the hungarian boy

was quiet but not shy. he did not know what to say. he had learned to not trust people, not because he had been betrayed,

but because people often did not understand when he said certain things.

the boy had uncombed hair which uncombed itself under hoods, leaning against walls, backs of busses, and when he was truly happy, the palms of his hands. his eyes were small and hidden, though people would notice him from far away (only when he wanted them to least).

When he was happy, people didn't look so much... it was when he was put in a box that his small hidden eyes glowed with a cynical, discerning roughness that pierced through any flat environment.

the boy was a chess genius, and smiled at his mother, though often had too much energy to handle her. mental restlessness to listen. Occasionally he would walk out of class, blatantly disrespecting authority. he was easily unimpressed and dangerously hard to read. he was sexy, even if he was just eleven or twelve. he felt extra sexy when he stayed still with his shoulders hunched over, when he was angry and tired and his brain was worn down enough to not give a fuck about anything. he loved himself then.

he liked the ties, because he respected feeling sophisticated, but hated the way his pleated pants felt when he sat down.

He wanted to play with the old men in the park, but feared their rotten breath, so he watched them from his window. his favorite was the lively man in mustard wool who would smirk and touch his face when he was frustrated.

he couldn't sleep at night, so would close his eyes and imagine conveyor belts and fresh fruit and making out. when he dreamt, he dreamt of infinity and controlled states of near-doom and vast oceanic halcyon. he was little, but he had a real swagger - yet all of his forcefulness came from his delicate, passionate face.

he was a chess prodigy at ten, playing for the president and hosted on trains all the way to st. petersburg and switzerland. By twelve, he felt useless, lost, full of presence, and smarter than ever.

he wasn't sure if it was the best part of his life or the worst part of his life when he was thirteen, and decided he didn't care to be the best 13-year old chess player in the slavic lands, probably because he wouldn't get it, but mostly because he had given up long before he tried.

my comfort place

i am back

- its been a long time - i forget how beautiful this music is

in my comfort place

a little bit crazy

with the hair on my arms ajar, sweeping, chilling, shaking

soft high harmonic voices, waterdrops and davcy synthesizers - it's a safe spot where my breaths are more meaningful, my energy is thoughtful, where eye contact is charged, where patience is not empty - but rather, Really a virtue because the feelings and the energy is sustainable, without emptying itself

It's being back on the wavelength

it's like crying after a funeral, watching the beauty of the thousands of sun-lit leaves

angles are beautiful, textures are meaningful, and time is presently intense and dashingly destructively celebratory and delicate and rejoiceful

it's good to be back, stroked again by chills, kissed by my own live brain

The Flower

I stopped the man because there was a blue smeary painting with gorgeous layers, a sign that just said "bliss". I wanted to buy it, and I could buy it, because it was small and on the street attached to a woven wire fence.

"It's not my painting... people just leave them here." Oh no, I can't take it then, because other people (I waved my arms) need to have it. I looked at him very seriously. The bliss stays on that fence.

The bearded man had a look - which all San Franciscans recognize - that he was about to say something unexpected. Oh god, what was he about to say. He looked too inspired. He said something about living in the moment, but way more intense. And then he said,

"Thank you for bringing that color into my life." Just, Wow. Thank you.

My flower is fuschia. The mexican lady who sold it to me said it, too - I was called to it by that color. I was called to it. In her yellow and goldenrod walls, by mexcian damsel with a guitar, smiling with us ca. 1940.

"Look, look at these walls I have! Its.... let me find it... the color of this cerulean here." Oh wow. Wow wow wow. She lit up. This is the flower. This is the bruja flower.

A bum pulled out his magnifying glass to take a look. "I love Orchids." This one is so beautiful. This one is really... wow. I'm not going to bother you, but I would climb a tree just to take a little piece of a flower like this. He is talking about for his mojo. He's from the deep south, he said.

What should I name her? I asked Adam. "Darfur," he said. Oh god, what a depressing name for something that is supposed to bring happiness. Really? I was just looking at the map. I looked up, and the only map he could be referring to was of San Francisco. Seriously, Darfur?

Dah-fuuurhh. I let it roll, softly, like french. Dah-fooorhh. Its a a soulful sound. This little flower.

Back in bed, this flower is my valentine. It's the only one I need, seriously. This orchid is so vibrant, so unbelievable fuschia that any other color near it, the more brilliant, the more blindingly passionate and invigorating becomes the combo. This is the flower to eat papaya nearby to. This is the flower for the inside of tomatoes. For deep, black hair, for brilliant green grass, or green parrots, for medium gray wet stones.