Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,– Richard iii



First day is upon us. On 6/20/13 @

First day is upon us. On 6/20/13 @ 22:04 pdt, The sun reaches its highest excursion relative to the celestial equator. From now until December the nights lengthen.

In winter we retrospect and plan, in spring we grow, in summer we tend, in fall we harvest.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the season of responsibility & maintenance. It is the day to celebrate acceptance. A day I meditate on commitment, discipline, strength and focus. Winter comes.    

  • insult

  • code

  • cough medicine

  • olympics

  • general


Ju didn’t realize it was an insult

Ben wondered who had come up with the code.

The bottle of cough medicine was empty.

The L.A. Olympics in 1984 had been the turning point in the negotiations.

The general rule of conduct do not apply.

When he was confused his eyebrows pinched together creating a crease that matched the cleft in his chin, and even though he was still looking at you, he lost focus, and maybe that was why he didn’t realize that it was an insult.

Everywhere codes, zip codes, area codes, De Vinci codes, codes of conduct, but Ben wondered whose sick mind had come up with the hair code.

The hacking cough filled the lightless house, she didn’t want to wake up her mother, yes the cough medicine was gone, but she didn’t want the drama, the hand wringing, the I should of, the I can go; she wanted to be left alone in the comfort of her misery.

As he look out the 12th story window, toward the San Gabriel’s, at the smog blanketing Azusa, he thought of 1984 Olympic planning meeting.

The unofficial Saturday night market, sideshow and outlaw rodeo was a place where the general rules of conduct did not apply, but the norms of behavior were strictly enforced.


a second step

George R. R. Martin can craft a sentence – “Yet even so, as she stood upon the forecastle watching her dragons chase each other across a cloudless blue sky, Daenerys Targaryen was as happy as she could ever remember being.” As a reader, my problem is that he writes way too damn many sentences, and too many of them add nothing to story. I’m not fond of writers who expect me to edit their work to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Tomorrow’s words and today’s sentences






In one of those chairs designed to let the user know that, yes, sit here, but not too long, the widow sat, glancing up the receiving line that backed up the aisle, then to his mother next to her, then to the flowered covered coffin, then to the face in front of her, taking a hand, whispering a thanks, almost hearing the insubstantial music floating all around her.

In the diffused light of the warehouse, the coffins, all with an odd mustard finish, sat in a row, carefully armored in cardboard and straps against the troubles of travel, waiting for the order to be completed and the journey to begin.

The thing is, have the coffin match the personality of the deceased; after all why pretend the blacksmith was a warrior, or the kangaroo a rhino?

The torrent of tears, the hands resting on the edge of the coffin, knuckles white, shoulders shaking, was, for a man who had shrewdly and painstakingly built his image of stone and steel, unseemly, she thought.

In a torrent of words, her face washed tears, snot bubbling from her nose, she recited the story in all its complexity, chapter and verse.

A journey of a thousand miles

So my chops aren’t very good and I could tell you a how my I struggled to puke up a decent sentence, but it is neither here nor there. Let’s just say after a long off season, I’m going back to the fundamentals, five random words, five sentence using those words, and judge me not, at least for a month (or two). Here are tomorrow’s words and today’s sentences.


A sun baked valley, twenty miles long by ten wide, scattered oaks in a sea of gold grass, gently blowing in the wind, they had stopped for supper and to rest the animals, but they hadn’t spoken.

They sat around the table in the smoky kitchen, the soup simmering on the stove, listening to Ju, confused.

Even though it was still three miles distant across the sun-baked plain, he saw the smoke from the village’s cook fires rising through waves of afternoon heat.

Even though it was early, they made camp in the dappled sunlight under a huge oak — after all, they were in no hurry.

He walked silently down the road, firmly, one step, one more, thinking, looking across the plain of frothed gold, no hurry.

Part A 1.1

I thought I met her at the bar, she laughed,
[Sunday Morning as a wake breaks on the shore].
Essence in flight, light in revolt, patterns scattered, echoes remote,
Neon and shadows, ember in blue, shadows, shades and noise.

Part A

I thought I met her at the bar
azure eyes, she laughed,
[Sunday Morning as a wake breaks on the shore]
Essence in flight, light in revolt, patterns scattered Echoes remote
Neon and shadows played on her face,
an ember through blue air, blown bright,
out of her aura only shadows, shades and noise.


Punisher: War Zone arterial bleeding, compound fractures, head shots — graphic violence at it’s balletic best. Especially liked the chair leg through the eye socket. #2 fist through face into the brain. pay attention you might miss it.
“It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing”. (MacBeth, Act V, scene v) I know the whole speech, got it in my pocket in case I get wrangled into a talent contest.

Sonnet V
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap cheque’d with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness every where:Ni8DX0wH
Then, were not summer’s distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill’d though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Going to put this bad baby in the pocket too. Should be quiet impressive. If such things mattered to me, Yeah–yes.

Started new book — Salvage the Bones: A novel about a quarter of the way through, don’t know where it is going yet, and so far excellent, sense of place, character development.

Listening to proto-punk and classic Country Western – whole thing about “walking after midnight” kind of a strange mix tape New York Dolls and George Jones.

Gonna edit to Goggle Bordello haven’t listened to (god what do you call it Gypsy Punk according to Google.) They’re going to be in San Francisco for New Years – That’ll be a rockin’ New Years eve. Feel good band of the month. Amazing they make it through a set, little lone a show. Eugene Hütz doesn’t need speed to stay fit and tr


She walks across the room, toward me, head down, mouth neutral, a vertical crease above her eyes. She looks up, nods to me. Head sinks brow creases and she moves down the hall.

The baby voice, fucking fifty and using a baby voice. God I hate her, not a good healthy hate. The mussels in my neck twist, pulling my neck into my shoulder and my shoulder into my spine. Hate pulled inward, stuffed in the hate chest. I don’t remember what’s in the bottom of the chest anymore. Should clean it out one of these days, not much room for more.

She asked why I said that. It popped in my head went through the filter as banal and out it went. I could be a Jackson Pollack painting with lines of linear thoughts crossing, disappearing and reappearing, flicks and flecks part of harmonious whole.
No…I think in flashes of lightning in a rainless night sky.

looking at twitter, some guy talking about forgiveness. I don’t want my god to forgive me. I don’t want him to take my sins. To die for our sins, he over paid should have re-negotiated after the fifteenth century. My god would demand atonement for my trespasses, place weight of responsibility squarely on my shoulders, judge my worthiness on the execution.

Curt’is gone from Misfits. Not even on the credits anymore, the last of the original. Sadness. He had the best heart.

Heard this thing about Tony Blair and him putting in the breaks- Crut’tis when speaking to a certain class. Definitely more pronounce in Misfits than Skins. Class thing or location. Do I care enough to find out? Yeah,–nope.

Finished “All that I am–A novel”by Anna Funder disturbing. To live through the rise of the Third Reich as a middle class, intellectual socialist Jew. 0 for 3.

Bought “Salvage the Bones” YA novel. A lot of big themes hiding in a monster romance.

Still reading “The Mote in Gods Eye” Niven Pournell Not good, even if it had a blurb on the jacket by Robert A. Heinlein saying best ever — Not even close to “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

Veruca Salt-esque tantrum “Syfy Cannel merchandise page” save that one — Iconic that Veruca Salt. A name that persists beyond the Chocolate Factory.