a slight flutter. wind. wings. fingers. i am not sure. it is so vague. so far away. tonight is here again. blind witness to the crimes of my life. the silent watcher of the broken pleasures that make up what passes as my life. these one sided conversations between me and my keyboard. tonight is here again. it is a sin.
i write. you read. is this communication? seriously. the keys caress me back. no. they dont. just in case, i self medicate. i whisper. the television is on mute. the traffic outside bears witness to life. the life of others. i whisper. silence answers. i whisper. take your share. just in case. i whisper a prayer for the lost.
does god think it is prideful, greedy, to pray for yourself? i wonder wander. i remember the smell of fall after the rain. i remember show and tell. i remember so many things. all useless here. i am a chaser of ghost paper.

what is ghost paper? i think maybe ideals, but i am not sure. ghost paper,i think is what is left after you have read a page. politics, religion, science, romance. i found out that j g ballard died last month. i cried. "crash" is one of my favourite books. the movie is brilliant. "empire of the sun" is also amazing and "highrise ". i have put off reading "memories of the space age" because i always felt i had already lived it, now, in honor of his death, i will have to read it. he was so amazing. joy division used him in their work. "atrocity exhibition" is one of his works, gary numan hinted at him in "down in the park" and the song "warm leatherette" by the normal is based on his novel "crash". with the money daniel miller made from that single he formed mute records and we have "depeche mode", all thanks to j g ballard. and the top ten discs to take into space has to include "metamatic" by john foxx, again inspired by j g ballard. the music swirls around me and i grasp. the chaser of ghost paper. i grasp socialism, pop culture references in john lennons photo in the white album, the sound of women crying in goverment tents on what once were soccer fields, colors changing on the map of the world as the biohazard explodes and cnn has a logo for it and special theme music. i unfold my hand and let it flutter. wind. wings. fingers. i dont know. all i know for sure, as the saline solution drips, is that 13 percent of the population is not. is not what, i dont know. the nurse asked how i am feeling and i smile because i am too tired to bare my teeth all the way. it works, she leaves.

i am going under for the third time. will no one swim out here? i swallow jet fuel and go under again. and i see the ghost of skylab below me, shimmering in the dark sea. and i drift. in the late 1970's, my punk band days, skylab was coming back to us. back to it's creators. all it was doing was coming home. like me, in a decaying orbit. i remembered those giant buttons i saw in pictures when the beatles came to america. they said "welcome the beatles". so i had giant buttons made that said "welcome skylab" and all of friends and i wore them everywhere. i remember people staring at me on the bus like i was crazy. welcome skylab? it was just the beginning of what we call celebrity now, it was being a chaser of ghost paper. so here i am 30 plus years later, locked in my apartment, at stupid o'clock in the morning. wondering how i can waste this day. i found if you let go of the importance of every moment, it loses its pain, it numbs the tears into making toast or staring at the television with the sound off. if its not special, its just more skin being made into dust and if you dont clean, then you dont know thats the place is dirty and if you...whatever. its a circle too big for me to get my dirty mouth around. salt water and jet fuel. i feel like i am in the bathtub in the backroom of the boot camp in san francisco again. its the late 70's and the world is full of ghost paper that hasnt hit the ground yet and i lay, mouth open to catch the dna snowflakes. where did i leave my cheekbones, my taunt flesh, my desire to do more than this. i dont know. its all too groovy when you self medicate. flutters. burning lamps in the bedrooms. blood against the wall and ceiling. emails from friends. memories. flutter. flutter. flutter like flies to butter flutter. i wish i was here. but i am not. i am busy chasing ghost paper.

musical interlude.

for the last couple of weeks, i have had "sounds of the universe" by depeche mode (which brings us back to j g ballard) on my headsets on the commuter train. there is a particular portion that was kept me chasing their ghost paper. it goes like this.

"Wasted all my time ,
In another world ,
in another place ,
I could use a little company ,
A little kindness can go a long way .

Weeks turn into months ...
Months turn into years ...
Reaching the same conclusions...
Living the same delusions"

backwards piano. i look at my watch at the train station and its moving backwards. people seem to be leaving, instead of coming. im confused. chasing ghost paper (no matter of what your ideal of beauty is, be it politcal, spiritual, intellectual or flesh driven) its still all ghost paper. it only exists in your reality. your mind and/or soul is going to keep you hungry, searching. give me drunk and dead. i am tired. i am tired of remembering. i am tired of chasing ghost paper. the train pulls up and i am the only one on the platform. i get in and see the train is empty. the doors close and the automated voice on the speaker says "three minutes from heaven". i smile, for the first time in years. i look at my watch and it stops spinning backwards and burns my wrist. i take it off and its at that moment, i hear connie francis on the speakers. okay, i admit it, now i'm scared.

*(i wont have this on my main site until tomorrow night as foxfire is not letting me update my site.)

my main account

uses da stock

uses da male stock chosen at random