Slept, Fell, Complete.

So in I go, and there I go.

We begin in this closet, in this room, in this home. Slept, fell, complete. Engulfed in shivers and cramps in our belly. Into this apartment with friends left behind. Wrap my arms around lists and glass dance tables to spare. Laugh into bags and kept for weeks on hold in case of fire. Become life itself while inhaling grey smoke.

Type in second persona and paint in cinder--through blocks of dust exposed to burns left inherent. Left in the dark and found in the light, we fall through the shelter that brings us in spite of lines left broken and mannequins left still. Like letters sent in June and found envelopes read unfilled.

Away into journeys of three-day shades--left on the lip but never left alone.

Sunshine still.

Wake up.

Because it's here. In this glisten of shine and this mist of aroma. That invisible taste, that pleasant surprise. That sudden rarity; one that hope dies on--just to arrive at the foot of your bed when dreams fade to dew and memories make believe myth.

Whether the coffee that steams the tip of your nose, or the batter that teardrops off the edge of your golden brown pancake plate.

The weather blends into perfect scenery. Trees afloat of waves of green and gust of waft and whiff. With an oversized sweater, worn and grown with each year left in its unraveling story. Your breath floats off in clouds and dances in the sun. Warming your skin with what light is left. The sunshine that's still, quiet, and soft.

It tempts you. To play forever. To kiss its bliss and numb its smile. To mesh your reality and conjure it's plethora of lore. You become the legend; this becomes your land. Your home.

I can't wait for this feeling.

Good(riddance)bye Eastland

So this countdown is underway. Seven days until my jet lands onto Houston soil; seven days until I take a deep, long suck of the Houston incense into these nostrils of mine. This past weekend was a busy one, filled with trips to Camden Yard to see the Orioles play the Blue Jays and wandering the steaming streets of the Capital. Those of you who believe that Houston is the most humid compound known to sane man are completely fibbin' to the folk. The weather at the Orioles game was by far the most humid in the entirety of my life that I have ever felt. Like sitting still in a Finnish sauna stuck in the middle of a concave tropical rainforest. Only, instead of trees, there are fat, sweaty white guys who throw their flabby ass arms into the air after one of their precious Orioles reaches first fucking base.

Okay, first off, congratulations-- really, your team sucks.

The Orioles went on to lose 12-0, and the fat, sweaty white guys continued to batter my olfactory functions to pieces. The most exciting part of the game was when the O's pitcher beaned the batter in the back with a heater. This resulted in a near fight and the clearing of both teams benches. Throwing 96 mph rocks at steroid users will not cure this baseball doping epidemic Mr. Cabrerra--however, that was hilarious. Cheers on the aim man.

So after leaving the stadium, I discovered that the Baltimore night life is quite an aesthetic to the sober eyes. The harbor gleams with the reflected light of its surrounding cafes and bars; the streets provide a picture book glisten through it's own late night antics. However, while entranced by the shine of the distancing Camden Yard lights and attempting to snatch a pretty picture, I exposed myself to an unknown danger. Large, black, streetlight poles.

Unfortunately, in Baltimore, they like to place large, metallic streetlights in the middle of the sidewalks. So, while I was looking back at the stadium lights, I walked smack-straight into the pole and was inches off from shattering my glasses, which were hanging on my shirt--not considering the sinking sense of my dying pride. My forehead and chest rammed into the pole with such force and surprise that I couldn't help but (nervously) laugh at the abrupt and akward situation. It felt like walking into a large, vertical, twenty-something foot fist. Cheers pole, cheers to your hard, sternum shattering power.

Well, to anywho that'll still be residing in the Sugar Land area, I'll be in on the 20th. What a glorious day, yes, it will be. Then off to Austin the 23rd. Note: scratch the former, add glorious day comment onto latter sentence.

I started out my summer with a setlist of music, and now I will end it with another.

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah- In This Home On Ice

Sufjan Stevens- Casimir Pulanski Day

Hard-fi- Stars of C.C.T.V.

