2009. April 12th. Sunday. 20.21.
The Steve Renko Blog Stream.
1. Can the scissors kick their way out of the paper napkins? I am sure someone threw in a map or two for way out. On the way out I will locate the toothpicks. I want to see if that gift was worth it. How many gifts would have been worth it? No telling if the squirrelly earth goddess will start a bonfire with her impulses. Right now what makes sense is a thirty stone shaking off the dust and the lint that seems to feel important.
We did recognize the thin veils flying around the bifocals and wanting to delay the release. There should have been an email to Vince for his arithmetic. But, what could I say? I did receive the refund from the white house staff. Was it for being a good red, white and blue citizen or for a flag that was flown through various corners of the world?
2. There wasn't a fair share of the emotional heroin recently between a sleeve and a hand. This emotional heroin came from a local fluorescent fish; a low-level daily life deep inside Lake Erie. It usually indicated a twisted reality life-style. It lacked light switches; places to hang out with unpaid electric bills. It had too many parking meters; to many glowing neon signs full of itself not knowing the difference.
3. "Little Children's Monsters."
Despite the self, that low esteem wallowing inside a dark room, refusing to open the latch door, accept a match or two for a candle, which is imaginative and troublesome daily effort has to be made to accomplish things. Little children's monsters have to be told to sit down, wait for another bus to pass by on another day.
4. You Are Here. Yes, Easter is almost over. This is the normal Easter for those who feel its colored eggs, ham and horseradish, something to eat and wear spring clothes in the fresh Cleveland air. The sky was blue today, with a big lamp burning sunny and bright. It was the fresh and cold air that made Anne rush into her car at Garfield Park in Mentor, Ohio earlier this afternoon. Bread had been bought for the ducks and the Canadian geese that live there every day. I visited my mother after Anne and I finished with the New Land Ministries services and a drive home through the suburb via Mentor Avenue and Vine Street.
I had eaten plenty and more at my mom's house. She prepared roast pork and breaded veal. There was green salad and soup for starters. We did this routine for fifty years. It's the same routine. It's the same personality. The house she lives in is good from 1967 when we moved in there. I am ungrateful for what I had received all those years. This is due to getting the food when I wanted it as if it should have been harder. I have experienced the same feel from someone I know personally. I could be imagining things. Yet, I am twisted to ask for what I want for what I feel I deserve. I didn't get what I wanted. I am intrigued by what I am not getting.
5. "Somewhere On a Message."
Send in the thresholds barely visible to the naked eye. Walking away from false sensations is a pattern in black, easy on the white. When, in fact, will that emotional heroin be open for business?
Drift in the wind, flakes of thin veils in the breeze, so many bricks in a wall, only, really, wanting one brick in so many tunes to sing with all the golden saxophones kissing the clear blue Mentor sky.
A gel-ink navigator, a random shaped bridge, a release from the denial, sofa cushions in-between lost membrane of a passing moment still waiting for that feeling, that false relief known since early teenage hood, never getting enough of it, never wanting it, till the next moment, another snapshot for another access code, somewhere on a visible feel on the outside chance that she would see it for herself. Following the talk reality, a reality full of a center that does not include a relationship, the posted signs suggested that release will not be at hand or from her sleeve. It is intriguing and mildly nourishing a newly discovered agreement.
6. Time stamp: 09.19. What shall I do next and for what reason?
7. “A Kinder Gentler Evaporation.”
While on the way, in-flight, the snowball, packed tight, rounded for strength, knew already what it would do to the lit candle sitting over there alone in the corner. Smiling, smirking, still very smooth, every second closer, knowing that the corner lit candle was about to be extinguished by the flying white cold ball. The lit candle did not pray. It did not plead for an in-flight change of direction. It did grow its flame in size burning brighter and brighter, reducing the now so close round white bundle of cold to a much friendlier, indifferent wet spot, parked, standing by for a kinder, gentler, evaporation.
8. “Several Days.” Chicken soup out of the kitchen water, definitely looking for the living room sofa this Easter Sunday, never mind my mothering the kitchen, the table with a white cloth, serving knives, flying forks, pork roasted too long inside a heat based opinion, monthly charged by ties and suits who never did walk past the home made soup, kiss the lakeshore sky, dance with Jimmy Hendrix's purple haze, walk along Euclid Creek bank next to a shallow lake, now a great lake on the USA map, something past tense, something along side a state park parking lot, something alongside temper reduced parking spaces, a waiting room on Saturdays and Sundays, a cubicle come tomorrow, Monday and again through Friday, several days out of this year holidays are allowed to park for free, near, but, never next to painted fire hydrants.
9. “Breathing Next To a Lit Candle.”
