books – Fish Eye Farm

No One is Beyond Repair

Cleo entered the Holiday Inn Hotel room. The curtains drawn, creating a darkness in the room. Johanna laid in the bed. Her face was black, from a vicious beating, but she smiled. “Hey there,” she said.

The room of Cleo’s mind was like usual. Quiet and observing.

The Skinny Boy was happy. He and Johanna had been playing cards. Cards spread on the bed’s blanket, covering her ribs that were as battered as her face. The target of Cleo’s father’s shiny patten leather shoes. The shoes that she loved to polish to make him happy. Anything to make him happy.

An impossible task.

We, myself and my sister were shuffled off to the bowling alley next door, where we tossed the balls in a most serious manner for three days. They knew how to bowl. Johanna had made sure they had lessons. Bowling. Ah. It sucks. But Johanna had bowled a 300. The trophy resting over their fireplace at home. Cleo would never be her mother’s young protege. She tried but she had a penchant for the gutter.

“my shitty blog”

4mm-14mm – Fisheye – Abstract, creative – a search for truth

I would be amazed at stories, such as, Diary of a Mad Drug Fiend / Alister Crowley – taboo – I had many false starts, living in those beginnings – I thought I was at the end. And it was. Until it wasn’t. Yet another colorful, animated clip. Called life. – Tell it all – Paint a colorful vibrant, spellbinding story. Loving, violent. Gut wrenching, ethereal.

In Black and White.

I was recently asked where am I going to write and publish these ideas. Good question. I started this blog, which is a personal journal in 2011. And I am glad I did. I enjoy writing. It helps me to process. And I have had my share of procession and possession, pugilist, pedantic, punctual and tardy pastimes. I have written them in the moment and events long gone. Vivid memories. Faint recollections. Fights. Court battles. Deaths. Births. Surf adventures. You know every day life. Getting by through writing.

Annual Blog Check Up

This post is an annual check up of my blog.

Hhhhmmmm. A year ago, I was writing – I felt as if the flesh was being torn from the bones of my soul.

I can read that poem and remember. Oh, it was awful.

I came here to Potrero, thinking I was going to help, the kid, go to the University. Nada, no way Jose. This boy is going to swing a machete the rest of his life. – Okay – that took a while to process – to come down from. What a crock of mierda. – Who knows, the many piles of manure that I have stepped in, have become fertilizer in my life.

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