recently, it has come to my attention that pens are mostly obsolete, and unless this isn't my shirt, or i've been stabbed numerous times that i'm unaware of, or someone else is borrowing garments and getting stabbed and then returning my shirts to their rightful location, which in my apartment is anywhere on the floor or convenient flat surface so that i might render the formerly useful surface  
a less useful base of operations for a discheveled stack of entirely unsorted laundry  -that there are animals of some kind eating my clothing. another theory i've considered and remain mostly doubtful of, has to do with some kind of flair fairy, who i've worked out must be in a collusive venture with an opposum, the neighborhood cats (because my cat is usually very busy doing nothing all day) or one of those rubbish-bin tipping micreants with the robber's eye mask -a raccon. that or one of my friends with an overly developed sense of aesthetic justice (and an interest in astronomy) has been lifting my line and stealing off into the night to a tailor's bench and copying obscure constellations only astronomy guys would know about with a set of ragged punches made from spent shell casings of varying calibur. it also occurred to me that i am that friend and while i think i'm dreaming, i am, and have been for some time, as a matter of indisputable fact, studying astronomy and cutting holes in my own shirts and hiding my toolset on my neighbors roof. after having carefully considered each of these, conducting tedious research and experimentation, compiling and reviewing volumes of data from research studies and combing them for patterns and inconsistencies, sketching up some rudimentry charts and graphs for obvious reasons, discussing the matter amonsgt contemporaries, obsessive enthusiasts, and seasoned research professionals, university department heads, and learning swedish to engage a panel of rare bird experts (i'd like to petition the reference book lobby and see birdsperts in there
), i settled on the notion that i'd need to say something on the behalf of my silent domestic assistants instead of doing what most people do -stomp,poision, shoot at, sticky trap, and mortally pin them. if we're going to be living together, i'm left with little choice but to make an effort to appreciate their contribution. i'd like to take this opportunity to thank our skittering chittering friends of the marsupial or possibly arthropodic persuasion for saving me an unsettled anxiety ridden bout of petrified incapacitation when some investigative type gives me the gears about my shirt being filled with chic irregularly sized and distributed holes in my shirt. mice/moths thank you for coming into my apartment and
helping me find style. ants: hey ants, i could shower your colony in praise for your diligence and resolve, award you for your resourcefulness in reducing bloated old bird carcasses and fallen mice from carrion to bones in a couple weeks. for locating lozenges and small expired candies in permeable packaging so that i may throw them away after i move the refrigerator to get to them. all this i would do, if i knew not your heart. that is why, in your honor and pleasure, in support of your ongoing contribution to our indispensable carbon cycle -in the name of your queen i dump this five pound bag of sugar in the middle of my lot. and i have wronged you so ants, my barbaric and mostly ineffective homecooked methods of spontaneous abatement, and later premeditated strategies drawn up in a fit of exasperated frustration that could only be considered
a genocidal vendetta by the most conservative interpretation, have left scars on the earth, and sent shockwave after thundering shockwave of despair and furthered divisive reciprocal hostility. our size it is disparate, yet our mission and our place bind us as cross-classified but not cross purposed
allies. you eat gross moldy microbe infested game, so i won't have to. you came from spain, so i won't have to visit. italian honey bees -that goes for you too. so let's bury the hatchet -now the orkin guy is dealing with it so i don't have to.

i want to start over there

i'm starting over here this time.

for now, the bathroom is giving me some problems, i'm beginning to get that the apartment i'm living in is responding to abuse and neglect in the very same manner and fashion as that of a breathing person. it is bruised and must be considered. considered. there ought to be more attention to this. shifting gears: i'm moving to vermont where i plan to re-learn some things. lazy and flat writing is so much fun for one, and so much to learn as well that i haven't already. shooting ducks for example, or shooting bears or fish or fishing...haven't done too much fishing i must say, and no hunting at all.. none! and snow angels really the cold isn't much fun at all, the allure is however still there. why is that. i wonde'r if it has anything to do with cold itself. likely yes cold does slow things down, circulation and fewer decisions to make, less room to ignore the earths requirements and more room to listen up for them. less ambient noise, less less less advertising, overdone commercial bombardment, and proselytising adherents. listen up dunderbots, the freight elevator is in freefall, and it's cabled up to your elevator, and one day soon, long before you get your corner office, your going to step on that elevator to the 84th floor and send in a holy underhanded toss into space, and space will consume you like it was space and you aren't. the earth is a very big deal. and if you had to deal with everything it's doing to us, you'd either deal with it like a person, or you find a way to end it's rotation and tether it to the sun with some precious man-made substance to withstand and sell off the precious real estate and finish controlling the weather and to save all the dishwashers for yourselves, while the rest of us live on the habitable space you leave us on the other side. maybe that's what you;d like to see happening, could that be? all this goddamned consciousness is going to fold in on itself like a blimp losing flight into a sequoia forest.

i erased everything i just wrote. which wasn't much to start. sometimes a person has to go a very long distance out of his way to come back a short distance. where i am meant to end up, is a matter of significant internal conjecture, as i'd imagine it may be for some of the rest of us. the rarity, the significance rather that could be placed on a plane's shadow oscillating wildly across unmanageable terrain to cross over your head, and shield you from the sun instantaneously on a hot day... it could be said of such significance or insignificance, you live too close to an airport to be drawing such inferences, or that we're too close to the sun, or aren't suited for exposure to it or suchlike. maybe our skin is too transluscent, or our tints aren't dark enough, or the air conditioner is broken. there wasn't any air conditioning to begin with. but this oh so fleeting and temporary relief, from something as constant to us as the sun, so rare a relief, fulfills me for however long the encounter decides to take in order to relive itself. so many crusaders without a substantial issue to be addressed, so many more effectively dispossessed and unlicensed, their agency let and drawn from them, by degrees, sure. i'll let down my gaurd when walls start, continue, and have finished falling. i'll give them each a sharp shove of false security as encouragement to rouse them up if they are playing dead. rifle slung, and sidearm accounted for, right there, to be sure. in this gift of an existence which owes it's greatness to inassuredness, to appreciation above this is what we have been brought for to accomplish. nothing if you're not interested. the volume of splendor and qualitative attraction whatever this is, is inversely proportionate to whatever it is you've drug up from the ocean floor, or in immediate sight off the bow. for some of us, we descend a mile and experience severe and irreversible equipment failure. so we're always then and forever more hobbling a bit, il equipped, or drowned, and drowned. there is a lot of weight that sits on the ocean floor. a lot of heavy fluid. intangible, incorruptible, intractable  indefinable, nebulous, ambiguous substance, that can hardly be considered substantial, outside of our utter dependence on it, and all of the functions that we owe to it, the purity of it, the irascible and destructive nature of it's misappropriation. if the earth decides, which it has had a history of doing, 

to stir it up, and the sky decided to gather a little up for the next time it shows up, they will, a manuever entirely devoid of reservation. dump on us. pour. some of us are as good as tied blindly to the balance of our ranks, to the bottom of the ocean. and we sort of like it here. it'll take a serious inducement to see us surface.