about being a coherent physical spirit

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Again I take refuge in John Trudell. I've had a millionth of his life. He's been in my heart since I was in high school, and today, hitting that core of alienation again, feeling the drive to cut my nose off again, without even thinking, I'm stumble upon myself wanting badly to get in bed and have a few days full of John Trudell speaking to me again.

It just winked-in to consciousness like a new vista around a blind curve.

It's me.

I would get up for coffee and cigarettes and trips to the bathroom, but otherwise I'd just be one really big ear in bed... with extra blankets expressly for this ear's ultimate ability to hear right down into the galaxies and quark orbits jammed into our love blood tighter'n sardines.

You know, I've been too close and not close enough with an almost unbelievable assortment of seriously famous and fairly famous people in my life. I always liked to attribute it to my rather intense babetude, that having been the number one vexation of most of my life, but that has not been the whole of it... possibly not even most of it... at all. There's the psychic part and the intelligence part, neither of which have been allowed for me to speak or think or write about without too much shit coming from too many quadrants.

I need to think about those. I need to commune with, say, my immediate and utter certitude that the relationship with Robin that was correct was to run away every time he tried to bring me into his life. About shunning the overtures to make me famous from men who really could deliver. About never once in my life even momentarily having a wish for that for myself. Worse than that. Almost an outright phobia against it. About all those men and women who've filed through my minutes and decades with their asshole projects to measure themselves on or by or against me. About the downside of choosing default daffodil mode to keep people from being threatened by me.

So I want to get in bed. So feeling the need to write it all down, to rant and rave and hiss and spit and bonk people with my frying pan and blubber over a few slugs of brandy or blink out from this atmosphere on a blind trajectory to my actual home planet, I now want have a monster John Trudell listen more epic than even my longest private film festivals in my whole history of cinemaphelia. I want a bare minimum of a week of him filling my ears, punctuated maybe only by naps, but I'd still listen in my sleep.

This post will probably keep updating, but I don't know for certain.


Nope. It keeps welling up and the ebbing again like the vicissitudes of the tide, like my cosmos just about to open up completely and suddenly I fall back into form. It will either hit the spoken world or it will be zapped like a fly in the barn. I have no idea which... yet.

always and any time....