excuse the punKchoo-ayshun. Freewryte.....

Its tough to come up with a title, when you dont even know what you are about to write about. Its all a haze. It seems the most suprised i've been lately is that will ferrel is taking over steve corell's spot on the office. Is this what i've want to slum to. I have no idea what is going around me, other than the commercials  i catch a glimpse every once  in a while on the tube at work. Crazy, my knowledge of what i know latley consist of the standards of the food service industry. Why service!? i should be servicing myself a big plate of what life has given me. A creative mind that reeks of pure laziness the herb can produce. My mind crazy and restless. If only my fingers can type out what is going on. Stress. Stress is the factor I'm not happy. making ends meet seems to take top priority, as the play gets put on hold. but sometimes, the play is well more appreciated when received.  just wish that play was more frequent...

Countdown...

So as the time closes, my 10 minute countdown begins as I prepare for my fate of today. Running the fattest of dishes to the over weight America, and the unknowingly fresh faces visiting this great land of cheesecake. Says america don't you think? Can't go to San FrNcisco without indulging your ignorant faces in 20000 calorie dessert. But it's what makes people happy I guess. If you ain't fat, you ain't happy. But it brings great joy, today anyways that I really don't have to deal with all that shmoosing up to these fools. I drop off their slop and be on my merry way. To do it over an over, hundred fold. With one thing on my mind all night, the countdown to get out of this fat haven.

AHHHHH!

Still, I'm turning into an old man, and this still makes me uneasy.

http://fatpita.net/?i=6652

Watch it for  2 minutes, I dare you!

Final Countdown!

The night was quite sweltering with the perspiration on the numerous bodies of the young as well as the old. It seemed that all of us are young at heart, being the state that we, most of us anyways, were in. The DROP of inspiration makes us all do a lot of things. Makes us move rhythmically to the hard bass that vibrates through the walls and to the night throughout the quiet neighborhood.

The city's enforcement comes, and slaps us on the hand with a waring, early in the night. A bit of a buzz kill, but nothing that cant stop the beats. It all comes down to the beats. Inside was nice, but the walls themselves were sweating like my head. My chest is moving, along with my feet, going to every nook of the house, regulating the rules of the court. Making sure everyone is having a great time, as well as respecting my authority, I periodically escape outside to fill my lungs with an addiction that is hard to kick, but in the state that I am in, it makes me feel a refreshing, smokey breeze for my lungs. It may not be the best habit in the world, but like many other things I do, it takes the edge off.

My pupils, I can tell, grow black, as the flashing lights hit the back of my skull. Many bodies are crowding my personal space, but it seems to not mind me, as I tend to invade others personal box. Like a ping pong ball, I'm bouncing all over the house, trying to entertain my needs to keep this feeling going on as long as possible. Nothing can keep my attention long enough, except the music.

The music seemed to draw me in, no matter what it was, or where I was. I was all over the place, but my body was always with the music. Moving slow, then fast at times, I can feel my heart race to the beat. I don't want this feeling to stop, but all things must always come to an end.

As the crowd eases out the door, and the sky slowly creeps up over the horizon, my eyes have gone from marbles, to mere beads. My energy has went from hyper active to almost comatose. My body still feeling the music, that is constantly echoing in my head. As the sun comes up, the morning chill feels refreshing. The smoke from my crush satisfies my craving once again. I know now, because what was once a filled night of loud bumps, have turned into a day of soft sounds of slight snores. The night is now done with. Epic proportions? Yes. Night over, night a blur, but a night not forgotten.

turning the page...

It really gets to me that I cannot seem to get anything out besides the dribble that spews out of my fingers during these blogs. What is it all about? I have no idea where this one could go. Nor do i know why I am up this late. I seem to lose touch on how learned to write creatively. My neatly, leather bound journal with all my thoughts and junk, has now been transformed into a trusty internet connection. Which is kind of sad, because these words, are not mine. when it comes down to it, it ends up as patterns of 000111010100101001010010010010's for this to be posted. With the leather bound, I have an intimate record of what I'm really trying to say. A blog like this, doesnt have my handwriting, my ink, my personality. My journal has a bit of me. A bit of my smell, my blood so to speak. the ink from my ball point pen is the is the life line of my passion, and the pages the time line. The physical turning of each page has a lot more character than the click of the mouse button.

Thought 1138.....

I've been writing a story for the last week or so, and I just cant seem to get on track. I'll struggle for hours on a scene, and I lose interest. As of right now, I'm in the middle of this zombie scene, and I'm not too sure where I'm going with it. But on the other hand, I'm learning to log my ideas on "paper", so to speak. So for instance, speaking of a cool zombie scene, my good friend had something of a brilliant idea that seemed to peak my interest as far as originality goes in the zombie game. Retarded zombies in a hospital ward. Not the most PC topic, but you know what, people need to grow a pair and stop being so sensitive! Thats what I think about that. Funny concept and yet kind of twisted and creepy. Nothing can be more terrifying than a zombie with past mind of 5 year old, and the stength of a linebacker. Kinda creeps me out, but its interesting. Never been done.