Great Lake Swimmers- Various Stages

Dizzee Rascal- Fix up, Look sharp

Proton Proton- Zygote

Radiohead- Gagging Order

Stan Getz- The Girl From Ipanema

Blackstar- Respiration

The Shins- New Slang

Game face. 

I wanted to shove that Tejada kid in a shoe box.

The fight. Both benches cleared. Box his ass, biatch.

By this time I am hot, sweaty, digruntled, and distracted. 

Gotta love 'em O's--and their invisble fans.

Thunder bus. 

That streetlamp looks like a lemondrop, mister. 

Corporate cement is my specialty.

These streets are dangerous to the common unsuspecting novice.

Unsuspecting novice.

Kung pao shiau. This picture is what resulted from my streetlight encounter.

Focus...focus...shits that stings. 

Godspeed, cheers, and have a happy landing.

Leper, Myth, Savvy, Shit.

Porcelian dolls and Chinese stalls,
are what is left to shock and appall.

And though I fret,
and crawl to sleep,
this masochistic
drop is steep.

To bludgeon one's self
is rendered fit,
to classify one's
class as savvy myth.

And creep I might
a bitter step
with grace behind me,
what body's left.

Transfer my blisters
and pixels to paint.
A smeared appearance of wall--a saint.

Of rusty joints and senseless
quotes.
Of leper beaut and selfless
goals.

To shank these myths
is what I find
a better day
just left behind.

I'm coming home,
but with what, I regret.
A clearer view,
A clearer debt.

You look like coffee and you taste like beans.

Well, let's see--real post. Hm, yes--eh--yes, I think I can pull that off.

I'm still around. Four days since I last ripped some grammar, and the same minutes throughout each day seem to recycle and re-emit themselves back into my karma chain--whether I believe in karma or not, is totally off subject.

Yes, well, anyways it is already August and that only means that my journey towards Austin is again closer and closer. The apartment is set, and, yes, you are all invited.

I've had ideas this week, but the site's hits weren't really kicking sky high, so inevitably in "Henry" style, I told myself, "Fuck, oh well." Ultimately, this may be another drought from actual "thought-out" posts, but hey, we all need a break from ridiculousness (like that word, you see, already I did it).

So, to my invisible cyber frenetic audience, I bid you adieu. 15 days I'm left rotting. 15 days I'm a-comin' home.


p.s. Purchased the CYHSY record. Hopefully I won't piss myself too much when I finally get it.

p.p.s (p.s.s.?) I'm in Austin on the 23rd. I'm in Sugar Land the 20th.

last p.s. "Ridiculousness": pff, what an f-ing ridiculous word.

That was blogtastic.

Steel.

Canvas Wall.

This canvas can't wait for opening night.

Inside these lines that shape white texture. Fluorescent appeal and achromic bright wires, they all brought me here. And waxen upholstery wraps walls without color and blinds me to tears. In silent wonder I watch my reflection, as the carpet engulfs me whole.

The buzz is--this guy's amazing.

My clothes are all gone and I'm left with a pale suit of skin. Skim milk layers of paper, all connected: a puzzle. I'm interlocked with pixels and pastels which soak in old film and fine wine.

The scoop is that there isn't anyone close.

Fireworks of color and dynamite flashes. Applause and awe. Behind the window is an ocean liner; stars freckle the barren dark shine and illuminate the shimmery steel--the gloss of human imagination. The ceiling paints blue with aeroplanes and capes and heroes. Heroes of our past, past love, past hate, past scenery.

I've heard too much to pass.

And when the veil is finally lifted--the gasps start to soften. When that cape flutters to the floor-- tears feel less real. When that steel is finally shattered and that ribbon is finally cut.

I open my eyes and everything's the same. I open my eyes and everything's different. This facade, this polish is just a reflection. I open my eyes and all I'm left with is this apartment. It's walls. It's windows. It's carpet. It's blank.

Veil.

Cape.