this is really happening
another kind of web site might just be a fly


bug report

Guitar beside me might know me better than most... might match how my drumsticks know me by now, feeling clammy hands, sensing apprehension, enjoying the flow that builds and riding the end result with me as we work together, man and instrument. Reliant on tools for expression, and I seek it in a number of ways, picking and fretting, always sure I'm doing it wrong until I'm left unthinking about right or wrong.

Stop to think and it's long gone. It isn't thought no matter how much I think about it afterward, reflecting on some shiny something that attempts to speak for itself, when I allow it. Feelings gain some substance and show their colors as I do what it does with me.

Sometimes we approach paper and shrink away from dangerous black and white, resist the urge to carve pages, scratch markings that say little more than I was here... Think it high and mighty, wielding my educated pen, but I do nothing. Can't move. Frozen.


Words don't come, feeling so hopeless sometimes.

Just that, and that's it. What's to say? What's to ramble on about when the fountain is dry? Nothing there.

Right. So much there I groan, but no matter... lost in detailed imagination. Depth of feeling, no measurements, just fullness, awareness of life.

So I choose to suffer.

And so I am attached.

Buddha mind complains with a grin. Reminds me these words are karma, that I may set off chain reactions that can't be controlled. Silence.

+++Wed Dec 24 04:02:36 UTC 2003

"Since I gave up hope, I feel a lot better."

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Oh, God showed his great mercy, alleluia! Turned ash into confetti, alleluia!

"We're a record company. But we're not evil."

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