Sunday thoughts. church, walk, church, walk, drink.

"When a stout has a dark head, Joel loves the stout".
-Joel Cederberg

There is no begining to a pair of shredded pages when the text is all intertwined and mangled among itself, its collisions produce more and more offspring until the origional thought is lost in the anarchy. Nevertheless, this is how I start making sense of my days thoughts scribbled on paper, dogfish head chicory stout was not a dissapointing choice.

"I Shoore Miss My Olde Life,
I Shoar Ms. My Old Lie, F.
I Sure Miss My Old Life.
...but my new life treats me well. "
Above the "old life" poem I drew dirt and roots and chutes and leaves and a stalk with a flower.
I drew roots all around the empty spaces where script was not found.

"I went and drew a girl a flower,
but I know shit of making flowers,
I'm much better at drawing roots,
and leaves,
and seeds.
...Which wouldnt be bad,
If women loved roots,
or leaves,
or lesser things.
But women love
petals of witty jokes,

they love men who make
the whole room choke.

As the room realizes it's
inferiority
compared to him.
No one likes roots.
If only they were present,
No one would inquire,
Just assume,
That roots are just veins
in the earth.

People look at flowers
and then find the roots.
Women love the tender bud,
and then discover the underneath,
the chute.
but I'm much better at
drawing
roots. "
I quartered the pages i wrote on today, I had to fit them in my pockets. To the right of the roots poem, or maybe the left if you look at it upside down, theres a cross and the words "conscience, awareness" and nothing else.

I'm not sure if the paper i wrote on today is green or vibrant yellow, i must be colourblind. I can live with being colourblind, most people might be, we just dont know yet.


I did take a walk today, I walked 7-8 miles. Home, church, art meuseam, church #2, home, the bar, home, alot of walks. Everything is almost green now, I like this. I hate winter.

" The winter is looking awful green these days,
Its pale skin curling back, giving way to weeds and grass,
Rain is melting all its joys away.
Winter blood boils,
Her neck hair coils,
At the very thought of spring.

Life makes her green with envy,

No sort of chill will kill,
No sort of ice might entice
The chickens to stop hatching their eggs.
It's a tale of love and hate,
It shows us all we might not be,
Too far removed from other things the master makes."

There are about 3 quartared sections of paper full of prose I could transpose, but they are leangthly and small and hurt my eyes. They require illustrations and stick figure guys sitting in a line with arrows between them signifying relationships. Relationships between man and God and man and man and a man who might not believe in God. Everythings so intricate now, I went to church not once, but twice.