on past father's days.

That Bolt bus. With an old Chinese woman singing some eastern version of Greensleeves. It was all the same notes I thought I knew from kindergarten Christmas talent shows, just more falling acoustic cliffs and quick raises between a mix of major and minor chords. It sounded good but strange like first loves; like a mom's melodies to kids that don't promise anything but just talk of a future; it was quiet but constant like the air conditioning. When we got off the bus I found her and thanked her. She was dismissive, "that was a pretty boring bus ride." 

Earlier in the day I had seen my dad for about one and a half hours; it was father's day. My sister and I helped unload things from his car (he had driven down in his truck with my mom; a few days of remodels ahead of him.) And we ate pb&j in their kitchen. Afterwards we went to a corner cafe for coffee and iced tea. I told my dad I loved him and that he was a good dad. He told me a sculpture I was working on had turned out well. I think part of getting older is seeing love in digressional conversation and no eye contact; large gaps can be like enclosed arms. Something where the boys that always persist in men are complete.

I can't help but think of what my possible, future children can become. Even in my laziness I have become something that my dad isn't, he who soars above in clouds not made of air or water.

He is a stone carving.
He is a shelter.
He is the beginning of my history.

what was all that?

The last year or so was obviously a blur. Everyone talks about it: blur, blur, blur. The lobes of my brain feel like the carcasses of frogs run over by tanks driving side-by-side to some far off artillery range.

I haven’t read anything in most of this time and I feel this is in direct connection to the feeling that art has left me; I’ll never make it again and, even worse, the ability to write about this lost lover also feels forever gone.

Then something happened today in the fog of a very fucked travel plan that extended a 10 hour trip to 41 hours: I casually started reading through some technical things, some interesting things, some things of pure fiction. What I stayed away from was the internet. And shows. And endless chumbuckets.

I can feel a small ribbit in my brain, and I wonder how easy it is to let culture be a school that only teaches something like mathematics by rote: forgetting the army of ones that make up a prime like 7.

If not approached carefully, YouTube will take all nuance out of my day.

pin-bone remover.


I don't know what to think about this machine: the video seems to imply that the machine doesn't do a good job at removing bones unless you buy all the upgrades.

Not impressed.

meat

Family heirlooms that are somewhere between old pieces of beef and fleshy fruit in the teeth of dogs. Rotting but also sweet.

Ears pinned back looking at the sunlight on stone around us all with eyes too clear, but maybe teeth too sharp.

History is passed down and learned in the moment, but it shares with the present the feeling of screaming at the pages right before a known assassination; a perfect moment with family can be where you seem to know exactly too much and nothing at the same time.

Family let’s us step outside of who we are, in all the blessings and curses that that brings.