Throwing Rocks at Satellites.

There was a distinct itchiness at my elbows, a clear sense that my skin was going to start peeling.  I had been agitated for a few weeks for some reason.  Now it was much, much clearer.  I was going to shed my skin.  It made sense.  You always fight the hardest before you give in.

I should have understood the tell tale signs of a seasonal rebirth.  Like a moth, I am drawn to streetlights and I fawn for skyscrapers like a tourist.  I am a stupid sap in my car slamming to my greatest hits and hoping my eyes blur enough to feel like I’m in a movie and stay focused enough to keep Ichiro and I out of the median.

You can’t get caught up on the floating world as the ukiyo-e artists described it.  At any moment something beautiful could float by.  At any moment a rotting mess could do the same.  In a way, you have neglected your swimming pool.  You have kept getting in without skimming the surface for dead bugs and debris.  You have gotten comfortable being uncomfortable.

I’ve been looking for the stupidity of one night of spinning and rambling and stumbling and the complete lack of clock watching.  Pretty soon I will catch a sunrise and the fever will break sending me to a soft landing on the sand of an early summer.   Blink and you might miss me this time.  Sooner than later I am going through the worm hole and I am not looking back.  I am going to be happy there like I was happy here.  New friends, new adventures and the thrill of old friends that came with needing to tighten old sewn on smiles.

So we need to call the dogs of war again for one more campaign watching massive ice cubes capsize in rye.  We’re going to smile for the cameras and breathe in the foggy Bay Area air.  We’re going to blow out the torches of the Gaslamp.  I am going to tear Silverlake to the ground and twist his arm until he taps out.  I have been underestimated again.

Feel free to invite me out.  I am going to be a lot of fun this summer.  I won’t let you down.

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