All of us are idiots.

I am composed of thousand points of lights. I walk among the divine and the savage. Here I am, now thin and lean, slightly less pale, and young- walking down these numbered avenues with a blue umbrella. I feed on $1.25 Vietnamese sandwiches and rely on the sustenance of $7 pints of whiskey. I smoke with relish. Unashamed, I light up spliffs in the middle of town, and cough gregariously. Everyone senses my vitality, and my dark cloud of sentience.
One native, holding a half-carved piece of two-by-four and a dulled razor, mumbles toward me, "Please, I have two pennies, I wanna, I wanna carve this. Need a new razor." Miraculously, I have a box cutter (with fresh razor) in my pocket. "Here, let me see it when you're finished.", I hand him the box-cutter and amble off, joint in mouth. I feel good in the selfish acknowledgement of a good deed done. [None of us are innocent, see The Fall for confirmation.]
And, yes, we are all idiots.

Path of Louise Boren

You walk down 19th Ave and head north, through the neighborhoods of mansions and pines. You come upon Interlaken and are dumbstruck at its deep forests and ravines. Your worn shoes have seen many paths these days, this year, but the Boren path leads zigzag up a sharp slope of ferns and towering mossy trees. Irresistible. Its sunny and you are tanned and smiling. Here is what you wrote at the summit, smoking a joint, one summer:


"Walked up the path of Louise Boren. Winding thru Pacific Northwest rainforest, of mossy evergreens and fern-covered slopes, the path reaches its apex somewhere south of the mouth of the canal into Lake Union. I am sitting on a log, looking out across a view of distant houses and tree-lined hills, and a canopy of green foliage rolls out underneath me. Absolutely beautiful.
"The path was fairly difficult and steep with rough wooden stairs at places. I had found it [the path] after crossing the tall-treed forests of Interlaken. I suppose that I'm ontop of an extension of Madrona hill. And now, maybe I roll a small joint in celebration of my new discovery [ink suddenly runs out] [scratched on:] damn pen."


You walk all the way home, thirsty till you stop for a soda, and sweating. You come home and draw. Then you drink, then you write. ahem.

Interlaken Ley Line

Brice Taylor, mind control victim.

The Network of Stolen Consciousness

Fuck the Blue Angels

...as they're flying overhead all day today- swooping down barely 20 feet over our Capitol Hill houses, causing dogs to bark and children to cry. Its the sonic boom that hurts. We are outside flipping them off...fuckin Blue Angels.

But have you seen Haxan? Amazing.