the show at three south allen was stellar as always. i had forgotten about it, been reminded, and walked there alone with my fifth of whiskey in a brown paper bag. i just missed the first band, was too distracted to catch the last one, but inbetween chris terry played one of his last sets in richmond; a band called food played their first, last and all around amazing show; and wilderness medicine cinched the deal. made me love rock n roll.
but i couldn't relax. could not rest easy. i thought i was getting there. i was definitely getting through my fifth. but then robert cataldo received word that yet another police officer had gotten away with killing yet another young black man. i went out to the alley. tipped my bottle to the ground. stood there by myself and said: here's to verlon johnson, brushing his teeth, bleeding to death, in front of his wife and five small children.
zaylon at the 7-11 on belvedeer has a sterling silver grenade hanging from around his neck. i bought, after a day of not eating because i do not do such a good job at eating lately, a taquito -- cream cheese and jalapeno [ cream = cash rules everything around me ] -- from him and thought: i wish i could pull the pin out of that thing. wish i could explode the vicinity.
ate the taquito outside, thinking of the silver cylinders it had been spinning on, checking out the clique of cops hanging out outside. thought of imaginary 'no loitering' signs.
the moon tonight slung up in the sky, a horrible yellow smile.
what can i tell you, you the entire fucking world. what can i tell you and not give it all away. my days: they are full. i miss: nothing. well. i am surprised at what i do not miss. and still, there are absences that linger.
after the charlottesville indymedia crew called me up to talk and mainly i spoke about things i rigously believe and made jokes, i ordered a honey-flavored huka and sat with my crew in the back, talking about memes and music starring girls. of course.
go to see movies. go to see shows. drink beer with boys. drink beer alone. try to make the new cellular phone useful to me, but mostly make calls on it that i immediately regret, and thus keep it off most of the time. do work that i love. work that i love.
try to keep out of the trouble but...
where are my loved ones? they have gone away.
i say: and even though i do push-ups every day now, i cannot trust them as far as i can throw them.
it is so nice to like no one at all ever in any way.
to rather just have the new job that involves caring about things, writing about caring about things in every way possible, detailing the ways to care. to instead deal with the mess that is indymedia open publishing, the world of revolutionary technology, revolution assisted by technology, to try to point out how this works, how they i mean we can use it.
i have considered taking it all down. i have been thinking about identity and documentation, about how one person works briefly as opposed to how all people work always. about what is important to remember, about what purpose individual memories might serve... i have been thinking of taking it all down.
what i want to spell out in white sticker letters on the mirror i have placed across from my bed not so that i can see myself sleeping but so it can perfectly reflect the window and i can see the world first thing in the morning: EVERYTHING BEAUTIFUL, EVERYONE FREE.
there are no friends, no family, no afflitations or situations that are anything other than fleeting. what i would wear on a sign around my neck hanging down my back choking me just a bit if it were acceptable for people to do such things: INDEPENDENT & UNATTACHED.
but i am not dire. i am better and better. i lay back alone on my bed, pulse with the cold, and think of power.
