Tripping the Memory of a One-Eyed Fish is Like the Color of Midnight Moonshine

I'm onto something...always have been...something that is going to take me away from the mundane day of working for some fool who whines and complains about how twisted the world is. I want to write poems, write stories, lyrics and limericks. I want to paint these animated nightmares, colorful dreams from peripheral glances that disappear quicker than i can note. I have to push myself to recite the moments that make the time at hand so real.  I have to pick up where i left off. The part of me that no one knows, that is one spark away from an eyeball's shift of self ignition.

In High School I used to write these random quirks I called Spontaneous Function. They came from a gritty place. Born from a witty place of nonsensical expression. At times these phrases had a gruesome turn, a grim look at our madness and Spontaneous outbursts. When I realized going back means standing still so the tattered scraps of paper could catch up, I stopped and I waited. The old idea and the new idea meet and shake hands. 

So where do I go from the place I know myself to be? Well, I believe the first step is to follow the trail of notebooks, journals, scratchpads, sketchbooks, and a variety of scrap paper in various shapes, colors and sizes. Collections of my captured moments of daze and dreams, inspired poems with lighted paths that sometimes wind through dark grinding jaws of pain to serve a place for me to map and figure things out.  All this is saved and can be found in cardboard boxes, book shelves, drawers and in even smaller, secret places of my home. And of course I have plenty of writing stored on the computer!

Not only my writing fill the spaces, but some lively corner drawings, doodles, and lazy lines squirm around the edges to illustrate a deeper level or perhaps leaves another doorway left open to invite a longer story and spell.

It's evening and I'm surrounded by darkness. The computer screen is boiling my eyes. Well, it's not really boiling my eyes, but if you add butter and salt and a little tapioca pudding, I'll get started on ironing the late October eels.