Recipe for falling onto the earth:
Gifts for orphans
The perfect tattoo
Concrete Blonde’s ‘Bloodletting’
Dylan’s ‘Highway 61 Revisited’
An octopus and a spider
One unexpected death
Cold air
Memory

I remember the dance teacher’s funeral. There was a Christmas party going on downstairs during the service. My family was invited to both. My mother sat in the pews with tissues. My father joined us at the party. I remember seeing the funeral just long enough to hear his favorite song. It was classical and I didn’t think it was nearly pretty enough. I was probably 5. Sometimes I think there is a rhythm of life that living during AIDS gives if you listen to the write/right voices.

If I pretend I am real, or really, am real, what happens then?
That paralysis, that violence, that responsibility.
Some guiding force. Of my own memory or someone else’s.
No, my own. And not because of painkillers or tequila or jesus.
Is this the moment my insanity catches up with me? To believe in something that may not exist. Maybe it’s just a boy I like to follow around.
So. Los Angeles, Dostoevsky, San Francisco, Rikki Ducornet, Ken Kesey, New Year.
Wish me a life free from brainwashing.
A heart that understands fun/god.
The same to you.