alright here's the story: i write to myself everyday, at least a few scribbles or a fragment of a dream. i used to write on the icarus site everyday too, and then slipped way out of the habit. i started feeling too self conscious, too worried about what other people might think about me. then after awhile, like many things, it's kind of self perpetuating -- the longer i don't write the harder it is to do it cause the pressure's on inside my little head to be brilliant and amazing. then after a while longer i start forgetting that it was ever possible for me to write for other people. i go back and look at things i've written and i'm amazed that i had the talent and nerve to speak up and bear my soul. that must have been some other guy, he's off traveling or something. i'm the quiet one he left behind to make sure the bills get paid and all that.

so this post is my attempt to break out of the writing rut. i just open up my journal from last fall and started typing the first page. i got 8 pages into it and it seems like a good stopping point. i'm going to pick up with it tomorrow. i'm going to just do it for myself cause otherwise i'll get too self-conscious. of course i know it's not just for me, but it'll be one of those cool mind tricks i play on myself to hold things together. so the following is really raw and personal and makes references to people you don't know. it's also, i'm realizing, full of unfinished fragments for the book i've been writing that probably won't make too much sense either, maybe in stream of consciousness form it'll be interesting. it's also very influenced by the fact that i was walking the edge and smoking a little too much weed. i'm in a serious grounding period these days and it's always amazing to look back on the spirals my head was in not so long before.  anyway, thanks for tuning in to the scatter frequency. hope this does something for you somehow. now just sit back and relax as I  bear my soul to you in scary and exciting ways. more soon...

Germantown Community Farm
Sunday October 22nd, 2006  5:46am
Don’t turn the page – there’s a monster at the end of this book!
Here at the waning days of 2006, at the glorious burning height of fall when the bright red trees on the ridge outside your window punctuate a fluttery landscape of halloween orange, mustand yellow, and twenty shades inbetween, you’re lying naked in bed curled up next to your beautiful, brilliant, snoring girlfriend listening to the ducks outside and the dogs inside bark at an unsuspecting houseguest, feeling the tiredness in your body and wondering why now, of all times, the schoolbus circus inside your head decided it was a good idea to lose/run out of psych drugs three times in one week. There are so many hidden contradictory and melding layers inside my brain, and I get so caught up in the hectic immediacy of my life (like a shell I build around myself out of ocean salt and little bits of sand and sea glass) that I forget I’m constructing this swirling, fractalized ironically self-similar life around myself which just mimmics the life forces flowing around me and inevitably gets exponentially more interesting at the lithium carbonate in my blood dips below .5.
Oh old friend, let me explain to you what is going on in your life as I write these words: you’re 31 years old now and your life is amazing. The biggest challenge is that you’re too caught up in it, juggling too many pins to let yourself appreciate it for more than brief periods of reflection, usually at night in bed with M, more often than not with swirling small clouds of pot smoke above your head. Taking Lithium and Smoking Pot Lets You Travel Through Time, remember? It’s like a portal between worlds. You and this incredibly beautiful woman have the hottest, most present sex of your life. She fall peacefully asleep and you lie next to her awake reading your old journals going back to 1996, waiting for the 10mgs of Ambien to shut down the thought train while you ride it like you’re on top of the graincar with dragonface dan watching the sunset over the cascades, excited scribbling semi-cryptic notes to yourself which you don’t remember writing the next day. And then, as always, it catches up to you. All the edges that the lithium allows you to dull and the weed allows you to tap back into, they don’t stay tame. They make themselves known at the dinner table.
Round midnight Sun/Mon
All super cuddly in bed with M. We just had amazing sex and she’s lying next to me and it’s chilly outside and we’re bundled up and life is good. We just watched Videodrome – transported to 1982, before M was even born. I totally felt like I was sharing a secret key inside my head. The last time I watched Videodrome was with Ashley while we were writing the book and it triggered a whole cascade of ideas and schemes. Now it’s 2 and a half years later and I’m picking up the book idea for the first time in a while and it’s still all there waiting for me. I’m going to go through my journals with stickynotes and tag a bunch of pages, then photocopy them, then highlight the pages with different colored markers. I’ll come up with the categories as I’m going through the books. Then I’ll have color-coated folders to organize the pages. Meanwhile I’ll keep working on this outline that keeps taking more and more shape, and then I’ll just fit all the pieces into the outline. So here are some rough thoughts as my girlfriend sleeps soundly by my side:
Hanging on the Telephone
My first crush ever was Debbie Harry – I saw her on the Muppet Show watching TV with my dad in 1981.
That night I talked to her in my bed.
There needs to be a whole chapter about dad at the beginning to set the stage or his ghost won’t be as powerful.
Dad talking about history and the power of the written word.
After he dies I find the gun and the porno mags from 1977 in his underwear drawer.
Aunt Zilda and all the stuff, the old irish cop gun.
Later I remember masturbating and the girls in the magazines telling me i’ve been chosen and they’re sending me messages
The 1977 Blackout was my first memory
I dream about the gun.
Naz record – new york state of mind -  jimmy jazz at sls
Later in LA carrying around a loaded gun – the bullets in the prednizone bottle
Liza told me that towards the end of his life he begged her to bring the gun to the hospital so he could blow his brains out.
Blondie was my gateway into punk rock. She came up from the underground and seduced me into joining the revolution. In dreamtime she comes and tells me that i have a mission.
After dad died I had this reoccuring dream about talking to him on the phone.
Wandering around the streets of LA trying to call my dad at payphones in the year 2000.
Finding a videotape of a speech he gave.
Blondie’s pizza in berkeley where the punks worked.
Every video is somebody’s dream.
The souls of the dead are trapped in the images.
x-ray spex 1977 Identity  did you do it before you read about it?
We all live on on television.
The punks don’t let the signal control them. They smash TV’s in bonfire ceremonies in the middle of tompkins square park.
in the psych ward and hanging on the telephone comes on the stereo after i’ve just gotten off the phone with fireweed.
Then You Crash and realize you’re totally delusional: your friends aren't there for you at all, you’re just some kid who lost his dad and can’t deal with the sad, insignificant reality of your pathetic life. You’re just a delusional mess.

