March is here

IF i am perfectly honest, by back is sore.

February 24- 7:21 am monday

IF i am perfectly honest, by back is sore.
my neck hurts, and my shoulders are haunched.

alone, poots gathers herself, hercoffee, and herthoughts, around this device.
herkid is gone skiing, herman has left the house, and herback is sore.
herthoughts are slow but herthoughts are hers.

it's not always alot to say. it's not always easy.

monday, alone, poots wakes, to the sublime, seventies voice of miss diana ross
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBO8acADsDg

we're still figuring out what my turn will look like...scraping and scrubbing maybe

maybe it's a longer february than i thought.
something is dragging on.










February 20



IF i am perfectly honest, by back is sore.
my neck hurts, and my shoulders are haunched.

on facebook we joke, we poke, we poker-face our lives.

alt-tab between here and there;
because most people don't care anyways.


i need a haircut

February 20


february is getting long. mortadella for breakfast. more coffee please.
mountains, rolling hills, cold sunshine, warm heat, barely slept nights, this is the hurdles.
keeping everyone around you happy, sugar, mortadella and orange juice, in no particular order.
my thoughts flicker, speed, trapped, just want to be warm.
the cheque book is empty, ski trips cost lots of money, watching money go is a sport of it's own.
imagine being actually strapped, so many prisons people live in... jump off soapbox and hope life doesn't kick me

February 15

w
w
wh
white
white white
white white world where did this font come from

if you want to know what i think, try facebook.
if you want to know what i really thnk, try twitter.


otherwise here i am, tiny pink font and all with large times new roman invading mysteriously onto the page,
oh, web editors, i loathe you all, but i need you.


all - see, fuck you, fonts.

loathe
moving a mess, poots is nearly not a mess, not enough coffee, not enough food, smelts are bizarre, and bizarre is good
but sleep and champagne are better.

let's go back 15 years, it's morning in february, you cannot get enough coffee into you, your shoulders are tense, your insides tenser,
the table is strewn... with... nothing remotely valentinish... an old wallet, five flashing lights, a pack of smokes, and a fitbit wrapper...
a large unread newspaper still emits snowy newsprint smell, the small of my back smarts, a drawer, exposing candles is open,
and three rodents scurry about hungrily in their cages.

and you, poots, you just need to clear your head.
and your body.




and now i will tell you the truth. it's all about potential.
it's all about what you believe you can do.
i need to always believe. until the end, i will have this need.
is it somethng that someone who believes in you can keep alive?
what is the complex alogorithm that keeps it on fire?

no, i didn't do all the work that was absolutely necessary,
but i was doing all the work that was required.
the scale was still tipped 90/10.
you know i hate revisionist history.
but someone had to do the fucking work that was required.
and that someone, was me.

.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

February 14
love. 
snow. 

with balanced books, poots and miles share one more morning alone.
me and my blood red nails.
i hope she senses me, smells me, when i'm not here in this space.


spread your wings, fly, poots, everyone says there's only one life to live;
do i want a small bistro, a funky shop, to visit Helsinki, or just another coffee in this
white, white, world.


      with love, everything is possible.


repeat
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8skY3y4A0o


it's a new sort of valentine's,
but it's the same old me.

February 13
    this dark cold winter has early mornings

the mEp is my brain on sleep.
the mEp is th world, with words, that light the morning.
the mEp is wishing everyone understood.




the mEp is knowing they don't.

February 11
   

the laptop is too high. poots brain, well slept, is on low glucose. those neurons needs alot,
when dreams take you from old St. Catherine to a dead end park on a scooter with a
shiny silver mouse and a crying kid.

so the body is awake and the brain a bit sore, the coffee only warm, passes

revelations, but not a bible, are still many, and few. people do generally say what they think. not me.
i think more.
the bank only knows how to be kind; and people generally
don't know what to do with revelations of their own.
in fact, many never have revelations; choosing instead to have a fixed view of the world, and then,
instead of re-adjusting
the view, they instead choose to re-order what they see to fit inside their own world view.

my world view changes. i still remember what the world used to look like, i do,
but after all the revelations and computations, the order now looks more like chaos.
 and the funny part is
that's o.k. by me.

and for me, that's a revelation.