Soup out of the water, definitely looking for a lounge chair, never mind the kitchen, the table with a white cloth, serving knives, flying forks, pork roasted too long inside a heat based opinion, monthly charged by ties and suits who never did walk past the soup, kiss the sky, dance with the purple haze, walk along a crooked river bank next to a post-industrial wasteland, now a junkyard on the map, something past tense, something along side a shallow lake, something along side temper reduced parking spaces, a waiting room on Saturdays and Sundays, a work camp Monday through Friday, several days out of the year holidays are allowed to park for free, near, but, never next to painted fire hydrants.
Low self-esteem swimming in a junkyard composing black and white on blue, often times too tired to understand that flying forks are looking for turned on systems, dinner tables for two inside someone's remote control, weekdays, sunny outside, never mind the frosty branches, a lack of sunglasses throughout the months and years.
Fearless in the sky, death defying underwater, a Lake Erie, usually sitting there waiting for boats, tourists, a cleaner microscope, a crooked river passing its factory gases, home owners eating spaghetti-o's, Kleenex tissues, once neatly stacked on high shelves only reachable with an out of state driver's license, foreigners who pledged allegiance to the red, white and blue, usually followed by a song and dance from a drama queen, thick carpeting and Kellogg's Corn Flakes.
Doesn't look like it stuck around the shovels and driveways, melted frost hugged the tree branches, be it some unknown variety, or a peach tree next to a parking lot, usually visited by friendly strangers, an understanding tea drinker, who currently trusts a bald eagle with bifocals, never mind that a black and white maze does fit on a blue, a blue that waited many hours, days, and decades inside a waiting room, rarely painted, often inflated with passengers looking for lost and found emotional luggage, no homeland security, no postage stamps being pasted on junk mail, too expensive for the pony express, often used to send information that weeks ago was fresh as a pizza with dancing anchovies.
Danced with the snow flakes near the tree branches, low to the ground, far away from the concrete, often driven to places, with strangers, never knowing who in-fact, grabbed the cookie jar when Mother Rose was smiling at the thick carpeting, crying for a prisoner-of-war, neglecting a junior achiever who waited way too long to stick his foot out, stretch that thumb, ride that mother road, park it next to a living room, breathing next to a lit candle woven with cotton wax, shaped by bridges that had a personality of their own.
10. I am reaching deep and into a reality free from denial. Yet, I am tight around the personality tonight. I am stiff with want. But, the stiffness only serves a good flag pole that would not be seen in this night time hour. I am intrigued at this waiting room self-control. Is it real or is it an impulse on a leash?
11. What to wear tomorrow for the paper route? What to prepare to eat? It is difficult to choose this hour now nearing 10:00 p.m. I will not work overtime tomorrow. I need the rest and recovery to get back into it come Wednesday. Being creative tonight is a hassle. I don't feel clever at all.
12. “Usually Followed By A Song.”
Low self-esteem swimming in a junkyard composing black and white on blue, often times too tired to understand that flying forks are looking for turned on systems, dinner tables for two inside someone's remote control, weekdays, sunny outside, never mind the frosty branches, a lack of sunglasses throughout the months and years.
Fearless in the sky, death defying under water, a Lake Erie, usually sitting there waiting for boats, tourists, a cleaner microscope, a crooked river passing its gas, spaghetti-o's, Kleenex tissues once neatly stacked on high shelves only reachable with an out of state driver's license, foreigners who pledged allegiance to the red, white and blue, usually followed by a song and dance from a drama queen, thick carpeting and Kellogg's Corn Flakes.
13. I am parking a number of stories told here tonight. Tomorrow is already giving me anxiety. I am tight have this feeling that I should sit on the sofa and do nothing. There it is, the Sunday night Denial. Whatever I am doing tonight is not good enough. That's taking that for granted only to drift me towards the frig one more time tonight. That never reduced nor calmed down the anxiety. Emotional heroin could have soothed the nervous Nellies inside the room where an anxiety attack is possible.
I am in that center, that eye of a Denial that is now in my apartment. Hello Denial!!! How do you feel? Apparently, you feel enough to hassle me with doubt, feelings of low self-esteem. I can tell you are present as I am confused. I, also, feel the presence of the Holy Spirit as I, also, feel something else, a release from your very self. You can watch and wonder how I am free of your doubt and frustration. Perhaps, the emotional heroin has lost its touch. Perhaps you didn't see that coming. I don't have to see the coming of your suggested route when there is another route available, the straight and narrow through you, Denial. Stay tuned.
14. “Really Real Rules.”
Going on 10:30 p.m. where should I be? What was this Easter thing like today? What were the hours made of? Where were the minutes? Am I like Jack Kerouac? Am I a beat writer on the road? This is the Internet this night tonight. This is a paperless collection of words. Is it paper to any one else. I no longer wonder who reads these blogs. I am compelled to compose and post and move onto the next blog? How do I feel at this hour? I have suspended temporarily the emotional heroin need. Victories line up for a steadiness that arrives from God's Agreement.
