Outside with the Bumble Bees this morning and the weed-eater echoes in the audio background. Chirpers and sunshine and pretty flowers, whose petals snow down on me like a favorite childhood movie, with Heroes on horse-back galloping through Ancient Orchards suddenly renewed by the magic return of life. Last night I watched the Icebergs going down the street, it's not yet Blackberry Winter (this has nothing to do with your wireless device, by the way) and even so the chilly, windy, lingering twinges are overpowering Springtime. I am sitting in sunlight with my laptop in the shade. It makes it hard to see the monitor, which even though it's set to full brightness, keeps auto-magically adjusting to a more dim setting, changing with the ambient light. The new green in the light-rays of morning sun make an incredible shade of green, the kind of green I would like to live in, the shade I'd paint my bedroom if it wasn't already yellow, a yellow I would like to have more of, it's pale now, I want it brighter, like the monitor screen, more light, please! Upon this dewey green with blue skies overhead and the whirring scream of scooters buzzing by, I am thinking of the day and the life and the tasks ahead, they get more and more interesting and even more intense, my creativity must be wedged, with an r-shaped motion, into fifth gear. How can I come up with more, I wonder and yet I must. I have made my promises and those will force an outcome and so I pray to the Art Gods, please send me some visions, let the river of dreams spill over its protective dyke. I have complete faith in them, I am but a humble servant, pencil, pen and brush in hand, behind ear, in between teeth and toes, and were I somehow designed differently, I would place such implements in other areas where gripping were possible and I would wield them wildly and make many pictures at once and draw those over and over again until new creatures formed and grew up into fantastical beasts of the visionary realm, freely trotting down Urban by-ways, filling up your living room to within one inch of the ceiling and leaving muddy lines there forever to be pointed out again and again. I am reminded that I need to mow my grass at home, it is so high and thick and my lawn mower cuts out about every four feet. I gotta get that setting on full blast. Then it's off to a neighborhood festival to perform with my dear friends and make a little magic on a Spring afternoon.

What about Blogs, do we still have that option on here? Yes, I found it. Okay. Here goes my Blog. I figured, what the heck, we have this amazing possibility of communication available, albeit in some goofy, hip, trendy and what-so-ever else you have, packaging, however, nonetheless, here it is: I stumbled, as I often do, upon the very tattered, hairy edge of an idea sticking out from underneath the closet door (which couldn't even close anymore and had a sort of creaking urgent, "Hey!" beginning to belch from forth it's fatal loin-cloth) just now and thought I would recount if I might... A yellow Glowing Jelly Nymph (or Nymphet, either will suffice for our purposes here tonight) was spotted with Stripes-on near the clearing by the Water, with a Bishop and a Prawn (yes, that's right, a Prawn!). She shied away when first I tried to touch her glowing center but soon she smiled and I beguiled, began to slowly win her. In other words, Mutual Charmation (speaking of hip, trendy and fairly absurd terminologies), but Charmation, just the same and something I hadn't even realized could happen any more these days and which very seldom does, you see? This tells me here in the helpful and familiar red squiggly underlining now available in Macintosh formats, even, that "Charmation" is not, in fact, an actual word (or is it just telling me that it is not the correct spelling of an actual word in the computer dictionary of the universe which knows such things), so that being understood, it also seems possible that language today is just evolving more quickly and morphing as we all do, into something meaty and strange, which gurgles below the bed-cloths, down there somewhere in the deep, dark depths of the magic, glowing night-time! Yes! Yes? Perhaps and even Maybe-So! What if? WHo Knows? We'll see how it goes. Just see how it goes? I wanna know! Not knowing is part of the fun though, right, not knowing Life's Mysteries, I mean it's important to know many things, like the smell of freshly roasted coffee and hot steaming plates of spicey somethings and the soft, warm, lovely other things that can be known. Some of which are accompaniments to the Mystery, the Soundtrack, the Smelltrack, the tastetrack, etc. and if you will. I hope this is not too much yickity-yack for ya, I'm just coming up with an idea for a painting. It is amazing, the vision springs full-grown into the tiny, little, junked-up stage of my Mind's Eye (up there in the attic with a crooked window and a wobbly ceiling fan, if applicable) and then, some cosmic or comic Janitor (or other) comes along and has to deal with this sprawling madness inside of there, the clean-up crew, get Her dressed and ready to spread some paint on and all over!
I was wrestling with all of this, in the Happy Land that exists between sleeping and waking, the Spirit World right behind your living-room curtains, and the word appeared and floated across my sky with billowing wings and flying creatures and towers with turrets and with plumes over walk-ways leading to courtyards looking out over spacious views of neo-Edens with Elephants and Ladies and magic, for Pete's Darned Sakes-Alive, the word which appeared, appeared to be "Reexploynotion", which would seem to be such a goulash of different odds and ends but it is perfect and here we sit. Re-Ex-Ploy-Notion. It's exactly what we need to start a Play Nation, a Nation of Players, rolling around happily on grassy green meadowed areas beneath clear skies with no pollution. Can't we just give everybody everything they need and still live so comfortably and happily? Aren't we on the brink of either total extinction or total Bliss? Why not try at least and just see. Let's go and find out, report back here in half an hour with your findings (that you do have). I have decided to take this into my own hands. None of it will be re-channeled into my personal accounts, either at home or off-shore.

