x-x-x-x-x. NYC Show, Bill Coleman and Daisy Spurs, CODEX, girls pants, squatting to pee.



| | | — | | Hey readers, Hopin’ y’all are okay. Haven’t spoken to most of ya in a while and some in years. Occasionally wonder if you’re still with me. Feeling more private lately. Self conscious. Maybe it’s having inherited that money. But soon we’ll have a house and the money’ll be gone again. Be makin’ the mad loot w/ mad happy soon, though. Renegade Geeks comes out October 4th. You artists know the feeling. This is the one. This one is really a masterpiece. This time the world is gonna get it. Nah. I know a lot o’ you don’ allow y’selves ta indulge in such dreams. Maybe event consider us confused; deluded. Fuck it. So do I some o tha time. ‘Mazingly enough, we’re still here, still doin’ it. (Really? Damn). Scary that I sold my soul so long ago. Well… I guess you sell it throughout your life. Trading it for “pretty words, as I have done” as Ginsburg (so eloquently) said. And at the end of it, that’s when you SOLD your soul. So - no big deal (he lied), but if any of you have made donations to this web diary, let me know, ‘cause i ain’t seen ‘em. It’s funny how like, I’ll go into a record store or a movie and pay top dollar for a corporate product, all polished with no out of tune notes, fuzzy shots or misplaced hair, and sixty percent of the time get little out of it but some kil’t time and jealousy; but lookin’ at a dozen of my friends six dollar CDs in the “local” bin, end up walin away empty handed. Lookin’ for a drug, an escape, a ladder. Somebody throw down a rope. Climb to the top of the beanstalk and only things you take with you are what you can steal from the giant. Thinkin’ tonight, while scrubbing these scabby feet, been itchin’ all week, about why i started this diary so many years ago. Guess it was to find my voice. Friend, Jenny once said reading it she felt like she was talking to me, and last night i realized, that’s prob’ly ‘cause i knew she was readin’ and lots ‘a’ times was talkin to her. Guess that’s what they call a muse. All you people that write me to mention the diary, thanks so much. There’s even people that i haven’t met in person, but i feel like you’re friends. I love (by my own selfish, admittedly somewhat useless standards) and respect you and having you to write for is an honor. If you think i mean you, i bet i do. Rattle off a bunch of name like Caryn, KGA, Julio Peralta, Scott Anthony, Ellen Sudranski (can’t spell his name anyway -i before e?), Jenny C (D now?), Robin Shamburg, iLL Chemist, Julio Rojas, Lea Carla Gordone. All y’all got as much integrity as anyone and you make this planet a dope place to be. Thanks for the ears and the feedback. Sometimes feel guilty (no! mike ill guilty?) when months go by with no entries. Funny ‘cause some o’ you prob’ly ain’t read this shit in years either. But you been a part of it. Bunch o’ m-lovers not mentioned too for sure. (What up Ronda - Kali Yuga in effect) But the knuckly and wrist pains are flarin up and this still needs to be posted. Good might/ray and goddess’ bless.

Every $0.20 helps, yo. Thanks. bear hugs. [Mike iLL](mailto:mike@obliteration.com) |