Saturday, November 07, 2009

Some of my friends at my house. That is Hollywood Head still dressed as a JiHadist from a show a few years back. And the monkey clown doll. They hang out together a lot. My cats are sleeping while i try to watch a movie. The Soloist. It is hard to watch because it is about Schizophenia and that has been a troubling subject of my past. I like my house. I had chicken for dinner and shared it with my cats. Not the other friends. They are just dolls and don't eat food. They are alive because i am alive. My creativity. My affection. My heart. My intellect are all alive. Though it has been hard to write, or paint of late. Maybe a concern about the product rather than the joy of the activity. Only poetry is a joy to do. All other writing is work more back breaking than a hundred cement pours. And the wet cement of painting seems to have become solid in my limbs and my mind. A burden to break
ones hopes, or let it all sink to the sweet cold bottom of forgiving sea.