Hi this is my Blog. I hope everyone is feeling lovely out there in the large but tiny universe in which we reside. The year, like life is gliding right along. I am here at Georgie's, doing my laundry while he is out at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival, with the rest of the Blackhole Bluegrass Boyz. I turned on the Glo-zone, just to see what it looked like and it is pretty amazing. I ate Red Curry Pork for supper, my fourth night in a row eating pork, I don't know what I ate on Sunday but I think it was Lamb Chops. I am pushing the Meat envelope and also the Dairy envelope. I'm not even sure how to spell envelope, although I'm pretty sure this variation refers to a ceiling of some sort, rather than the folded and glued paper item in which people used to mail letters and the credit card companies now mail endless amounts of junk and checks to access one's endless line of credit, in fact, one can even use those checks to pay one's own credit card bill. Credit or Debit, either way, it's debt. I used my debit card to purchase Curried Pork and I'll have to use it tomorrow morning to pump $50.00 worth of gas into my completely inefficient Nissan pick-em-up (per Bob 7), so I can ride around all over Asheville for another week at most, less if I go anywhere other than home and work and the grocery store and anything else inbetween those points. I am too chicken to ride a scooter, which very brave non-licence holding individuals and anyone smart enough not to pay the exorbident gas prices do. I am pretty sure that in a fairly short amount of time, only the super rich and the absolutely out-to-lunch, will be the only ones able to drive anything other than a scooter but as long as the usual monster trucks that drive half-way in the wrong lane all over Western North Carolina are on the road, I 'm still gonna drive my gas guzzling Nissan 1996 king-cab with a tire strapped to the roof so I can haul my ex-girlfriend's coffee table around until She finds a place to put it. She got the coffee table, along with a couch for me (I now have two, one right in front of the other), at some close-out furniture joint up by the Mall, Mall Wort, WHale Morte, le Morte d'Arthur, and requested that I bring it to my warehouse which currently houses most of the contents of my deceased Grandmother's former home, all the contents of my Mom's former home and lots of my Ex-girlfriends items, that she has no room to store, as well as my business and a bunch of other random, odd infant items. I guess I really should point out that the second couch, which is actually the first couch, isn't mine at all, it belongs to my ex-girlfriend's parents, who probably want it back (blue leather with staples), so that they can put it into storage somewhere in semi-suburban Atlanta, then I'll have all that extra space to fill up with something else, boy, ain't capitalism great, as long as you can access your endless credit line, you can keep filling up spaces with more and more stuff, we'll fill it up and build it up, all the way to heaven and when we get there and see the Neon Jesus in all His/Her electric glory, sitting on the right hand side of Mickey Moses and Donald Trump and pitch our 50 cent tokens into the wicker urnial looking thingy, we'll finally know how great life really is, now isn't that just dandy?

I am on tour this week, painting with the Everyone Orchestra.
We'll be auctioning off a painting every night.

Find out more at: www.everyoneorchestra.com.

Peace,
Phil

You know, I really like mixture combinations, however, I do feel that some things should not be mixed. For example (egg-sample), like, to-nite I am having some of those Fake CHicken Patties (I call them "Chicex-Portions) made outta corn? combined with Ultra Left-overs that I have been eating since Saturday night. It started out as Lentils, Brown Rice, Tofu with Nutritional Yeast and Collard Greens. I added more collard greens last night, a second bundle to spice up the dish, Tuesday night I had an egg sandwich with provolone cheese on sour-dough bread, I ate that early right after my evening coffee-cup (which I have taken up craving). After I ate and fell asleep for a little while on the couch and then woke back up again, my stomach is rumbling. I think the days old-Tofu may be the culprit. All the other creatures are sleeping, it's so quiet in my house, save for my fingers depressing the keys rhythmically on my laptop and the air-purifyer doing it's thing in the kitchen, also, although more distant in the sonic field, I hear the sound of raindrops dancing on the skylights. A skinny Calico Kitten slinks by sleeping Dogs without disturbing them, on her way to the bathroom, to stalk and kill Crickets, the latter of which I have asked her not to do. I know it to be true that Crickets bring good luck and as a Small Boy, I was once awarded the prize of "Honorable Mention" in a Children'd Periodical called "Cricket". I think it was for a Drawing of Davey Crocket, King of the WIld Frontier. He was such a Hero to me then, I had the record on which Fess Parker sang the Theme-song in such a deep voice: "He would fight for America to keep all Americans Free!", or, wait-a-minute...was that Daniel Boone? My Heavens, I am confusing my Frontiersmen. Daniel Boone was also a childhood Hero of mine, I think my Mom liked him more because he spent a lot of time in Kentucky, where she came from, wandering around in the woods, wrestling Indians and Bears. I think he may have even been from Kentucky but I'm not quite sure. Okay, I couldn't help myself, I googled Fess Parker and here's what it says: "Fess Parker (born August 16, 1924) is an American film and television actor. He was born in Fort Worth, Texas. Parker is best known for his role playing frontiersmen Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone as well as starting a fad of wearing coonskin caps. He served as a radioman in the Marine Corps at the end of World War II after being rejected as an aviator for being too tall (He is six feet, five inches)."

