Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Jesus H christ that was beautiful
9:12
and I just come here to bitch and groan about writting, this compulsive scribling that I do
have been doing
these past thirty five years.
and spin out ten minutes of spontaneous prose that just wipes my thoughts away.
I would just kill ten more minutes of this unasked for gift of life and make the the clock jump forward ten minutes into the future. When ever that starts.
Just tr ying to right myself a lul a bye here
a whirling silent flow of words to find the sufficiency of this day.
I wrote a lot of words
and I drove a few more miles
walked a few more steps
in my mad dash to nowhere
if i could remember my future
I might forget my past
silence 9:18
the worm of consciousness preys on words
and I was walking around dupont circle high on moldy rye
and the Scientologists scooped me up in a recruiting raid on lost souls.

I talked my asss off for two hours and they unlocked that huge door to their mansion and let me go.

I ain't been right since. I felt like stale tuna fish. I wish I could remember what I said, it must have been pretty good, or maybe I wasn't a lost soul at all, I just had the metafiscal homelessness blues
nine twenty two long sigh>>>>>>>>>
still a kid
giving it all away
nothing for a rainy day
and these forlorn tattered rags of old age ain't for those of little faith.
Everyday I am still grateful for how much more I have still to lose.
ten twenty four
fini

three oh seven
yesterday ran 12 minutes

I pretty much forgot what I wrote
passover done passed
but I am still into those bitter herbs

long sigh
I got plenty of horse raddish and matzos left
and my melancholy meandering persists
twenty seven years in the desert
and she ain't come back yet

meanwhile
back at the oasis the arabs are eating their dates

as if my thoughts could mindless lee meander their way out of the neurons and through the nerves and then to the muscles that dance my fingers on this keyboard

my father the crazy used to call my brother the jitterbug because all he wanted to do was dance with the girls.

my father said jitterbug was "pleasure mad"
and we were all raised on the freudian trinity of the ego, id, and super-ego.

and I have made many a freudian slip
but not yet

I suppose I am making too much sense. I need more spontaneity here, as if I was a neurotic college professor on a power trip. A captive audience of students, trying to learn some thing.

I did not mean this to be a ten minute go

I may be wrong And or
but i think i have been talking
writing
nine minutes and have not said anything interesting yet
boring and neurotic professors my speciality

cause I can see the beam in my eye.
I think I am done
yes three seventeen

9.15 pm

ten is the magic number. it gave its name to the numbers we use DECimal and I don't know about you and your sharks and guns and knives and unfortunate diseases or bombs but i have ten fingers. for those at the back, that's 10. i remember an old couple who lived across from me diagonally when i was a child. i was 10 and lived in number 14, they lived in number 10. she was a one and he was a zero. what i mean is that she was incredibly skinny and he, incredibly fat.

computer geeks and their binary jokes. 10pm is a strange time of night. you never see a dog perplexed when it sees ten injured owls in a row, do you?

my neck needs to crack soon. this is unrelated to ten but i'm past that now. my neck gets stiff you see and sometimes i satisfy and pop it, other times i rub it, right now i'm writing it.

i had a few issues with authority figures today. the man who laid me off and the woman who is the face of the establishement who havent' helped me out yet. i need to see a bank about a statement too. banks and police. a bank of police. a gaggle of police.

criminal charges
criminal bank charges

i planned a trip into glasgow city centre tonight. just me, some codiene, my camera and my car... taking photos of clydeside red bride neon and the reflections of city sicknesses in skies that never but always change and then change back again...

but i didn't go. i sat here and had some almond tea. maybe later i will play my guitar. sitting on my red rug playing guitar. i recently learned to open tune a g. i bought a glass slide. play my pasty white boy blues. "my baby don't love me. i stole her cat. she shot my mistress and that was that..."

or "clean yo' kitchen blues"

the emotes are putting me off. silly little yellow... probably racist if you ask them.

my head itches just now but i'm contemplating the beep of my timer any minute now. i set my telephone timer you see. ten minutes has to be ten minutes after all, doesn't it?

this can't be interesting to read. i used to be really good at writing free flowing stream of... something... the only thing that's changed is that i can now type without looking at the keyboard. look it me, man, i's growing.

no... if an i did grow.. that is to say if the dot above the i grew... it would get top heavy and fall off, yes? now... you're left with a stick and an inflated ball by it's side.... a ten.

1 0

and...

9 twenty 5.