[img] bonjour, vendredi soir. bonne nuit, semaine.

bonjour, vendredi soir. bonne nuit, semaine.
April 28, 2017 at 07:21PM
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Dream Journal 04.26-04.27: “Full Archer Jacket”

Dream Journal 04.26-04.27
“Full Archer Jacket”

I paratroop onto a Chatsworth, CA, warehouse rooftop w/ another soldier. We recon with a tiny drone to find rebel militant locations in the building. They have dug an ICBM silo under the warehouse. We are here to shut it down.

We spelunk into the building through a busted skylight, pass all sorts of people, none of whom concern themselves with us. Find the rebel headquarters on the 1st floor. They think I’m one of them, bringing them my partner as a prisoner. Treat me like a hero, giving me a foot-long croissant and a huge gun with a Victrola Victor Talking Machine phonograph speaker-horn for a barrel.

“It shoots death frequencies,” the rebel leader tells me in Spanish. “Don’t fire it at the sky or use it at a zoo.”

The militants, who look like they’ve stepped out of the Archer Vice San Marcos jungle, keep giving me equipment (walkie-talkies, a Nespresso, etc). Over and over I escape out a basement door via a secret elevator with an apartment front door as its door. The rebels mistake me for one of them every time, and never figure me out. My partner never escapes.

The final time I escape across the street, the sun has just set, and the rebel commander appears on the warehouse roof. He shoots the Victrola phonograph horn gun into the sky as my commander yells “Goddamn!” in Gunnery Sergeant Hartman fashion.

A few seconds later a small yacht floats down from the sky, nose first. It appears about to crash into the grassy area of a public pool complex next door, but then does a loop-de-loop and drifts slowly, though clearly out of control, over the pool filled w/ raucous kids, between diving boards, into large hedge, hurting no one.

The rebel leader points the Victrola horn gun right at us across the street and yells something we can’t understand. A rush of wind picks up intensity and blows seagulls backwards by us, struggling to fly.

“Hold on, boys,” my commander says.

{WAKE}


[img] Yeah, about 300 pounds.

(Ralph Kramden can’t remove a ring from his finger).
Ralph: We got any lard laying around here?
Alice: Yeah, about 300 pounds.
April 26, 2017 at 08:53PM
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Dream Journal 04.25-04.26

I’m the star of a reality show called “Surfin’ The Pole” where I tour the North Atlantic on a surfboard. One episode had me find a hidden river that led away from the ocean and took me through quaint Finnish towns.

The river was the de facto Main Street through all the towns, and I waved at people and stopped for food along the way, all the while never leaving my surfboard. The water was crystal blue, not all that cold, and looked like amusement park waterslide water.

{WAKE}


[img] drawing-in-process to accompany a piece about a phone call w/ Hunter S. Thompson I had as an intern at Rolling Stone in ’92

drawing-in-process to accompany a piece about a phone call w/ Hunter S. Thompson I had as an intern at Rolling Stone in ’92
April 25, 2017 at 01:55PM
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Dream Journal 04.24-04.25

Suburban Supermarket
(à la Harris Teeter or Piggly Wiggly)

I’m talking to my mother in the beer section, sitting on the floor with my back against a fridge door, looking up at her. Cases of beer piled high in the aisle lend us some privacy. I’m beyond agitated.

“All the meat used to convict these people had the same date,” I tremble and point off to my right. “They used the same packages! Not a single one of these people is guilty, Mom!”

In the distance, a “slow parade of the guilty” – six people shackled together, heads bowed – moves by a large deli case by the cashiers. Shoppers heckle, hiss and toss old cold cuts at them while onlookers laugh.

I flash back to a man (Samuel Jackson – type) in a hidden bunker letting me in on the secret, showing me clues on the cold cut packaging that unravel the mystery.

My mother says, “Get a grip on yourself, Dave.”

I point around. “But this is all a lie! Everything here.”

“Go buy some dinner,” my mom says. “Ease your mind off all this.”

I wander to the deli and prepared food section towards the front of the store. I feel exposed. In one case are two huge halves of red cabbage. They are so large that nothing else fits in the case. The next case has globular gray slabs labeled “World’s Best Chicken Parm!”

Seemingly friendly butcher says “Hey there! Hungry?”

{WAKE}


[dispatch] 20170424.1449 sidewalk terror

April 24, 2017 at 02:49PM
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[dispatch] 20170422.2330 celery salt

April 22, 2017 at 11:30PM
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[dispatch] 20170422.1138

April 22, 2017 at 11:38AM
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Write On The Exhale

medium.com mirror

analog truth, typos make

Communication is a form of respiration.

“You want to know what I think…?” is the same as asking, “You want to know how I breathe…?”

