ountry

would a strange man take you by suprise?
a man with a face like the sun you knew you always saw in your dreams?
A kind of sun lacking everything, yet suprisingly enflamed with beauty?

can i explain what im trying to explain?

im not sure, but sometimes i wonder things.
i need to utilize words as my weapon of choice.

right now its a pen.
and maybe a few frequencies.
i need some quality time with my pens and frequencies.

"wait, take me to Van Ness!" I yelled as my friend Anthony was about to pull onto Haight from Buchanan; the car rumbling beneath my empty stomach, almost harmonizing in unison with the sub-audible purrs of everything i couldn't think of at that moment.A stir of life deep inside of me had pushed those 6 syllables out of my mouth before i could even consciously conceive of a way to speak. It had just happened of it's own accord; a new means of communication i was starting to get used to day by day.

I said bye, and hopped the N train to Ocean Beach. Once i hit the sunset district, i knew it was the only sunset-related thing i was going to be able to view that night, as i was literally going to be minutes late to seeing it all unfold. Or at least that's what i thought.

I sat on the N train for at least 10 minutes after it had quit the moving game all together; i was on a phone call to my friend shantel, a phonecall that was unlike any other, due to the fact that i was basking in a part of myself that is only reached after a long night of drinking, or lying in the same place in the sun for hours with a reflection of myself, listening to all of nothing forever.

I walked along the water as the bonfires started to rise, one by one, watching nothing but my feet, step by step, past the water, slowly but surely to a destination beautifully unbeknownst to me. I saw a small fire, with 3 middle aged women around, and as the sky grew darker and darker, i started to fall out the haze that had been induced on me from the perfect spirals my feet had been making for the past hour in the sand, over and over in hypnotizing circles. I stepped out of myself into their direction, but the women were no more, instead i saw a few people, more my age, varying looks and ages, everyone, oddly approachable. I also felt something else, something faint but huge, something beautiful beyond beautiful, something i would not have felt, had i not been in the realized state, as i was at that moment. I felt a light.

I sat, and asked if I could partake in thier warmth, and their response was almost in suprize that I asked. I even think one of them said a sarcastic remark, something to the tune of "fuck no, are you retarded?".

I loved it. I opened up very quickly, clearly and purely to these people, which is not "normal" for me.

I was home.

Over the course of the night, the light that I had felt earlier had been hinting more and more every few minutes as to where it was living until I found it.

I knew.
She knew.
We both knew that we both knew, and no one else there did.

So we didn't talk about it.
Every once in a while we would say half sentences, and seemingly abstract references to seal the deal, and as planned, the deal was sealed beautifully.


So as we walk to look at the ocean on a whim, off to the side of the "normal world", I lost every inhibition I had ever had.

So as i stole sips from her 40 oz, we floated and floated and let the stars in the sky suck the eyeballs right out of our sockets, brains following, piece by piece, until we had become one giant vacuumed being, pieces permanently melded together in a beautiful array of colors and textures, forever.

At that very second, out bodies flew to the ground, as we laughed and wrestled and basked in a haze of eachother and the power of the beautiful ocean, hurling wonders at us from every direction. We rolled, and rolled and rolled, until both of our tops were off, half naked bodies, sparkling with starlight, blatant sexuality was the last thing on our minds as she infiltrated my barriers. Bodies meshed with sand and tongues in a kind of chaos the god's would die to understand.

As the werewolf bit down, over and over in succession, i melted away forever.
its not that she got me, whatever was inside of her got inside of me.


We woke up the next morning at 24th and Mission.
We sat outside, still radiating the events from the night before, which were stored in our subconscious memory. What we had learned from eachother on that beach, was that of a new alphabet, a revolutionary alphabet, rebelling against all boundaries, near and far with each vowelsound.

Our feet took us out of the house, a few blocks down to an isolated patch of grass that sang happiness out loud to a sea of people, but since were were the only one's who seemed to be listening, we laid in the sun to soak in the symphony of all that there is, was, and will ever be.

