hope for its species and I goof off a little - jump on the bottom bar of the clothes rack and hold on the top bar and push off like I'm on a skateboard, a skateboard full of nightgowns and slips and other foofy stuff like that and wheeling and wheeling and I'm skating like that and somebody says, "Ha ha. Look at that guy."

Thursday

I'm pathetic. The most worthwhile thing I can think of to motivate me to lift my ass out of this chair and stumble into the world outside of my cubicle (and write about) is an Hostess French Apple Pie I saw in the snack machine earlier. Somebody's probably already gotten it.

Wednesday

UPSIDE YOUR HEAD: Washington D.C. Police Crime Blotter


PSA 703
11/3/2003
800 Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Other
1200 Block SUMNER RD SE
CCN #03153520
C1 (BF 16YRS) REPORTS WHILE WALKING TO SCHOOL, SHE WAS INVOLVED IN A VERBAL ALTERC. WITH S1. S1 PICKED UP A STICK AND STRUCK C1 IN THE BODY. S1 THEN STATED THAT IF HE HAD HIS GUN, HE WOULD SHOOT HER. S1: BM 16YRS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 704
11/1/2003
1400 Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Other
3400 Block 23RD ST SE
CCN #03152619
C1 (BM 11YRS) REPORTS THAT S1 DRAGGED HIM INTO THE ALLEY THEN PUNCHED HIM AND STOMPED HIM IN THE HEAD AND FACE SEVERAL TIMES. S1 STATED THAT C1 WAS TRYING TO TAKE HIS DOG. C1 HAD A SOLE PRINT ON HIS FACE.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 706
11/3/2003
800 Hours
STOLEN AUTO - Stolen Auto
100 Block XENIA ST SE
CCN #03153401
C1 (22YRS) REPORTS HE LEFT HIS VEHICLE RUNNING WITH THE KEYS IN THE IGNITION, AND RAN INSIDE HIS APART. SOME UNK. SUSPECTS STOLE HIS VEHICLE. KEYS AND REG IN THE VEHICLE.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 708
11/3/2003
2300 Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Other
200 Block OAKWOOD ST SE
CCN #03153735
C1 (BM 45YRS) REPORTS S1 APPRO. AND STATED, "YOU OWE ME TWELVE DOLLARS." S1 THEN PICKED UP A STICK AND STRUCK C1 IN THE HEAD. S1 FLED THE SCENE. C1 TAKEN TO GSECH BY AMB #25.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 709
11/3/2003
000 Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Club
800 Block CHESAPEAKE ST SE
CCN #03153260
C1 (BM 50YRS) REPORTS S1 CALLED HIM TO COME TO HIM. C1 COMPLIED, THEN S1 BEGAN STRIKING C1 WITH A BASEBALL BAT IN THE FACE AND BODY. S1 THEN FLED THE SCENE, C1 TAKEN TO GSECH BY AMB#18.

Sunday

surprising how little I'll say

Saturday

I'll get some really long rubber boots. I'll walk out into fountains and scoop up big handfulls of change. Those really bright lights used to illuminate flag poles and monuments - they're pretty hot - I'll cook cans of beans on them bright lights.