i feel good.

what the fuck?

something to say, whistles, whistles, whistles, cant really think of something to say.

i will add more soon, just to keep the writing moving. and the thoughts lubricated. and hell, now that i think about it there is alot to put up here, in the documentation of my life for the world to peruse.

lets see if i can condense the last 5 days in 5 words. ready. set. go!

sparks. frustration. ache. confusion. satisfaction/hope. (so i cheat, bite me)

not deep enough, not illuminating enough, not enough, but enough for 1:13am.

i think that fireflies light up my life and i know what i want and picnic blankets, red/white checkers, with smiles and love should be the main occupation of my time, the preparation, the travel, the action, the resting, the discussion and the return would fill each day and if i could fill my summer time with picnics and love making on the red/white checkered blanket under the sun and moon then time would stop and i could leave everything, the frustration, the beer, the desire, the fear, the want and the isolationincompleteloneliness at the edge of the blanket to bury myself in the sweetest addiction of them all, one that keeps rearing its head with hip bones and vocabulary, ages, rages, turning pages, pouring bottles, chewing ice, talking circles, walking circles, are all my encounters defined by my appetites? is that problematic, do i have a problem with it? should i? or should i accept? and do i want to get lost in that quagmire of self analysis, when does it become a problem? is it yet? have i lost control of the car, am i racing down a cliff?

i love upcountry highways, and sitting in my farmhouse thinking that though we arent hand in hand we are close, and that ive got a garden that needs some serious weeding and that this place is perfect for both of you and that ive got love for both of you and that i am like a duck in soup, a boy in a suit, confused. i want to be that individualistic, idealistic, self reliant and unaccountable to no one but myself, but im not that, im not even the joker, the life of the party, the star, the schmoozer, i think that im at most a mixture of both and thats why i love each, but im soft and im small, and i need to be loved and these circumstances do not make that easy, so the rocks get turned and phone calls burned and coffee downed, eyes rimmed red, tears shed, illumation from that bottoms of thousands of flies and right now, on the sixth of july, i turn 22. and i am still nothing but a boy in a suit.