Resonant, meaningful discourse flows as a meditation, where we think on inhale and communicate on exhale. Thinking, writing, and speaking — these mirror different stages of breathing, and together form a respiratory cycle.

We draw our breath to prepare, to gird, and in doing so, leave ourselves vulnerable to enter the unknown. Will we take in enough air? Will we make the train? Is there anybody out there?

Conspicuous breathing in — the audible struggle for air — gasping — happens under threat of drowning, choking, or asphyxiation. Apprehension and uncertainty underwrite every inhale.

Confidence and awareness, by contrast, infuse every exhale. Breathing out means we have another breath to take, or that we will rest in peace and/or resignation, knowing the one just released will be our last. Everything renews every time our respiration cycle refreshes. You change the world every time you exhale.

Writing and speaking are subsets of exhaling.

Speaking comprises shorter inhales and exhales — faster thinking, quicker tongue. Writing involves longer breaths and slower output, more thinking, more holding your tongue.

Holding your tongue is not the same as holding your breath.

“Held my tongue,” lasted at minimum a full cycle and a half of respiration, in which you thought twice, and didn’t speak. You inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled again. Then spoke.

Holding the breath is a frozen inhale. Frozen thinking.

It’s easy to tell if someone’s holding their breath while speaking. At some point, they have to stop to exhale, or talk through their exhale. Either way creates unnatural pauses and rhythms, most likely in places the speaker never intended. Losing the rhythm of breathing is the precursor, not the symptom, of losing a train of thought, of stage fright and stress.

Writing allows the same effect. So much commentary now is written on the inhale, or while writers hold their breath, where hitting the send button becomes the de-facto exhale. These dispatches (and, often, the subsequent exchanges around them) become games of “Watch me while I make myself turn blue.”

The “media” in social media is short for mediation, not engagement. Mediation confers a sporting event, or a judicial proceeding, that defines winners and losers. “First post, best post” almost never holds true, but “first post, most read post” is almost always the case.

There’s no judgment here. The problem is upstream color: Interactive platforms, for all their ingenuity and democratized broadcast participation, are designed around thinking out loud, not reflective writing — safe harbor for polemics, but rough places for slow exhales.

Perhaps that’s what makes Medium feel like a respite. You can breathe here. Or, at least, as a writer, exhale.

moon shot 092715c

Exercise time:

Inhale and make yourself angry.

Most likely your teeth are gritted, your eyes opened wider and your whole body tensed.

Now try to get angry during a soft, long exhale.

Much more difficult, yes? Your mouth is open or closed, but either way, it’s soft. Maybe your eyes somewhat narrowed, but you’re not making a fist, and you’re more in a state of awareness and reflection, than anger.

All this to say, the next time you write, experiment by writing every sentence on an exhale. It will make all the difference.

——————————————————-

This song, Infinite Destination, off my 2010 record Hola, Sayulita!, flowed from brain to paper to guitar in under two hours — far and away the fastest a track ever materialized for me. The process and result are close as I’ve ever come to capturing a pure exhale in my music, so enjoy its springboard as you move on from here.

Desert sunrise six twenty one
Rising just like fate
Baby you know this is never the end
If you trust the world

All I can do is smile
As you soften your eyes
And draw curves with your questions
‘Til there’s nothing left to say but someday

Infinite destination
You’re every dream I ever had
We’re just pilgrims dancing unstuck in time
Infinite destination
Any life you can have
Dancing forever free from time

The future has its enemies, too
They don’t like people like me; they don’t like people like you
In other words, you got a beautiful attitude

I never take it for granted
How your eyes reverse time
Soft as day breaks and fades the night away

Infinite destination
You’re every dream I ever had
We’re just pilgrims dancing unstuck in time
Infinite destination
Every life you ever had
Dancing forever free from time

Infinite destination
(You’re) every dream I ever have
Just a pilgrim dancing unstuck in time


[img] analog truth, typos make

analog truth, typos make
April 20, 2017 at 08:26PM
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[img] superfund site scavenger (egret)

superfund site scavenger (egret)
April 19, 2017 at 07:07PM
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[dispatch] 20170419.1503 banana lessons

April 19, 2017 at 03:03PM
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[img] superfund site snuggles

superfund site snuggles
April 18, 2017 at 05:53PM
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[img] facing tuesday

facing tuesday
April 18, 2017 at 11:54AM
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[img] saw sparks

saw sparks
April 17, 2017 at 07:02PM
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[dispatch] 20170417.0937 the faster you scroll

April 17, 2017 at 09:37AM
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[dispatch] 20170415.2043 underground alert

April 15, 2017 at 08:43PM
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[img] “I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
April 13, 2017 at 06:49PM
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[dispatch] 20170413.1410 writing / exhaling

April 13, 2017 at 02:10PM
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