2001-04-03 - 7:18 p.m.

tip o' the night: sink into it.

things to cover tonight: tree curve, sinking into the feeling, blue hairs.

i went for a walk after work. overlooking the beach. sometimes life can be so beautiful it hurts inside. their was this oversaturated purple groundcovering with large cactus's emerging sporatically from them. its the way these burnt orange strands fall from a lush, old tree. it's mostly the way that golden light hits the things alive around us. the glow that bounces off the plants. words fall extremely short of describing what i see. when i glance up, the way the smooth skin of a tree curves so luscious like a hand indented it into the curve of a voluptious hip like a woman. on this walk all of the trees bend in the strangest ways. like they are reaching back down to their roots, then east and west and back up into the sky. it's like they can't make a decision, or are just following the flow of life. i always feel so much power from the ocean. so much emmense energy, pulsating. most times i ask it to fill me and to remove from me things that do not work in my life or things i'd like some alleviation from. the feelings of the 'x', the feeling of need of outside things to help me feel whole. sometimes i'm utterly aware and connected.

other times i'm so numb that on my walk i have to slap my hands together in front of me in some fruitless attempt to wake myself up. here is a new thought. instead of fighting this checked out feeling, let myself sink into it and feel it to the fullest extent. like when i was so drunk my whole damn world was spinning and i felt that feeling of falling off a cliff and i would fight it, when suddenly i would let myself fall into that feeling, sink into it, let it tingle up me and take me over. and then it would fade away. if i'm down, letting myself be utterly down and feel every ounce of what 'down' feels like. what the sensation is in my stomach, what do i hear or block out.

since i've done some work on a project involving world war two, i've come to understand elderly men more. that group that i once only thought slimed me with their male stares. mind you, i've always respected the elderly. here's my rant. i think our culture is way off the mark on this one. extremely. i think in the east and the am indians have it right w/ respecting, venerating, supporting and at the least, treating their elderly kindly. they support them all the way to the end. it just pisses me off when our youth treats blue hairs rudely. don't you fuckin know that they have layed their life on the line, with out even being asked their opinion of it all? that they have seen more death and darkness in human nature on the battlefield than any of our starfuck trotting, cooshy 9-5's will hopefully ever have to see. they had to walk away from their friend who was dying in front of them and fight their way out of the war. the only chance of seeing their family again and living out their life was to defend and kill any way possible. there was this one interview from a german soldier who captured some enemies, that they wanted to touch the enemy, feel them, see what they are like, because they had never actually seen one, only been told so much propaganda about them/us. them us.

them us.

them us.

who is your them?

who is your us?

i had the most horrible burning of the heart when i did this one interview of this old man (veteran of ww2) in his one bedroom apartment in culver city. he is the sweetest, seemingly gentlest man. his daughter is in the hospital, he has a hard time walking after a surgery. he got choked up from stories of the death baths. things you put away back into your mind. things from 60 years ago. things people these days don't ask about. he landed at normandy, walking in that ocean red from blood. and what killed me, wasn't his stories, but the way his granddaughter(pubecent girl) treated him. when he would gently ask for her to help him reach for something too high for him, she with her flaming red angry hair, would snap back with shortness and impatience. she had nothing to say to him, except condensation. has she forgotten the bayonette this man held? all that he has seen? he's not perfect i gaurentee you. she's got anger for some reason. i remember this anger. i've had it. i've told my dad at the top of my lungs, fuck you mother fuckin asshole, as i sped off to LA from denver. so i know anger. i know short sightedness, a view of the world only from one set of eyes. but it kills me that there is this gapping sea between them. that he is living out the final parts of his life, alone, in a one bedroom apartment with a granddaughter that hates him and thinks of him as a burden at best. i wanted to shake her. when we left my camera man shook his hand, bent down on eye level with him and said thank you sir. it brought tears to my eyes and endless respect for this cameraman. actually he was a soundman, and i asked for him to move up almost because of this. cuz he can respect others. he's one of the silent tribe. those sensitive to life.those who need inebriation most.

this is a reason i yearn innately to inebriate myself. it's too amazing, too touching. too much saturated purple. too much saturated people entrenched in experiences and stories to tell, with barely anyone to listen. and i myself rush from place to place, sipping my latte, on the phone, busting through life on a warpath to forget these roots.

work folks went down for a drink at five. as usual. i am of that drink drink drink type. i drank drank drank. i think about wanting to do that again. but then iwouldn't have walked, never would write, wouldn't feel. wouldn't get my creative work done tonight. why such a definitive trade off? why can't i drink and be in life? i'm the type i suppose that is taken out of life when i drink. i do it to fully numb, then i get in a cycle of it. then shame comes in. i saw someone writing in the park, i thought to myself, i can't do this. i'm like a cat, i need enclosed spaces. i got this from when i was hitting bottom in many parks wandering, drinking all night and throwing up all day. (old bulemic). sitting in a large tailored park, blowing time. wondering in a rose garden pretending to marvel at the rainbow of posies because that is what you are supposed to do. not talking to anyone all day. dark. very dark in the middle of so much green. it was all like some twilight experiences, so remote and mysterious that sometimes i wonder if it was all a long dream or if it really happened.

cheers, l