Dear Blog Pod,
it's a two'fer on Sunday, on the Subway. The sun just went down, it looked like the end of "Gone with the Wind", remember that? My friend Sexy Rexy, down in the West Indes does it twice on Sunday. He does it once on other days. He's a DJ, or an EmCee (as we say in the States). All day, everyday, even when he's away. These large Frogs have arrived in my Swimming Pool. They make such a racket at night, it sounds like we are in the jungle. I am trying to counter act by hanging up wind-chimes. Actually, I just rehung a few. Tovah put them up. I'd really like a whole bunch more. An Aerial Orchestra, these high, windy Harps. I hope it drowns out the Frog sounds. I think they are early this year. I just heard about snow from Jenny, by Tuesday. What will happen to the Frogs in the Snow, I wonder? They are amphibians. They stay in the pool. I am out back now, on the deck, in the din. So weird and yet, familiar. I think it's a Good Sign, Frogs. I like them. I have to scoop them all into buckets and take them to the river so we can use the pool. It's Super-green now and the Frogs stopped chirping. Now all I can hear is the highway, three blocks to the South and a BIG thud in the driveway...

shit hittin' the fan!

Way on back in Merry Olde one time, at the All-nite Bar-be-Que, the good-time, all-nite, all-right Bar-be-Que. And then in the morning, first thing, up and at 'em for some Beans and tinned-toms and soft-eggs, with a Chicken Burger on the side. Cooked right up before your eyes in a Stick-tent there in the middle of the field. Or was it a drivable kitchen. I saw it the night before behind the Pilley and they were serving cups of high-test Tea. Black Tea, like gunpowder, the Boston Tea Party kind, thrown over board, an act of Civil Disobedience, with a fun, costume-theme, War-Paint, and why not? The best kind of disobedience is Civil Disobedience. In dire times, commit small crimes, not the kind where somebody gets hurt, except maybe in the pocket-book. But how many people carry pocket books these days? Some percent must and we look to them to name our generalization. I carry a giant bag that will never stand up straight, no matter how much I shift it around. It's just too lopsided, with a narrow keel and no proper ballast. When I was in 7th Grade, I carried a gigantic, orange Miami Dolphins duffle bag, filled with the entire Text-Book contents of my school locker. This left me all the space in the locker to store several uneaten lunches and long expired fruits. Complaints began to flow in to the Office regarding that stench. Couldn't pave any streets with those cobblestones. We're down to our last street in town. The cobblestones. They brought them a long way from the Sea. Sailed all the way up the river from the Gulf, through the valleys, all the way up to Ohio before they realized they'd gone too far. DeSoto and the Boys. Looking for... what were they looking for? My guess is they were planning on building a Dinner Boat Attraction, the even flew in a Chef, special, from New York City, just to cook the Prime-Rib buffet, however, once they took out all the stones from the hull, the ships tipped over and sank in the muck. No Dinner Boat and the whole crew had to hike back to the Sea-Shore and light signal fires to try and get the attention of some passing Explorers. More than likely they attracted Natives instead, who at that time, perhaps, still had an advantage in numbers over the Spaniards or English or French or Dutch or Vikings, although having done no research in preparation, this is all just off the top of my head. It's the new History, the His/Herstory by You and Me. It's made up of what we can remember, handed down through the ages. Now it's up to us to pass it on. And the new America says it's okay to make up information, okay to lie, that way we don't need education and we can save all that money for something more important. These are the examples being set by our leaders this is what the children will learn. I wish we could change that course and sail into a brighter future. I am still optimistic, there is still a chance. It's just hard to rise out of the Media-Ocracy (mediocre) that is dulling our spirits. I want to rise! Man, count me in on that. I am ready for the Old Order to melt away.

