I spent the afternoon as a bush.
Wondering what would pass me by,
if the bugs using me as a complex would find me strange.
If I'd be pollenated any time soon.
If I'd burst into prophetic flame and babble to a schizophrenic who saw god.

That's what you worry about when you're a bush.
For a week, or even a term.

It was safer here.
No mocking half-pregnant dropouts.
No half-hearted retirees.
No expectations, dreams, oranges, or blues.

Road was on me.
Stank dry of standing room only, and long queues to the shitter.

I thought fondly of my dog laying the wrong way across my bed
of hand cut pasta
showers at the right temperature
beds with more character than sheets.

It got me most of the way through.
Last leg of no landmarks,
and blank rolling green can kinda wipe your brain.
18 wheelers stacked 4 high
pass with caution
that's how they got Stephanie.

Road was on me
and I hadn't shot, ate, or watched baseball in as many years.

Phone rings.
Some blank, naked thing I care nothing about.
Screaming about who there what, and when there how.

Tell her to stop putting her hand on the stove.
Should've learned the first twelve times.
Get yelled at.
Go softer
still yelled at.

Splinter was the only song on that album.
Cigarette wasn't even lit before the flash was out
and she had hung up.

Wonder if I'll dream of clouds,
and bumpy white ground
placed gently out of good children's reach.

Why do porches always feel dirty?
No matter the day, season, or weather.

Boney arms brushing against without recoil,
the awkward impulse to reach for an uninvoked touch.

She smells like cigarettes and stale laundry.
Her toes clawing into my arm are a neon welcome mat, 
a familiar carrot on a stick.
A call to worship.
A coy and bitter song of lines drawn in the sand,
and the repercussions withheld.

I could have.
Partake.
Quench.

But the dawn brings slinking
and the thunderous groan of a guilty engine turning over.

Why would a dead lake be a promised land? Oh... because you were a big enough asshole to get kicked out of Missouri and had to spin the exodus to your cult members. (That's like getting kicked out of Denny's)



I'm goin to Salt Lake for a couple days.
I hate flying.
If I'm not back in a week, don't touch any of my stuff.

Exciting weekend of baseball if you like blown saves, near misses, grand slams and heart attacks.


Mostly heart attacks.




Shhhhh I like this song.







































K.



















I finally pushed myself to finish my 1/100 Hi-Nu Gundam. (Pictured under plamo). I actually sanded it before I assembled, and... then I wound up disassembling most of it minutes after finishing.

The plan is a 2-tone purple, ONE TINY body mod, some accent colors, and calling it a fucking month.


I got this kit in December 2012, I probably let it sit on my table for 2 3 weeks untouched, and I'v not painted in a while.  I bought about $80 worth of paint. You get free shipping after $75, and I wanted to stock up for 2 or 3 projects.


So there's a lot of lilac, black, white, metals, and red arriving. I think I even got some pink.

... SHUT UP!
There is pink... well... if I'm gonna do White Unicorn colors. Which, really, I cannot talk myself into. So ... frilly.






I'm writing this blog to pass the time while I watch paint dry
or at least primer.

There was primer drama. Again. Contents under pressure, and plastic/enamel polymers can fuck up on you.
Repeatedly.



I mostly wanted to plow through this Hi-Nu to turn my attention back to the GP-02, which is this massive, titanic menace.

The problem is all of 3 custom GP-02's exist, there's not a lot of reference material, and most of it is... well
shit.


It's not a popular unit, and yet one of my favorites.
I have no goddamn ideas for it.



My paint is 12 miles away, I have... accents (probably a half session), internals (another half session) light purple (2nd session), and dark purple.

Some of these accents are on such small parts that it'd hardly be worth loading and cleaning my airbrush.

















What I want to do with my GP-02? Make some sort of rusted, clawing boogeyman berserker emerging from scrap and burnt metal.

What I have the skills for?


... a color swap :/



I have no ideas for said color swap. Theory tells us to stick to red and black. It's in our psyche.






Black and red is for amateurs.














Writers block, only without words.








Hope to have Hi-Nu painted, posed and pictured soon.

Still irked
she somehow landed 20 feet away without a word, a thought, an anorexic hug heavy with cigarette smoke and shared showers.

I guess I didn't have anything to say.

I hadn't made a move, a clattering sweep to solve every problem, and I hadn't uttered a word in sympathy.







I kissed your wife.
or rather



she kissed me.





I wrote poetry in her name, and body.






I never really had anything to say about that.






How she always smelled like rainy saturdays, and was gone with as much stillness.





























We could've talked about that.

If you were to hide the most whole piece of a broken vessel in a secret, and lightless place, left it forgotten and buried
fearful of the harm it could bring to the sun, and those who walked beneath it's warm and benevolent protection...

Left it to seethe and fester beneath the footfalls of happy people, and sprouting, tender crops.
Under the ceremony of springs, bindings, couplings, and plump, birthing bellies.

Deaf to the laughter of children, blind to the love of mothers, and ignorant to the pride of fathers.


What deprived profanity would unearth itself from that soft prison?

Does it seek the remnants of the vessel, or has it grown to a new, and more terrible whole?

What wrong emerges, unwatched, unprovoked, and unchecked?