the west coast lunacy project

Beautiful mornings come exactly when you need them. That perfect Sunday afternoon recluse from waking up at five in the morning for five consecutive days. Or two weeks to wake up at five in the afternoon. An inverted lifestyle. The residual hours in-between; riddled by a mild and mucky neurosis. An expendable existence to even the most simple of fools.

Yet I wonder all the more often, just exactly how my life has become absorbed into this strange and twisted prattling portrait of spontaneity. Nothing of my upbringing ever suggested the rebellious bohemia that has riddled the wake of my endless travels. Perhaps it was just that unrelenting "dour darwinianism v. ecclesial erudition" swill, and other such social riddles that calloused my appetite for insipid "success", and, of course.. the social prognostication of what "success really entails".

I guess part of the reason I decided to declare myself a writer is because it brings a certain impenetrable barrier against any socio-economic obligations one would choose to ignore... only when you deem necessary do you decide to serve as an esoteric voice against the straying sheep of politics, religion, industry, etc..
In other words: it appeared as convenient as a silent paramour. It wasn't: instead, she was a dominatrix of a relatively mild yet paranoid type.

In the words of Chuck Palahniuk: "I was a good person, before I became a writer.."

It doesn't matter anyways; its the role my maker created me for. And to be quite true; it's really not a bad bat and racket.

More often than not, contrary to "normalized" life and her gatsby-green-light zeitgeist, it truly has been a sentient yet rewarding series of experiences that shape you to a state of kairos in which the inheritable riches are indefatigable.

And so here I sit outside, smoking a cigarette and overlooking the shedding of the golden gate-sunset rust; shedding like refracted rain, and I think; "somewhere in Santa Cruz a green light flash winks condescendingly in the iris of the Pacific". And I rest easy :)

by the way... I am a salamander, and my name is Sam.

A toast to Watermelon Sugar

With hands off the steering wheel,
and our history books placed back on the shelf,
we afford ourselves the chance
to sit outside of all the atavistic decadence
and expired parlance.
"We have come to the point as a people,", says she
"that we have become so involved with the external and atavistic
that the innert has been stripped of its didactic role."
Similarly, it creates monochromatic tunnel vision
for the mundane.

"freedom" is tried and convicted,
and replaced with the term "social deviancy"

query: "Why did we love the Scopes trial?"
I heard that when we die we go to Watermelon Sugar.

"the art of travel is to deviate from one's plans..."

from midwest america to west coast california, there is much to be appraised... namely, an infallible spirit of spontaneity; a rare and recondite force that serves as a catalyst for endeavor.

ahh.. american romance.

Dear Some Insurmountable Memory...

I've been able to disambiguate many of the seasons of this universal endeavor we call life. Yet even the rare occasion of rediscovery on natural beauty will soak me in childlike astonishment.
So, walking out of that jail today, lighting the most fabulous cigarette of my life thus far, I did an about face and sat on the grass. The face in greeting was that of a monumental manifestation of God's organic masterpiece. An intimidating, yet fascinating all the while, mountain of chipped bad-assery... Hello, delayed gratification, I believe we've met before?

another awkward moment...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hsBBv6JhxPc&feature=related

Everybody wants to love..
Everybody wants to be loved..
and so on and so forth in that tristan-trite way.

I sent her a song..

She asked if i wanted the artist.

I told her no.. "i want you"
but it should figure she ask that...

its so hard to get her to listen when i admit it.

marlboro melancholy

i sit here in between cigarettes,
which i now smoke processionally more so than i used to,
breaks and in-betweens
of various stages
of boredom.

Remarkably, i've settled down
at an exponential rate during the last few months...
compared to the various stages
of anarchy onsets...


...it personified the riddling wake
i left to my formative years...
And now i have plans to open a bar
and pursue a career

as a gonzo journalist.