Making The Most of My Mouth...

Please help. Pretty Pretty Please? lol

Angel_Wylde — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 22:16:52 GMT

Hokay, so I really really wanna go to SD for Decompression. It's my birthday today and I want to hang out with my best friends there to celebrate. (Dready Kim and Matt, if ya know em) Unfortunately my SO has to work on Saturday and we share a car so I'm completely stuck. I live in Santa Ana, and can help out with gas money and other green things. ;) Please MSG me if you can help. I get off work Friday at 3:30, which means I could leave as early as 4:30 to 5, but if your schedule requires I move some things around I can probably do that too. Again, it would be a huge favor to help me celebrate my birthday with my old friends. Did I mention Please? lol Msg me here, or at my e-mail: remarketingguy@gmail.com Thanks in advance. Angel Wylde

Day One

Angel_Wylde — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 22:10:41 GMT

I want to tell you my story. God knows I've taken enough stabs at it over the years. There were times where I would blink and three hours had gone by while I poured my heart out, begging anyone, everyone to come take a look. In the end I wonder if I did it mainly for critique. In the end I always threw up my arms in dismay, disgusted at how self-effacing it sounded, or self-glorifying. If I were to tell it in a linear way, you would spend half the story wanting to pick me up and dust me off and the other half wanting to believe that no one like me would ever really exist. I've learned to doubt the permanence of things, is that the wisdom I've amassed over all of these strange ventures. I've learned to doubt forever, if not for everyone for me. Now, Before you say that I'm morbid I have also learned to love everything about impermanence. I've learned that just as things don't stay forever very rarely are they gone forever. I've seen dead suns rekindled. I've seen the world take away for good what it offered up willingly in only a few heartbeats. For so many people impermanence means absence, -but it also means the absence of absence. It's just so many stories, do you understand? Maybe I'll be able to get them all out; maybe every single one will be true. Then again maybe I'll lie about the whole thing just to entertain you. Part of the problem is knowing where to start. Even my birth was strange, but what brought me here, to this I am who is just a voice, just some disembodies group of words trying to reach out in accordance with his craft and say "here is where I've planted the flag, here's danger, here's Eden." I can tell you stories of bleeding half to death. I can also tell you stories of bouncing a strobe-light ball around for two hours laughing uncontrollably with half a dozen complete strangers. Which would you rather hear first? Which would you be more sure was real? And if I told you that one night I saved a dozen people from freezing to death, will it cushion the blow when I tell you I got caught by my wife having a threesome on our anniversary? Which story would you remember, which one would you tell about me. Who would you see if I really showed you? There are questions now, about my heart and if I have one. I think I've analyzed what it means to have a heart until I made it disappear. But I know that I still love, and well all know the heart is not located where you think it is anyway. A good pretext to all of this would be for you to know that I am excellent liar. If you don't want to be lied to you should leave right now. But everyone is lied to in stories, and why are you still reading if you didn't want to hear the story? So should I tell you a story that will make you interested? Make you curious enough to put me on your bookmark? I'm so very glad they still call them bookmarks. I was bleeding to death. I know you're immediately curious about why I was bleeding to death, but if I tell you I was stabbed wouldn't that just make it worse? It did, didn't it? The details I'll tell you later but I was bleeding to death. We are in a small car hurtling toward the hospital as fast as its little heart would carry it. Surprisingly that ended up being almost a hundred miles an hour. Lucky me. I was trying to stay awake, but eventually I couldn't and here is what I saw. The car jerked to a halt in front of the emergency room. I tried to open the door but by then it took every bit of concentration to stay awake. I knew this wouldn't be just another bit of unconsciousness. When you become unconscious the world goes black, and mine was definitely trying to go white. I see nurses and doctors and actually hear one say to me "If you live." There's a moment of complete... sorry to sound like a broken record here but, whiteness, around me. No loved ones, no relatives, but a sense of certainty that was overwhelming. It was an idea that all was as it should be whatever it should be. I awake with a scream as they dig around in my insides to assess the damage. I tell my girlfriend I'm sorry that we argued, to tell my family I was sorry too. The doctor told me to count backward. When I wake up, nine piercings had been replaced by one hundred and nineteen staples down the center of my stomach. That month in the hospital I can only remember two things. Gosh, the Morphine was just tops, and somewhere there were people plotting to put my friend in jail forever, or at least as close to forever as children barely twenty could conceive. My first stop was the District Attorneys, where I told them I'd be happy to testify at an assault trial, but I'd find myself unavailable to recall the events in an attempted murder trial. I explain that speed stabbed me, and I'd be happy to testify also at an attempted murder trial for that. The last I heard he was working at a greenhouse and nursery. Is that too flowery for you? Would you still be reading if I told you how it happened in the first place? And if I told you this story was true to the last word would you believe it? Which do you want to hear more? How I lived, or why I deserved it? Impermanence, of perception and ideas of who are heroes and who are villains is what I've learned. I've learned that apathy is the only negator. My best friends have been my enemies. My enemies are my best friends. Here we go friends. I'm going to tell the whole story from beginning to end. Paulina to Bebe. Deep throat parties to nights spent homeless mid-winter. Abandoned daughters and betrayal and who knows what else. And if while I do it you find yourself hating me, then let me be your villain and enjoy the victory of those victimized. If I fall on the other side of the balance then enjoy the times I've landed on my feet, because in this world we all deserve to be happy, though we are never entitled to an easy path to it. My name is Angel. It's occurred to me to let people know I haven't died, simply because everyone seems to see it as such a constant possibility. I used to write once, describe what these things feel like in our mind, that classic tragic literary jazz about the highs in the light and the lows in the dark. And I think perhaps it's time to come back. I think if I took another stab at it I'd have something to teach you this time. After all for the first time there's no reason to lie. -unless I want to. Angel Wylde 8/22/09

