x-x-x-x-x. Jersey City

TwentyNine/October/Seven

| | | — | | Writing from a Motel 6 in Arcata, California. Decided against staying at Salmon House, where we might be plaing tomorrow. A cold, moist, dusty, musty room in the “main house” with a filthy old couch, complete with a guy sleeping in his overcoat. Ain’t got the blankets for that. Fuckit. Maybe we are yuppies. Got a call from Zef tonight with hopes that we are “playing an awesome gig and saving someone’s life.” There’s an ad on the tv for a government website, recommending a family plan in case of terrorist attack.

There seems to be some connection between these sexual and emotional blocks. Like a figure 8 tied up between the heart and loins. Doug VanderHoof was saying the French artists Jean Cocteau would strip down at a party, lay on the floor and get and erection and cum without touching himself. There’s all these different stimuli can lead to a good cry, a firm erection. Some mental, some emotional, some physical. Where and how do they combine and separate? To be able to cry at will. Rock hard erection or wet vagina merely with a directed mind. And the funny thing is these are probably minor by-products of being spiritually conscious.

Our new friend, Jean of Arc in Detroit inspired us with tales of home-made biodiesel, living off the grid, and a cat psychic that found her on MySpace right in the middle of one of her cats having a potentially life threatening health problem, ended up getting completely cleared up with herbal remedies, according to the cat psychics diagnosis. Apparently the cat psychic lady bases her diagnosees on photos of peoples cats and she’s best friends with TV personality the Dog Wisperer.

Decided we’re gonna get pregnant next winter. Lifestyle now is against all sensibility, so why not add children. So what that we’re poor. An opportinuty for more faith. Life flying by anyway. The realization of the totality of failure in life, and how little one actually suffers for it can be a source comfort, and even lucidity.

Armadillo. Arm a psycho. Armageddon. |

Optimism ‘till death. Mike |

29/10/2007