s.o.l.i.t.u.d.e.

staring up at the water shooting out at you. if you never close your eyes, things can never sneak up on you. or away from you. or. just away. but then you have eyes that are red from being drowned. from being lost in a desert of air. so. you. wander the studio in cotton and fur. silk robes and old man slippers. coffee in a martini glass. red wine in a mason jar. stare out the window. lean out the window. then there is smoke and pigeons and yelling 5 stories down. i live in solitude without you.
sometimes i think that it's impossible that there could be a future. thereisapast.thereisrightnow.butafuturwhereeverythingcouldbedifferentandyoumightbegoneorimightbefartherawayandwhycantthingsjuststaythesamebutmaybejustalittlebetter.
but there has to be a future.
and you have to close your eyes.

the blues come and go. the reds and blacks and golds are always here. stationary. the city is still a mystery and i have the ability to turn good opportunities into the steel bars of a cage. when things get better i want to leave. leave. leave and take you with me. only you. o.nl.yy.o.u. but then i want to stay.
i forget if we are happy here. but i know that we are happy where we are.

tonight me and david went to church at a bar for the free food.

the city is still a mystery.
but all the walking makes me smile.

Empty

things that are empty. no longer useful, they have completed what the were created to do. empty. e.m.p.t.y. no longer full.
why do i keep empty things? keep them and love them and bring them with me when i leave one place to step foot in another. dozens of empty jars. under the tables, on top of the dresser, in the drawers. empty boxes. empty suitcases. stacked against the walls. stacked inside the closet. stacked inside the trunk of my car. empty wine glasses by the bed and under the desk.
empty tuperware in the refridgerator. empty bottles lined against the front door, never taken out.
i love empty things. i keep them and save them and sometimes fill them back up, but most often just leave them alone.
does it mean something. or nothing. is there a reason i hold on to things that have been used to their full potential. no reason. no deeper meaning.
i just like empty things.
and if you look at the word... it just seems so complicated.

something happened. something at the fartest end of the universe turned on or off or inside-out and sent unluck my way. the smallest of things, losing a few dollars, walking down the steps of the subway right as the train i need is leaving, little car stalling. small things. but lots of them. every day. what does it mean. will it grow or wither away. is the world preparing and equalizing me for some futher and fantastically lucky moment. or am i being wlecomed to the school of hard knocks.
whatever it is, the cats still meow and the sun still sets. i keep finding nails on our floor and glass in the mailbox.
survive off of olives and chocolate and chardonnay. hide cigarettes and spare euros in boxes and jars for a rainy day. light a candle for the virgin de guadelupe. hope for the best.

remember what tommy newton said: "mary-lou! help me!"

once more and the first paragraph.

so here is this. a new little space where i can write words and not make pictures. i suppose i could just combine the two, but that is excess, and today i am feeling minimal. or is it the other way around.
so here is where i can tell stories and make stories. update you on my french language progress. so far i can say: je voudrais l'ours! i would like the bear! or le grenouille est le tarif. the frog is the rate. that one is not a real sentence, although it should/could be.
and i can talk about thoughts and facts and news. how i get the best ideas in the bathtub, but forget them once i am dry. how a childs toy was taken off the shelves because when ingested it turns into the date rape drug. how i haven't heard the operaman neighbor in a long while.
then you can read this and say oh thats nice and then go look at dumb pictures i painted.