"..if I drink all this beer, i'll need a line of coke; then i'll need some dope..."

Its amazing the things you hear while walking, on other peoples cell phone conversations. On the way into firecom yesterday morning thats the line I overheard. Then today, I heard this one -

"...He's bullshitting this whole thing; I cant imagine he would have the nerve to say something like that, you know, that his boss is gay, acting straight in his marriage..."

I mean this shits better than live television.

Anyway back to the everyday bullshit. (altho' I cant resist thinking they could have been talking about the same persons) ...







Today the surf was angry. Windblown slop at the usual spot. Must have paddled over a billion waves, each not formed well enough or lined up enough for anything more than a waterborne speed-bump. I imagine it is all as well, since I am and have been pretty much a funk-i-fied version of meself. If i look in the mirror, I see one tired camper, as well as one sad/depressesd individual. Truthfully, I am burnt the fuck out.

Since Champsters luau, May 28th, I have worked everyday. (Cry for me, Argentina) If I go back before that, I recall some day off around April, altho' I could be wrong. I know I am burnt because my brain is a complete wash of blues-tuned thinking. Yep. Muddy can write a symphony off the crap running round my head. Most of the requisite explanation comes from the fact that son dumbass is being, well, a dumbass. And this bodes nothing but bullshit for me.

And the surf was angry.

Yeah, it was. But in those wet moments were had some gems of clarity. Clear that web filled brain bucket, and pass the tobasco, some spice is needed. Being tired/exhausted is a excuse of sorts; for me to feel sorry for meself. Pressing on, I find that the root of the lingering soak in a bath of sorrow is of my own making. And yet, not.

I cant make adults think. I cant force anyones decisions, and in those facts lie the cause - You're fucked by others if you care too much.

I keep getting fucked in my minds eye from a bunch a shit; be it a suicide victims dead eyes staring at me on the freeway, lying in a pool of her own blood; or the sounds of my boots caving in the chest of a dead fire victim.

Angry was the ocean, today.

Everytime a drive by that fucking freeway overpass, every time I read of some selfish act. That fucking eye is staring at me in the mush.

Water washes away you sins.

No, it does not.

Because the dirt is on the inside; its hidden in the darkness. Little fucking dust bunnies waiting to gang-up and grey out the peacefulness you so badly desire.

Oceans anger was a harmony; playing for you if you'd only listen.

After my surf, after my rinsing off at the showers, after the drive home, after the changing of wet shorts to dry ones.

After washing the sand crusted feet, after putting away the board.

After the greeting, after the fruit.

I watched Kaleo James sleep.

And my heart refilled itself with joy.

Aloha.