As flower after flower, we ate the fruits of the world; the melodies of the park harmonizing with itself tenfold upon our arrival had gotten so loud, we could hear nothing else; and at that second, we lay lost in the art we are painting on eachother, at a loss for all logic and ego, with nothing but the ultra-polyphonic harmonies of life and love to guide our every emotion.

whimsical is the word of the day.
freedom is the word of the day.
projecting is the word of the day.
charlie is the word of the day.
wacky wandy is the word of the day.
blocking is the word of the day.
surrealism is the word of the day.

question:

if salvidor dali asked you fifteen times how to say hello.
what would you be?

answer:

his pillowcase, hanging low above a high maiden's mountains.




just goes to show you how beautiful life can be at every second.
No matter what we think, people understand completely.
More often than not, other people actually understand the most abstract concepts you believe in, but moreso.
Because we are all one.
and we will always be just one.
One beautiful being.
why do we fight ourselves, and use "langauge" in such a way to misscommunicate more than actually understand eachother?
Why do we use labels for any thing in this world?

Why doesn't everyone just give up and use thier ESP?
thats my biggest question.


roll the credits and bring the hippies back, the jokes over!
time for love.


-(transcendental) randy.




[the only names i remember are]
[lindee]
[anglela]
[gerard]
[patrick]
[katie]
[jessica (thanks you for letting us utilize your floor!)]
[frankenstein]

As she lifted her bloody mouth off of the blanket that held every single one of her secrets, she stared; blankly, yet with intent, into the business of the business district which lay accross the street from her makeshift shelter. I had just gotten off the bus, with fresh laughter from the man who sat half-drunk in front of me at 8 am, asking out loud if anyone could find him a lawer. I'm not sure what the homeless woman, freshly waking up in the doorway of the Wolff Camera store symbolized to me. The fact that she seemed to never be searching for eye contact made me wonder.

What was she searching for, if not eye contact?

There was an undeniable sense of blind yearning coming from her vicinity, but I couldn't quite make out the shape of it. Maybe it was the years of meth that had not only cut those ties of unspoken communication, but turned her face nearly inside out as well. Maybe it was the fact that she reminded me of my mother in her current stature. But as for the blood on her lips, I couldn't tell you.

It was dried blood; and it danced around her nose and lips in such abstract patterns, it was almost as if her face was checmically melting off her skull, and someone had kicked her in the mouth with steel toe boots a week ago and threw a handfull of cocaine in it every night since then.



I wanted to take her home.
I wanted to cry.
i wanted to really want to help.
i wanted to feel like i was able to be something to her.
i wanted to be a martye for hope.
i wanted to stop.
i wanted to lose every inhibition and follow my heart.
i wanted a life to give her.
i wanted to give her a piece of myself, as i have more than she did.
i wanted to love her.

i wanted to love her with every inch of my being, until the day i die and after.


but i didn't do any of it.

instead i wrote this.
have at it.

"If it seems to you, in fact, that I am found through your eyes; bouncing around at the various questions you ask, stop thinking, and you may realize i have already answered the real question you have set before me."



Logic was never Mr. Chau's strongpoint; or at least that was the favored opinion amongst the majority of his students. He would sit, day after day, with nothing more than a nickel smirk across his lips at a time when dollar frowns were widely accepted as contentness. While not a single student would think twice to question his creativity and imagination, they were completely dumbfounded on how he became a college professor.

Allan Chau.
forced flower line drawings.
allowing imagination to reign supreme over anxiety.
the beauty in simplicity.
the importance of balance in all concepts.

"In this marvelous stage we call life,the hardest character to understand, i've found; is myself." Said Albert, the lonely actor. "With so many mannerisms, so easily accepted and adopted by me, and my logic of human perception. I am always playing a practical joke, one that no one fully understands besides myself."

Albert is lonely young man, at the fresh age of 23 he was already considered by most, a prodigy of his time, and all stage for that matter. Highyl acclaimed by actors, and scholars alike as a genius; yet he was more confused than anyone he had ever met.

