The View From the Edge

"So what is your outlet?"

I keep getting asked this.

And I pause to consider my answer every time.
We are all destructive, we just have different means.

At the End

At the termination point or intersection of vectors and planes in the concrete jungle.

I know what I am doing is pure because in all probability, I will never become wealthy from it.

At the end of the day, between too late and too early, I still follow street lines by tracing the orange sodium glow of streetlights. High upon hills and rooftops, following the single line of the grid of the endless city until it disappears into the horizon or the quiet ocean.

I walk with my head up, looking, seeing, noticing, acknowledging greatness even among the piss-soaked bum-filled streets of an unsustainable horizontal metropolis.

At the end of the day I don't think about architecture, at least actively.

I think of the air mattress waiting to receive me in my echoing basement and my morning Red Bull and the last time I had a real workout, what I will eat for my next meal, what friends-if any-I will have at the end of this endeavor.

I wonder if I can listen to the song that just came on my ipod without having a flood of guilty memories fill my head. Then I wonder why I had to lose the people I've lost along the way and whether it is ultimately worth it.

At the end of the day I still think of myself as some kind of poet. I never said a good one.

In the end, it is worth it.
My head is still full.

Notes from HMWH Club

(I was encouraged to start a new blog after writing this)

Day one:
I like fearing for my life.
That's what happens when Crazy Uncle Larry is going 40 down a mountain with 76 ounces of beer in him (maybe it was only 44-I may be one High Life off) and occasionally turning off the headlights because its creepier that way.

Conquered a mountain. Sat closer to the stars above the city and watched the distant thunderstorms ignite the purple white clouds.

No politics. No stress. No thoughts.
Just the quiet constellation of orange sodium lights shamelessly spilled out across the valley below, the faint pattern of headlights tracing lonely highway roads laced through the mountains onto the horizon, the radiant cadence of bursting light from reticent evening storms.
There is only the faint whisper of the cold night alpine breeze, occasional creaking boards, and the daylight dying at our back.
And all was still.

This is the kind of night where memories are made.

No sleep til...

I Will Bestow My Wrath My Own Way

In the front passenger seat with my hood up and pulled low...
We passed by groups of 20-something girls with tight skirts stumbling and spilling into the after hours streets, into the baths of pink and blue fluttering neon glow pigeon-toeing their way home or to an empty cab.

"Who's in the front seat?" She bubbles and sputters.
I turn halfway and look at her, my hood covering half of my face.
"Who is that?"

"Why do you hate meeeee?"
"Why would I hate you? This is the first time I've ever talked to you."
"You hate me because your brother does."
"I'm not my fucking brother," manages to come out and stops short of, "But I never said I didn't.
I actually do.
I hate you because you're a despicable person. Besides being heinous and utterly parasitic, you're ugly physically-which I readily acknowledge you can't really help- but you're ugly to your core. That's obvious. I can see that in your posture. The way you slump your shoulders, the way you flash disgruntled looks like the dissatisfied miserable Quasimodo you are.
I'm not sure you always remember it, but you take it out on everyone else like you do. You're petty, you thrive on chaos, and you seek validation for your pathetic, trifling, post-I-dated-a-guy-in-a-band existence by involving yourself in other people's business, and projecting your insecurities and misery on everyone else and trying your best to make sure that everyone that comes into contact with you feels as paltry and nugatory as you do.

But my brother hates you for his own valid reasons.
We could certainly draw Venn Diagrams and compare notes on the subject and find countless ways to curse you with words and in ways you don't know or understand. Either one of us could decimate you and devastate you until you're a whimpering mass of broken tissue, quivering like a bubbling infantile runt."

The thought trails off...

At a certain point with certain people, neither the situation or the person are worth the effort or the words.

Welcome.