i think shit does happen for a reason, or reasons, often they aren't apparent. this is the very first image in my computer memory. it seems i had a pretty good camera then. i don't remember. i do remember the bugs.

when i was sleeping last night or this morning like light grazing
this line popped up, like on a cottony page in my old typewriter,

Words on the death of a poet-
he owed me money.


i think i was thinking about lorca,
but what i don't have any idea. a vague one...

wealth, power, life, everything that men fight for and defend so eagerly, are worth no more than the pleasure one feels when they abandon you. 

(shit, i forgot where that quote came from. sorry.)


Today i felt as i did when i was a child
all i had to do was exist
but i didn't feel the usual nostalgia.
today i felt love for all things
i saw how everything is alive...shining...
all of the time.
i felt like a newly bathed baby. clean and dry.
i know i've been sick at the end of my life.
i can see it clearly now.
go with the kids, love,
but bring me the dogs first.


juan, post tenebras lux.

i was thinking rather smugly, a little pain clarifies the mind, then it got too much, my head congested and my tooth hollow pained, but then i brushed with tea tree oil toothpaste and it was fine. then i watched jafar panahi's taxi and i though at least i'm not banned from blogging and sneaking around in a taxi trying to make a film about being banned from making films and locked into an endless war with a stupid state. though i am in america, land of trumps and obombas. my teeth have outlasted many technologies at least, cameras and computers, so that's heartening portugal. i know mentioning portugal too much will lose portugal, like ukraine, but i can't stop myself. i'm on a roll, a steep roll, baby. (later: it was just a ha-ha!)

i think i'll just keep on blogging no matter how stupid and ugly it gets and i do hope it doesn't and gets brighter and the joy comes back, but as i told pmf in lala land it's got to be that way, it's got to allow me to be as fucked up as i am. i know healthy positive-minded americans will not look.

after darkness, light, then darkness.

portugal looks at my blog but american's are dropping like flies. it's miniscule anyway, but i'm curious why one country picks up and others drop off. and i mostly wonder in my secret heart why people look at all. is it random? i probably wouldn't look myself most of the time. i remember this art teacher saying Make what you want to see on the wall. but that seems to be impossible much of the time even if i have a good camera. my mind falters, my soul sags. i feel a nameless despair at the world, and if i didnt have Copp, and i had the requisite fierceness, i'd kill myself.

i don't think i'm a hypochondriac, but that may just because i hate doctors and am fatalist and have no health care, but i do feel sick with some inscrutable malaise, like chronic fatigue, and i'm not sure, maybe brain disease, ha, i do sound hypochondriac. anyway what to make of this bloggage in portugal, since even my confreres(?) in e pluribus unum don't see it. it really is like in space no one hears you rant or moan sorrowful. iis this worth editing? first i'd have to get a life, ha. really you're not reading this? please don't. i'm embarrassed. really i am perverse. pleasure from shame? i think. so crazy, how'd i get beyond therapy. ha, this is my therapy. (i'm also ashamed of our filthy beach, the lake is a dump. in the human season giant machines rake it clean, but humans also drive away the dogs.)

i roll a tire to mister.

i should just stop this useless activity. i despise my new pentax wg-10. it's just advance landfill, the picture look like this or worse. we saw the belgian shephard who attacked me on the beach. he came up a little odd, a little antagonistic, but not violent. the idiot woman who set me up for the attack when i went dogsit just turned away, not minding at all apparently what might happen on the beach, just as before when she was leaving town, and me with her psychotic dog. at least at large it was less psycho. i think if he would have attacked copp or me this tie i'd have bludgeoned him to death. people are so fucking strange here.
but people are dying and my rants are petty compared to cancer or drone attack, or the vile toxic rhetoric of trump etal.
(later..the camera ain't sooo bad.) (and that strange negligent woman still haunts me, more than her attack dog.)

the striving of matter can always be impeded only, never fulfilled or satisfied. but this is precisely the case with all the will's phenomena.

every attained end is at the same time the beginning of a new course, and soon ad infinitum.

the life of the individual is a constant struggle, and not merely a metaphorical one against want or boredom, but an actual struggle against other people.  schopenhauer

sloow, children.. it's just a shot away, it's just a kiss away, shot away kiss away, yeahh.

man, i was Out of It today, i mean yesterday, well today too, and i gotta send my old camera back so i can get another shitty new camera, it's like juggling, technology these days, planned obsolescence and shoddy goods, you gotta have three so you got a couple in the air at all times or you'll be left holding nothing but memory holes.

do i complain too much? very well then, i contain multitudes.

jasper and copp greeting after long absence.

i think this be the same red-tailed baby hawk i seen yesterday much closer up. least this time i had battery and zoom though the camera sucketh. from spider bridge, where a birder runner said 3 of 4 of these hawk kids die their first winter.

this is the first picture with the new camera soon to be landfill.

singin', boots, up, side ya head, singin' boots upside ya head.

in the aftermath of that wicked storm we find binkies and nipples and bottles like a rain of frogs. copp was ruminating this green nipple and basti said i think he et it and i said coff it up copp and luckily, he did.

binky without nipple.

it's so infectious it's still the main theme it will come down over you like invisible singing matter when you're thinking of something entirely different, god is watching us, god is watching us. the horror.

i remember.

the village thrift played god is watching us over and over, making my mind creep and my skin crawl and my fingers itch.

i have a powful nostalghia for ice, i really hope it's not over.

i remember.

we kids tied dreams to helium balloons and they went to tennessee. they sent a newspaper response, they were dreaming too.

and Vitus and his grandpa did that too, they put airmail letters on balloons, but after, grandpa died, and his letter was sent back to Vitus saying he loved him and giving them a whole business. 

there was a kid called Vitus. he was a genius but he wanted to be a veterinarian.

then he tried to fly with giant bat wings. he landed on his head and became normal.

after Vitus got a concussion and became normal he listened to the goldberg variations and looked at the piano. then he started playing brilliantly. he was faking normal!

practice being normal. i tried that, i had to drink all the time.

coppernicus' rite of spring.

a crawdaddy and a bottle.

lily and copp, beach bums.

sooo, lily, it must be spring, for i saw little flower heads crowning the tired soil, and tender buds on the trees, and you.

the official history: a play.

angst is my expression.

um, fen, did you pee on your belly?

yeah. but it's not like i try ta.