The right things to do in my life have suddenly became a strange way of chaos magick in the recent season’s since December of 2015. I was booted out into the slaughter of nothingness from my home the same day news crews stormed where I was living. I am calling this period “Into the never where I go…”.
Why did news crews storm the home in which I lived? Who gives a fuck. Next!
I spent a little under two months immediately after in San Diego, California; creating independent music video’s for local music groups, Watched prized dogs while dog sitting for a woman who had diamond rings and earrings all laid out in the bedroom where I was asked to sleep in while the owner was away. And other odd jobs. My youngest brother was more involved in finance, than the well being of his oldest brother. Which is fine, an individual has their own road and choices they desire to make in their lives. And my other brother… Well, nada…
So, one evening; two weeks after the owner of the house in San Diego came back, we got into a brief argument, and I left out to San Bernardino, California… Where I was living for twenty three days.
The roommates were all insane in their own special way.
A couple that lived in one room decided it was customary to beat his girlfriend to a pulp and the girlfriend would never press charges, or ask for help. Black male, and a Mexican female. Both were American and have a child together, and was in foster care, custody… Why? I imagine you could figure that one out pretty quickly.
Living there, I would survive by a huge spread of food that was always left on the countertop, in exchange for cleaning up and again… watching the dogs during day light and some night light hours. The owner of the house was a bit on the bipolar strange side.
She was Tweetle Dee obese… You can understand the visual.
More odd jobs and no stable work found. My independent literature does not sell, and most of my friends are “pound town illiterates” who do not admire someone who thrives and writes during this busy lifestyle… They are more involved on making as much money as possible by any means. No need for the soul, money will make that happen… right? A-hum…
And now, I reside in Rancho Cucamonga, California and survive by a good high school pal and surrounding neighbors. I am pleased that I am in this now situation; living in the garage or sleeping in my vehicle outside, sometimes by default of being sleepy and comfy in my own vehicle… not because I currently have no choice but to sleep in my vehicle.
And now, I barely receive enough to survive (food, gas) doing odd jobs.
Friends buy me lunch and discuss Christianity as if they want me to join. Basically harassing me in the process… How do you tell them to shut the fuck up?
They’re worse than the energizer bunny in their compulsion. Turning into Jim Carrey, as if it is funny to speak like a four year old, chanting a mantra such as “You’re going to hell.”… And it just doesn’t fit my diet and road in which I was made. And it definitely does not acquire my appetite.
Lately, I have been sleeping two hour days, trying to find work (applied for well over four to five hundred positions), And writing like I already wrote these books. Forest of Caves: Deeper Within the Flesh? It is complete. Just not sure when I want to publish it.
Being homeless and publishing a book is kind of strange. I mean, should the summary discuss how I was semi homeless and homeless while completing this? Living in my vehicle for thirteen nights and fourteen days? And shortly after that fourteenth day, I was mysteriously living in a Thai buddhist temple for three months straight, while slaving ten to twelve hours a day for no money, whatsoever? Apparently I was, as they placed it amongst their devotees “the prophecy”, considering I showed up just before the group went out to long beach to toss and bless the master monks mothers ashes into the Pacific Ocean.
And being currently homeless in California? I was born and raised here… Born in Glendale, Ca. So I ask; why in the fuck am I homeless here?
It is simply So fucking strange…
At this moment in time, I feel this strange numbness around me. Empty. And I am going completely mad within, due to not writing more and more than I should be already. And I whacked my head every day that passed while not writing more than a few thousand words per day. Instead of the many endless ones already written on my mind…
The ancient personas that roam this literary earth has got me in a world wind, due to individuals rather needing visual suck and fuck, rather than a good word pounding…
… And this to me, who ever may be reading these words… Very sad, indeed.