At the moment in time, we find Albert alone, putting on his own faux japanese tea ceremony in his comfy loft, above 24th ave in New York. His living space was covered with photos, artwork, writings, and all different genres of decor; whatever was to his liking when he felt it. Walking into his home filled a person with the kind of feeling they would get if they had entered another world, full of artifacts from a some kind of era in history they had yet to be exposed to. An imaginary world. Albert understood this, and he liked it that way. The design of his loft kept him interested in absolutely anything.

With his tea set at the middle of the table, on a bamboo mat, with 6 cups set up in perfect symmetry from the middle, spiraling outward to the tune of the golden ratio without missing a beat; he sat very content, gestures slow and precise; letting his mind stray only so far before he reeled it back in with the reflex of a master fisherman. The handpainted chinese designs on the cups that sat before him in the auburn twilight of and evening which would soon be an iconic point in the vertical adaptation of the plotline of his life; were a gift from a buddhist friend of his, a gift symbolizing thier plentiful yet simple and beautiful friendship. Albert had been doing this for a while now, it had turned into his own hour of personal meditation. He would travel to many many places in this time frame of self-discovery, and learn the ways of the world; only to denounce it in secret. Albert once read in a book, a quote from Ram Tzu which stated that if we can take ourselves anywhere we want to go with our meditation, places in which we would never be able to go outside the confines of our infinite mind, we should ask ourselves "why do we come back?" This question alone had bothered him for almost 4 years now, since his trip to Washington DC in which he found Ram Tzu's book, titled "no way, for the spiritually enlightened" and found an interest the second his eyes came upon its cover. Albert had tried over and over again to answer this question. As time grew the way time does sometimes, he learned to keep it out of his shallow line of vision, and hid it in the back places of his mind, where it would have time to grow in its own way, and maybe teach him something he hadn't planned on learning.

Unknown to any of albert's close friends, he had a plague, a mental one at that. A plague that kept him from succeeding in happiness in the only way he wanted it; simply. This disease of the mind took him from whereever he was, and told him "No!" when asking himself to relax. It told him to stay quiet when he felt the need to express himself to people whom expressing to would be a very positive experience for both parties involved. Albert had seen many many teachers and doctors for his problems, yet to no avail. Mrs. Judy Louis, PHD could tell him everything he already knew about himself, yet when thier hour long session would reach the apex 4 hours later in a haze of expression, she would start to question her own existance as well, and would be forced to ask Albert to leave her office. Albert would calm down almost instantaniously, and would look at her solemnly and tell her that he understood in a quiet, loving voice as brand new tears ran down his cheek. They both understood what was wrong with him, but neither one could even put it to words, and with the way Albert expressed himself, Judy had both fallen in love with him utterly and completely, and was afraid for her life everytime she sensed him near.

His entire life he had had a very strange effect on people. One day stood out in his mind in particular: It was a bright early summer day, Albert was in 5th grade at Grapewood Elementary school, playing a game of football with friends of his he had just made in the month that preceeded this one. One of those friends was a young boy, Albert's age, named Cauley. As the game went on, Cauley would yell at Albert to do what moves he thought were appropriate for thier positions on the field. That action alone very deeply disturbed Albert, as Albert had been intimidated by Cauley since the first time they met, and had never really expressed himself outwardly to Cauley, especially if thier opinions didn't match. Due to Albert's lack of real self-confidence, he had always let Cauley push him around, which results in a simple fact of human nature: "If given the chance, people will take advantage of anything that is given to them easily, and lose appreciation for it." At first, Albert took the citicism somewhat well, in his own way, and just added it to the backup supply of aggression that was accumulating in the back on his mind, waiting to be let out. But just as he had slipped another thought through the slim neck of the already bursting molotov bottle in his mind, Cauley called him an "idiot." At that point in time Albert lost all the inhibition he had come to thrive in as a comfortable get away from the perils of communicating with the outside world. With this completele loss of inhibition, Albert expressed all of the pent-up feelings and opinions that he had hid from Cauley for months now, most of which were feelings of betrayal that had been created from nothing but Albert's overactive imagination. (He liked to call it "hyper-conciousness", that way it comforted him.) Albert proceeded to scream at the top of his lungs, while pushing Cauley in a fury that had only been seen by these young boys in the eyes of demons in movies, and for some more than others, in the eyes of thier own fathers. But we haven't got to that aspect of the plotline yet, so sit still as i backtrack about 4 and a half steps to the story at hand. Albert was so focused in his anger, a kind of focus he had never felt before; yet after the situation had blown over, he was so scared of the fact of how amazing that outlashing had felt to him, that he started to retreat even deeper in his cave of personal comfort. The wierdest thing about the entire event, was that, when Albert got enough cnfidence to approach Cauley about it to apologize, he looked suprised and told Albert he had no idea what he was talking about.