February 10
   

hiding self-checkism now;
hiding what you know,
you know, hiding what people don't know.

February 9 sunday
    alone at 6 AM is not so bad

some silence is not lonely. precious, as the nighttime neurons light up the corners of my mind, one by one, i feel them connect.
a skinny male rodent scurries, piles of paper, not the same kinds of paper as in the old mEp, legal battles now, how to explain
multiplication by fractions, and then small piles of technology, ipod upon iphone, and a blackberry - yes! still around in 2014 - rests
on a MacBook Pro. and i type on a MacBook Pro, typing furiously into each waking neuron, typing my brain awake, typing through
lima beans and half a bottle of cheap white wine, i've been dying to use the word plunk lately but this stuff still doesn't fit the bill.
no headache.
for years, and, years, i woke up this way. with only the sound of my fingers to the key board, plunk, plunk plunk, whatever connections
the neuron made as the caffeine sprouted new connections. it is, for me, the perfect way to wake.

it's always a fine line. well, often. between good weather and bad weather,
between achy and not achy, between slept and not slept, hungry and not hungry, motivated and not motivated, so much of everything lies in the balance; does everyone live like this, i'm strarting to wonder if i'll get to the end of my life and find out that no, there actually was something different about me the whole time... lol... including the fact that that little diatribe made me smile. knowing who i am is the most important part.

cold wrists rest on the silver frame; pc's warm up  faster,
everyone has to agree.

and that's an awful lot of Nitrogen. (the four dudes in blue)

February 7
alone at 6 AM

some silence is lonlier; fraught with wheretofore and whys; contrasts, and dreams of Paris.
in this eternal, deep sleep, my inner brain was cruel;
choosing to act out my real feelings; something i rarely do; something i rarely do; something i rarely do.

hums of machines, of heating machines, it's a northern town but not relative to north. is helsinki pretty in february?
would i take her on a ferry from Nynasham.
i could plan the costs, 166E for the trip. a pittance after the NSF cheques. a pittance. amazing how money too, is relative.

yes, i realize that you don't know what i am talking about.  this is MY diary. i've paid for it with all the assumptions i've ever had.

spinning pieces of a pie on the table, 0,1 multiplied by 4 pies gives only a fraction of a pie. sadly, in this life,
one needs to knoweverything right awayor people won't listen.
perhaps that is my only shortcoming; misgiving; i'm simply not fast enough.

poots doesn't want to go outside, even though it's not dark and it's light, as the days in this winter town grow,
from one end and from the other.
beers on the balcony are neither behind us; or coming; and the coffee but warms our souls.

so in a rapid state of self-checkism; and you know when self-checkism ensues, i might be telling the world to fuck off;
or any number of pootly things;
as i age, i seem to get proportionately wilder.
who knew?



chalk river is truck country, and this ain't poetry.

February 66
self checkism

check your story, today and next month, make sure it's the story you still want to be in.
anger is not a place i want to be.

February 5

 february has arrived. where are you?
who is stephen elliott

poots is surrounded by ... silence. after a silly day of donuts, re-orgs, and snoop dog pot videos sung incessantly in the underground shopping concourse,
there is only, silence.

we have lots of rooms here. we can be alone. feel lonely in our home. this is important. i know that now. i know so many things now, so clearly, and who can be angry, there is nothing to be angry about learning and knowing. happy i am not dead before i know what i know. then comes the explosions and implosions of what cannot be said here, in little pink letters nonetheless...

the blinding silence is absolutely good. leftover meatballs are absolutely good. crappy wine from Uruguay, absolutely good.

tiny pink letters, amidst all of this, absolutely god.

january 12    8:46am
what cannot be changed