On The Third Day

Angel_Wylde — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 16:47:21 GMT

He takes the pills one by one. It's your average classic tragic scene. He's long since stopped thinking about what he's doing. He's just trying to kill those little heart attacks. Maybe it's because he's completely crazy, or maybe they lie to you about what it feels to seperate two lives. The fact is it doesn't feel like shattering pain that fades like an echo. It's small twinges in the chest that sneak up on you while you're smoking a cigarette or dancing in a bar, or sleeping in the middle of the night. Small warm flashes, pictures of smiles and movement. Moments. The wind rushes out of him, his chest cracks open and seals itself shut before anyone notices. His head shakes, involuntarily and he can't find his bearings for a moment. In instants everything goes sideways and what was real is overwhelmed by the tide of everything that wasn't real. But the pills he takes are heady stuff, made for some poor hapless man with chronic back-pain, or someone with the kind of headaches that only opiate medicine can attend to. But whoever they were, their need for money overwhelmed their need for relief, and untold links in the chain later they'd come to him. But his tolerance is high, and mixed with the right amount of 40 oz, wine, and whatever else he can get his hands on and he's lifted above all that. The world slows down and retracts in a hug that lifts him up and out. He's above, for the moment and the moment is good enough. Two days ago he was so enraged he screamed at nothing... no one. The affront had been typed on some keyboard somewhere and zapped into his eyes before he could look away. Those moments happen in seconds too but bear a longer draw against his skin, but in the absence of the combination of chemicals mentioned before those bruises last much longer. They draw in until everyone around him sweats. He breathes heavy and the fright is covered over by so much red rage that all he can do is grin and plot until the frivolity of it hits him again and he crumples into a puddle and falls asleep. What could he have done different, and who's heart then would he be breaking if he had? After four little white tablets he stops asking questions. After the seventh he's having trouble remembering he ever had them. The liquor reserves shrink, the pillbox gets more empty but he's watching the screen still. He's waiting for something, a sign. He's already learned it isn't coming but he waits for it anyway. And he wonders how far, how long until he can stop doing that. 8th pill, third bottle. It's a strange formula. He wished he was better at math. The lifted feeling turns into something else. His eyes dart around the room sometimes, trying to gain bearings of another kind. But he's distracted and seeking deluded and there's one pill and one bottle left. That kind of math he can manage. By the time he stumbles to the futon hes not waiting for signs anymore, or understanding. He's not seeking forgiveness or revenge. He's not terrified of his life or even if what he's just done to himself will kill him. It's not that he wants to die. He just wants to see what happens. The lifted feeling has given way to a large cotton ball taking the place of his brain. Even sounds coming in sound muffled and confusing. The room isn't spinning, it's tipping side to side. He considers turning the TV on but he misses the remote as he free falls onto the futon and then there's nothing. Nothing. ---------------------- I open my eyes. And B is stitting above me. I haven't come back to myself enough yet to hazard an explanation, so all that I say