With a half a teaspoon of raw, oriental sugar; his tea was finally finished. One long-awaited cup of perfection, whose discovery lends its personality to the years before this one, in which the art of the perfect cup of tea was studied compusively by Albert.

oh how i love these four walls of mine.
with photos of windows, all fractured with time.
illustrating illusions of illusions of ills.
with four sided buttons, shaped so much like my pills.
a symphonic reaction, a reaction in doubt.
with these fours walls surrounding, not one can get out.
out to get further, or just out to win.
anxieties of somewhere else, are the only things that are let in.
molecular holes have been bent in hindsight.
with anonymous scholars, all battling for the right.
i've listened in and held on so tight.
so i let go.
and let be.
and realized i've always been close to the light.




oh how i love these new walls of mine.
holding me back from the angst of the mind.
keeping me safe from a false train of thought,
that can turn a man into all that he is not.

my portraits of outside have resulted in fact.
to remain, but refrain from just being an act.
as the photos of windows once thought to be true.
i felt with my own skin, whilst my fingers went through.

through to a new world, through to a place.
a place that held sun, felt not yet on my face.
one smelling of trees, and trees upon clouds.
with voices, and singing, and crashing so loud.

with faces not seen by the likes of these eyes.
with smiles, and whispers, with anger AND CRIES!
how exciting a world, outside walls four of thine.

i wholeheartedly accept all of the aforesaid ^{(including, but in no way limited to: the concept of a room in which i have chosen to live, the concept of a world outside of that which is i, and the concept of the entire world as a whole, and not many single, independent, predominant parts)} as rightfully mine.

A frantic 12 year old Thomas Curley woke up to a generic, sticky, sweat covered pillow. As depressing as the concept of this dull generic pillow, lined with the tears of the night before might be, to Thomas it was his pride and joy, well one of them at least.
See, Thomas was the kind of kid who loved, nay; adored everything he had ever known, both conceptual and physical. All Thomas had ever known as a home in fact, was a dirty unkept corner in a broken down squatted sublevel his parents managed to stake before any of the other families that scoured that same small neighborhood in Tom's River, New Jersey were able to. Day after day, night after night, Thomas adored his dirty corner, with the usual guests the cracks in the floor and wall, and the gusts of wind that came on with the strike of every minute like clockwork would bring in for him to meet.
There was Squiggley the daddy longleg spider who was at this point almost legless, due to the fact that he had had a rough time before finding Thomas. Squiggley's nights were full of sappy dramamtic love stories, tales of heartbreak and angst, and even wartime superstition in the lair of the enemy. Thomas loved Squiggley's stories and unbeknownst to his parents; had been cutting Squiggley off a piece of his daily meals for the last few weeks of thier friendship. Mr. Squiggley J. Spider (as the sign above his immaculate web read) greatly appreciated Thomas' friendship, but reminded Thomas on many occasions that he was in fact a spider, and no matter how strong thier friendship grew, was only staying for the meals. Despite the seemingly small physical attributes Squiggley had, he had managed to make the most amazing web the world had ever seen. It was almost golden in its symmetry and complexity as well. It had whirls that zigzagged into spirals, and spirals that criss-crossed into triangles, and even triangles that overlapped mathematically perfect until they spiraled into a seemingly endless criss-cross array of zigzagging geometric and imaginary shapes. Squiggley's web was that of a god.

a god among insects.