Kind of blue this minute. What kind of blue? Blue in black and white. Where am I going at my age? What am I doing? How do I feel? What is there to blog? This was another day, another night time set of words transferred to and from one personality to an understanding.
This is a secret of sorts. How many times did I want them to know my secret? Why would I tell them my secret? Why would I spill the beans, my secrets? Don't I want to keep my secrets? Are they heavy to walk around with tonight?
So, the secret goes on and on. It has been a secret for fifty years plus. Now, I can plan for closure from the Denial that ruled in my apartment for too many hours after the Water Department closed for the day. Was it a task to ask God for assistance? He pointed the way to the Denial in the apartment rooms. Was it work? Did I steal, cheat, or take away from God? If so, I now work for Him while in this living room. I have waited for this revelation every day of the night. What were the really real rules? I denied God in my apartment. I denied Jesus Christ in my living room and bedroom.
Denial is one thing. It had its way with me. I have been release from it. Jesus Christ freed me of that frustration. Really real rules are another thing. The really real is from God. The really real is Christ in my apartment in every room every minute.
One set of rules that are available are quick and impulsive. They must be had and served. In case I don't get what I want I will scream fire, tension, and suspect the situation.
Is Denial too busy skirting rules? Does it have rules? Who rules Denial? Who rules what it does? One set of rules for Denial, two different opinions, who said what, when, why. Dilemma. I am not in clever with the rules, with the Denial's politics. I am under the radar. I have my secret. Maybe it doesn't care. It has its own secrets.
15. A bunch of paragraphs joined together before I prepare the briefcase for tomorrow. (10:45 p.m.)
16. “The Kitchen.” Only the right people are invited to sit in the cloistered living room. The wrong ones are told to sit in the kitchen with their shoes on, coat in hand, ready in case of a fire.
“Hammers.” Gift horse continues. Tongues never dry. Personalities run over talents. Another bill, another 24 hours, another side swipe with clouds, hammers staring at indisposed nails.
“A Whisper Unfolds.” Cutting through false sensations, perhaps orange in nature, gold bent lines don't attract enough attention by art critics nor traditionalists. Next door, but, not into a window, silver intruded with no doubt black or is it ebony or is it pieces of a long night broken, now useful for the first time. The paper is quiet, all white, peaceful, bright, is it a parking place? The bends go here, an intersection cut through vertical and some left over for a horizon sticking, butting in, and, as a whole, getting space to draw near to the lighter gel-inks. Staring there, looking good off of another ink.
An off luster purple is dominated by a metallic gold, too, brilliant for its own good, unless it is a currency. What good does it in the arithmetic columns? Here inside a Jazz Cube currency values are not important. What price freedom inside a pre-scheduled diameter, a life limited to the moment the choice of what to describe for what fancy in a nerve ending in all those yesterdays.
The explanations don't command attention, the dots don't connect and the one or two lines sticking out are not snags for tired old fog banks.
Listening to musical sounds that didn't appear on popular charts, gel ink Jazz Cubes have the freedom to create life with or without a passport, let alone a visa. A whisper unfolds. A piece of paper has a guest.
"Always Fixed." In the light of the big lamp, in view of the room furniture, the skin tightens the nerve endings almost split in two. But, they never do. But, who is to tell the personality waiting in a room, for a ride or waiting for a sensation, just like that one years ago. In the wait, the ride is always there, the bubble skin never breaks, the veins are always fixed, and the physical reality does not pay the rent.
17. One more for the moment. Then, I must get ready for another round of confusion. It must be good for something.
“Ink on the Cubes.” The moments don't focus here; concentration is hardly at home, let alone in the briefcase. Tuning it out, seeing the Furies with sunglasses on, as the crayolas don't melt. There is, as yet, no down time, no breakdown. A stealth object, invisibility due to the quiet, perhaps, I can trek through this fatigue. The surface tension isn't decomposing, radio silence is maintained, an assembly of letters, not a funeral parlor is in the scenes. Will Tuesday be helpful? Nearly invisible the Unabler in these lanes is there, phantom in substance, this far out the Trust transmissions are barely audible, barely enough to suggest a continuity. Nothing does change. Nothing by any other name is still a snapshot.
Therapy aside the evening tension smiles away upon the moments that will unfold, Mr. Random is where? The Fates are the masters, what in fact will unfold remains to be seen. When a blind man talks to a deaf son, not much and what are the only certainties.
Powering on feels the moments, being in another whole inner circle is a hint, but not the strength. Too much surface tension and the Cubes distance into their cloaking device. Without a TV reality script, without commercial breaks, edits, the Cubes too are in the midst of the madness, still dry, no contact, and the walnuts solid.