I just rolled me a spleef and now I Mon gwan smoke it out on the Verandah. It is raining all around, in fact, it has been most of the day. We woke up to a squall hitting us and we had to quickly batten-down every hatch in the hut, yes. A curtain of water drawn closed across the stage of the Western Sea, which disappeared so quickly into mist. Tonight it is crazy rough, stirred into a sea-foam meringue and sending spray way up onto the lawn. I hear the continuous barrage, "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!..." down below me, followed by the intermittent "Whoosh!" of the waves breaching the wall. A speeding car on the wet road tricks me for a second, hearing a very similar sound to the waves breaking against the cliffs coming from the road, makes me think the sea is pouring in from all directions. Now it is even more reassuring than the Negril Police to know that this little Hut here has withstood at least 3 major hurricanes in its 35-year history. My spleef smokes like a chimney as I puff it like a cigar. It's pure, green, coffee-grinder-coarse contents expertly shaped between my fingers and wrapped tightly in a Rizzler, the All-American Hog-Leg. I'm not much for the Corn-u-copia-esque versions rolled by the Rastas and hence very popular in Europe, complete with business card filters, mais non! I just twist up the ends and snip them clean-off with me mustache scissors. Voi-la! To-day I received two excellent Carved Heads which were painted in the Day-glow Orange and Green colors that Banana Shout became after the double Hurricanes of 2004. They were gifts from Milo, the new owner as of Friday morning, an Italian. The past few nights in a row I've fallen asleep in the hammock and dropped my roach on my chest. Luckily, in each scenario, I awoke before any serious injuries had occurred. Tonight I smoked and wrote and listened to the waves and rain and wind and distant barking dogs and motorized vehicles, of every variety, going by on the West End Road behind our Tree House Room. My table has a Pineapple (a gift from Milo: "It is my intention to make fresh fruit available to my Guests upon their arrival, so you were already here, so here you are!"), a Papaya (which we picked when we were high in the Hills on Ras Rody's Cousin's Land) and a little, wooden Giraffe that I bought for 300 Jamaican dollars. I call the carved character (who very soon will join my pantheon of various carved Jamaican heads) "Likkle Giraffe" after the Patois. I sing this song: "I Man haf a Likkle Giraffe...". I am covered in bites by either Mosquitoes, Ticks or Fire Ants. I'm fucking chewed-up! I can't go into the sea because it's swirling like a Maelstrom (I sat in a little pool inside of one of the caves in the cliffs and let the salt water slosh around me when the big waves hit) so I just take scalding-hot showers where I let the water itch my skin and boy, does it feel good! My spleef went out. Strange sounds at night by the sea. Crashes and Cracks.

I like staying up half the all mighty night. I never want to go to sleep. I'm watching naughty ads that pop-up on my screen. I'm eating rice pudding that I cooked on Monday night (I sort of gave up on figuring out how to make sticky-rice in the Thai style) and reheated tonight. I left it in a long time and on the very first bite I burned the roof of my mouth. My right foot is going to sleep. I still have my boot and socks on on that foot. My left foot is bare because I had an itch on my ankle where the skin is dry. I need a moisturizer, I need Aloe. I'm gonna eat the last slice of that pudding. It's almost 2:00am. When I finally go to bed it will be nice. The sheets are cold at first and then the heater slowly warms the room. Night time clicks and pops and somewhere not too far away, the vibrating hum of a motor. A motor and what sounds like limitless clicking clocks. The crickets have gone (Except in my Bathing-Closet) so now all we have are only clocks. This last pudding piece is really chewy. It tastes remotely like Oatmeal. I just had a Deja Vu. When I was a little Boy, I used to imagine a gigantic machine that would appear on the horizon and devour everything in its path. This unstoppable machine which would loom with enormous smokestacks billowing black fumes that block out the sun. This incessant, destructive force, the last of man's many great blunders, unleashed upon himself. I am brought right back to reality by a Sexy Miss Santa Claus who is wearing a very small pair of red short pants and not much else. It jolts me to the core of my primal system, the electric link to the ancient past. Pop, click, wham! Outside the strange motor sound is compounded by deep, sustained booming, as a bass-tone vehicle oozes by up the hill, to disappear around a corner, the red, faint glow of tail lights becoming blurry and fading out. It's into the wee hours and that Yummy Female form is working its magic on my weak male mind, it's melting my brain. I want to don my furry hat and clomp down the dampened street and walk across town without meeting another living soul. I want to look back at my Mountain from the other side and see the stars and wait until the dawn's early light, that pastel neon flicker, tickling its way out of the East like a warm, morning tongue across a soft belly, over a hip, down a thigh...