DADDY sez...

When I'm in the midst of The Grind doing 8-hour-and-beyond days for The Man, despite the fatigue and the typical semi-disgruntled moments - it's all quite easy and codified. A fairly seamless and easy path. Oh, there are those moments when my fangs show, but them is the exception not the rule.

For me, the fatigue hits in those busy in-between spaces that cross over into the loopy: the weeks and months straight of exploration time; the little ever-loping convoluted meandering moments that make it all such a blur.

Not having to be nowhere. Nothing to do. I know most folks pine for that life... or is that 'whine'. But really, it's not what anybody wants. If it was, then everybody would be doing it. Right? We all get what we want. Sure we do.

I find it funny that some preface a phone conversation with "Are you working right now?" That tells more about the person who's asking than about me; where they place value. The assumption that only paying work is valid, and not to be interrupted.

Those who truly know me, know that I'm always working. Just that most of the time I don't get paid cash-money for my services.

I been going through the 5000+ photos I've shot in the past month looking for a shape and finding none that was apparent to me - wondering why I shot so damn many of them. Too much visual info to process.

Friday while hanging out all day with Greg (again... how does that always happen?) , the whole while trying NOT to shoot photos, I managed to pop off over 80 shots.

And, yes, we did eat. and it was yummy. That's what we do. We eat. We take pictures. We talk. We do stuff... whatever. It's a good flavor of Shaman Dreaming - an InterZone of junk time.

I almost did a teenage-mexican-girl thing. Despite the rain, I thought it would be a good idea to go out and about with my pajama bottoms on and a sweatshirt. Greg said, "Umm... just a suggestion: You might want to put on some underwear."

I wore pants.

The subjects of conversation always meander widely from Art, Life to our extreme-mindful-assholishness. One theme that drives itself through everything is 'the people in our lives'. A single dominant thread in that theme is 'the shitstorm of emotional drama'. Within that thread is a small sliver called "why wasn't I there, too? I hate you, Greg!"

How does the simple act of hanging out with Greg doing mostly random-ass shit typically result in some sort of minor strife somewhere? Using a sort of perverse fundamental logic, one could make a very compelling argument that there must be something fundamentally wrong or evil with the act of us mutually slacking in that it causes emotional/psychic misalignment with those closest to him.

I get it. He is such a magical being (beyond the norm for such beings) that any hint of loss can only induce sadness.

Not exactly sure how I fit into that equation. Seeing as I'm just a monkey and based on known past history, I'm pretty sure it doesn't matter who 'the other' is that takes the Greg-attention away. It doesn't seem to matter. For the time being, I'm 'the other'.

The irony: getting shit from the ones he loves creates more need to hang out with me (or someone like me), stepping behind the curtain of drama to decompress - only to step back out to weather a new storm of shit. It's a vicious fucking circle.

If I started the fan-site "I-Love-Hate-Greg.COM", there would be at least 2 solid members and a few part time associates.

There is something playing out here in this space, much of it below my level of awareness. I know enough to barely recognize it's shadow, but too stupid to figure it out. I'm good with stupid.

Solo-slacking back in Red's apartment, a cocoon-like zone of comfort and silence. I'm not sure where that resonates from. Maybe it's not this room. Maybe it's just me.

it feels like "the Road". It feels like distance. Yeah now that I think about it, that's just me: that's me anywhere.

I'm gonna lay about in my boxers. Why? Because I can, that's why. And it's my birthday - every day's my birthday.

Just sitting here alone like a dog wagging his tail.

C'est la fuckin Vie, baby!