The self-respect reality continues while the phantoms, delusions, distractions, subjectivities, all motion around in the thin lines. No instant gratification, no superficiality, no flipsteak, no Al, no food as it was, no drugs, no calamities, what in the self-respect reality to do? The inner circle is enabled, a personal life plan with all sorts of details.
In the madness the phantom spring west. Binging on superficial would lead to giving away the power. The power is not going away; it's not being given away. But, it's been as easy day, a fat attack is on schedule, just enough to lay low, just enough to start and stop the daisy wheel.
An apartment was ignored, the Cubes base, a daisywheel conflicted with the dust watching cable TV channels, the weight of the straw at night time, the denial reality, a window shopper's emotional heroin.
The smile trap was loud enough, the leftover clothes in the bedroom, the message that never clicks on the fax that never crackles out. The thin line between toxic and healing. The thin margin between changing and altering a life, nothing or destiny, denial or self-respect? The moments turn, unfold, the Fates are the Masters, Mr. Random is the messenger.
A dull moment in a present tense. Has the madness disappeared?
No! It's an in-between. The impulses are quick, instant. Think there isn't anything there; wait for the motion and the lunch hour shift. Will the nothing be the undoing, will it clear the daytime.
The Cubes aren't themselves it's a threshold, so many voices, how can I hear Ljiljana calling my phone. Who knew what in fact is happening? I could be dwelling deeper inside the self-respect reality. What will I give for relief, who said I wanted relief? The plan was to fly west; reality is that my airfare is for an inner circle, another month, now independent of Ljiljana's life.
The Cubes are fragments, in a dull moment, the eyes of the dragon slowed down due to a little success under the moonlight. The stress is in the calm, the instant is tight, still the streams between the rocks, even as evaporation increases. Small pools of mirrors for the insects, small reflections for what could have been, as phantom transmissions emerge out of mangled wires cocoons, out of moments that hoped, waited, wanted, that believed only to be dealt nothing, served nothing, and belonged to nothing. The madness of nothing trails on towards an if contact, towards a lunacy the moon would be envious of. What will the phantom moments do when they do not make contact? Where will they go, who will they belong to? Between the denial reality and the self-respect reality, a horde of moments that don't belong to anyone, aren't wanted by either reality.
Clogged and congested these moments have an unknown lifespan, can regenerate. Will victims of circumstances be responsible, or will they feel something they don't want to, something they didn't deserve, but having listened into the denial, having wanted the conversation pieces now the prices and costs fly in and out through the silence that gets thicker and thicker.
The Furies don't let up, the sunglasses were expensive the war widow, the prisoner of war, the step child, the Enabler are deep inside a trauma that an image served, delivered, and abandoned. The juice flows with the Furies watching the process is nearly invisible, to go toxic or to heal this deep inside. In venting treats the tense toxins with just enough air cells that invisible border before the walnut cracks exposing the meat to user friendly normals.
The Cubes are flying low, too much dullness in the air cells, a pre-hell breaking loose, or a continued Mexican stand-off in a New York Deli. No psych moms are in conflict, is it a trade-off or distancing away. Another dull moment with motion to come.
The cubes are for the present tense are tuning in to the four week madness. They are in a cold spin. So much of nothingness, so much of madness. There are phantoms of Chevrolet running around, west to east. Dignity arrived into the self-respect yesterday after a rather disconcerting weekend. Guilt-trips were discovered in the lost sections of the mansion, something Mother Rose put in place, something Mother Rose continual uses. Victims permission was discovered the self-respect reality has decided not to be a victim, it has its dignity.
The Club 12 renovation shook both of the realities, the self respect as well as the denial. The mansion windows blow open, the false sensations turned into impulsive urges. There were only so many moments to take advantage of.
Out of the lost section rolled the craving, did Lily care at all about anything or anyone? Was this important if she cared, or was it a hidden something to negotiate for? Is she that strong or am I that weak? Does caring, is caring treated as a weakness in the Denial reality? What is it that I can't flow through today? How much will I give up? What will I give up? How do I get the Cubes through the dull spots? What does she have the denial reality has that I wasn't to see, hear or falsely believe in.
No deal this moment, no negotiations, no trade-offs no contact.
Through the dull spots, less false sensations, the victims of circumstance. I'm dulled out at 10:20 a.m., no false sensations, the phantoms of spring west, are squeezing my air cells. The stress continues, no slack expected.
18. That's it for tonight. That's it for composing a blog. Anne is watching, “The King of Kings” with Jeffery Hunter. It is from 1961. I used to watch those movies religiously. Now, I have an idea how they made the movies in California not in the Middle East. Still, the message is good and Anne is enjoying it with her innocence. I am in an emotional vapor lock before Joel Osteen transmits his message at midnight. OK. I'm blogged out for now.
Tags: The Steve Renko Blog Stream