More to come on this.......

A random day....

There he goes, walking down the strip. With his mysterious eyes, hidden behind those vintage shades that were indeed stolen. Not from behind the counter, but from a friends house. Only because it was mysterious how it got there to begin with. But this adds to the mystique of him. All of him. His brown fedora covers his mysterious vintage eyes. All that can be seen is a slight smirk on his mouth, and with the sparse black facial hair that reveals a bit of his emotional expression on his face.

His gray sweater zip up, snugs loosely on his torso, and his side bag dangles along his hip, over his shoulders. A slight slouch in his posture today, gives away a notion of not to be bothered. He walks slowly, but with a purpose today. Passers by recognize his existence with a simple nod, but nothing more. He is on his own, and it shows today.

He gets down to the corner where he needs to make a decision. should he go left or should he go right? First decision of the day, he should take the safe road. Or should he start off the day on the wild side, and take the road less traveled just to go against the grain. Way to start off the day as a rebel. taking the road less traveled, he realizes that his stomach speaks to him. Begging him to feed the hunger. He gives in, and turns the other way.

He makes way towards the food. His body was right. The mere thought of eating made his belly growl like a lion about to pounce on his prey. Although not as savage as one may think, he settles for a couple of fish tacos. Not too much, not too little, it was the porridge that Goldie Lox chose.

He eats a little different today. One would say patient. Calmly maybe? But really, he is savoring the meal, as if it were his last. Each bite were given an equal 30 chews each, like it was taught all that time ago when he was younger. Unlike any other day, the meal was thoroughly enjoyed today. As he swallowed his last bite, he neatly placed his dirty napkin on his plate and made his way outside, simultaneously throwing his bag over his shoulder.

Off into the world once again to make yet another decision. Where to go next? What to do next? Does he decide to continue on his journey? Or decide to settle in his little world which has not a mere sense of decisiveness. He wanders on, lost in his thoughts, but appetite satisfied.

Clogged Mind

It seems that I cant spit anything out into the world these days. I'm stuck. I'm clogged with so many thoughts and ideas, that it can't be expressed. My container is full, and the opening can only put out so much, if anything at all. But my ideas are so big, so epic, that its getting clogged at the opening. Ideas clashing to come out. The more I think, the bigger my ideas get. The more they fight to get out. My priorities are blown, and I aspire too much. I need to start off slowly, one thing at a time, baby steps. My creative juices are spoiled, and I need rejuvenation. It seems to keep the creative juices flowing with sweetness and tartness, I need to have things fluid, like water. Fluidity builds up momentum, that gets things unstuck, washing away excess waste. One thing at a time. One idea, to come out at its fullest, so the next one can do the same. Keeping the momentum going, making it fluid, will ensure a clear path, a clear mind.

Things I've seen as of late....

"Black Dynamite"

Stylizaton is key to a throw back. From the shaky zoom of the camera, to the mismatch of the dubbing, this flick almost got by me. Stumbling as I usually do on the daily, a trailer of the cheesiest porportions totally grabbed my eye, and actually forced me to do some research on the subject. Its a real movie? Think of the ideal, kick ass, pimpest afro black brotha, who knows kung fu and can chuck better than Master Lee. Waaaaataaaaa!!! Blaxploitation is back, and blacker than ever. DYNA-MITE! DYNA-MITE!!

Perspiring dance floor...

As I thought,the night heading towards a good end, it seemed to just to start. Across the bay, where the streets sleep for only a couple hours, the late evening turned from "go saints!" "time out!", to a mighty fist pump night of shuffling my toes across the wet wooden dance floor. The place where we "ended up" was packed only with a few people still messed up from 2 nights ago. Them sitting on the plastic chairs outside near the black deer watching the crowd from the corner of the patio next to the water fall. People with their bad habits of inhaling the cancer in their lungs made me a bit jealous, as I miss that sensation. The night was sweaty, as the cool breeze from the nearby freeway blew against my face. but as the night slowly turned to an early morning, Patrons remarkably kept flooding onto the dance floor, making the dance floor perspire with the beverages of the crowd above. My legs almost give out, as i forget to always do a yoga stretch before i move to the beat. With the satisfaction of the relaxing the muscles of my thighs, I jump back onto the battlefield, where it seems the bass is trying to pound out of my chest. I look at all my mates out on the floor with me, afraid of their intentions. Is that girl really a guy? or is this guy trying to dance with me. I turn, get my groove on, and try not to make eye contact to add to the confusion. I hear the 10 minute call from my ride back to the other side of the bay. Apparently a night always has to come to an end, and remembered in the back of my cloudy mind. Cloudy, but clear in thought of it actually happened. a night remembered as the Aquarius starts the new year, a happy chip toothed camper, with "long hair, don't care" attitude that wont seem to change anytime soon. But is that a bad thing? I guess I can leave that up to ones perspective....