There is nothing to say. I have been back in the states now for a couple months and I have found very little compelling enough to write about. Life is easy in northern California; smooth and bland like the plain, unseasoned tofu that passes for food here. I am weary of the coffee shop dialogues, mine and everyone else’s. The incessant need to take our internal emotional temperatures exhausts me. I want to be out there, living and breathing. I don’t want to sit over chai tea and analyze my or anyone else’s relationships. I don’t want to categorize god, extol the merits of tantric sex, or try to figure out what chakra is blocked. I want to fold into you like a tectonic plate diving into the molten place of another, seeking heat. Jesus, don’t talk to me. Just stop talking. Slam into me if you like, let’s see what falls out in the rubble. But stop talking because nothing we’re saying really matters. Let’s get raw, let’s get crazy, let’s run full out down a jagged street screaming, but let’s stop thinking that what we are saying means anything.
I'm a heat-seeking missle in the middle of an arctic wasteland hoping someone shows up on my doorstep with popcorn, a movie, and a revelation.