YouTube Psychic TV Experience
After 25 years I found the clip of Debby Harry singing ‘Call Me’ on the Muppet Show last night. YouTube is amazing. I stayed up late watching all these Blondie videos and then a Rites of Spring video and then us playing ‘Born to Die’ on 9-11 on tompkins and then I ate some bread and drank some milk and took some Ambien and curled up next to M and passed out. Woke up listening to a conversation between Ash and Courtney about greasetrucks and driving in the winter. Now I hear glasses clinking and the sound of a lone banjo playing in the background.

dream: i’m in the woods with the singer from rites of spring and someone else and we’re building a small wooden bridge over a stream. guy falls in the water but doesn’t get wet and comes right out. i’m at the gtown house with joel duncan it’s christmas time – there’s someone on the phone in my house with peter schwab and i’m listening to it silently on a cheap blue and white cordless phone. i have to take the battery out to hang up. i’m in my room and i hear a british voice in my head say there’s a freight train outside from coney island and british columbia. i look outside the farmhouse window and low and behold there’s a big old freight train with a bunch of passengers on it like those red double decker tourist buses in nyc. the track is running right through our land. i feel divine somehow – i’m remembering living at the battcave and working on the seed project and how i thought i was some kind of messianic figure – but its not like that, it’s more calm and centered and focused (but i still have the feeling i might die soon and i’m looking at how my books are arranged on my shelf and thinking about what i’m leaving behind for people. // then joel duncan invites me to coney island and suddenly i’m in a large creek or stream with yonah and a bunch of other youth jewish activist tranny folks. the water is full of little fish. I feel reborn.
10/24
freddy tried to strange me with my plastic popper beads but i hit him back with my pet rat
tuesday midnight heading off toward sleep. long exhausting day of fights about responsibility and soul retreval and baking cookies with ashley mac.

On the long, slow road to writing regularly in my journal.
Where you at, kid? Scattered. Thinking about too much stuff at once, most of the day.
I can make lists but there are all these micro and meta levels which complicate the thought process and therefore the exeicution.
dream: i trained to be a cop and i was a fucking cop in a uniform with a 9mm(?!) i don’t remember why now. i was in a big old car with wendy-o-matic behind the wheel – she’s tripping out on me.
dream: visiting frasnk morton with M. i was putting kale in his garden. then i was with lucha and we were writing graf all arounf ken dudek and my mom’s offices in the middle of the night. then i was with joe david and dick lucus in washington heights, smoking weed and doing bag wa.