is that I feel sick, which is not entirely the truth. The fuzzy pounding feeling has ebbed away and now I'm simply high as a kite, and all is right with the world save the fact that my stomach feels like it's trying to escape the hard way. We talk awhile, she feeds me noodles. My eyes close again. I'm not the least bit worried this time. When I wake up again, I leave something where I slept. I wake up and my first memory is the way I was before, and how fearlessness didn't always come so darkly bought. I feel sad, but not about the things I felt sad about before. I regret that I couldn't maintain that light, but I regret with hope because I can remember the light clearly again. For the first time I stop glancing forward and look, saving the glances for backward. I can concentrate. The path in front of me is cloudier, but it's a path. What's behind me was a sprawling instruction in the fact that fighting with your soul is futile and as destructive as fighting with someone elses. Things I've lost tick off against the things I've gained. The smile comes before I even realize I'm doing it. There are some that tell me that I have no heart, and I'm willing to entertain the idea that may be true. But heart or not I still fall in love. The only time I feel my heart is when it's breaking, so if that is all that it's good for I think I'm better off without it. I look back at the place I slept and there he lays. The he that tried so hard and failed so miserably. The he that didn't speak the language and tried to fake his way through it. He, who is full of regret, and rage, and preferred the word sorrow to sadness. I think that it's better to be sad. I'm through the shower, we're invited to San Diego. My shirt is crisped out and I'm shaved in the first time in three days. I have no idea what's coming, but I can't wait to see. I'm in an environment where every move is a new learning experience. A new crowd, where the rules are different, the stakes are higher, and the rewards are far greater. She still catches herself smiling for no reason. He keeps her up late when she has to work early, and darts around the room like someone posessed. He makes her talk when she'd be quiet and say hello when she'd rather sit down. When she broods he attacks it and rips it open, then caresses what's inside until it floats away. A doting angry asian culture and the mind-tricks of her own particular round peg square hole routine learned her silence is golden. He was the one that told her it was only gold flake. I glance in the mirror while she puts her arms around me and asks if I am ready. I breathe in, I breathe out. I'm ready, and we walk out the door. ...but not before I grab the last 40 out of the fridge and ask if I can drink it on the way.

Blind Shepherd

Angel_Wylde — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 02:41:28 GMT

My head hits the desk, lightly and lovely. I'm blaring Sisters of Mercy through the computer speakers. I smell leather. I see back twelve years. ...and I like it. Sometimes, if I reach that place, that perfect point of blown away by a combination of liquor and random chemicals. The way a black lace n' patent leather child of the night might have felt streched out over a dirty matress with a screwdriver in his hand. Nik Fiend in the eyelids and Johnny Depp in the eyes. I smell leather, and I'm on my knees. And it is my perfect place because I am in total control, with no control. I am free. I can do anything I want and I choose to do this. I can hear the thunder of the speakers in the middle of the day and I sleep sore, ripped apart by the club that night, bathed in sweat. I am surrounded by shallow depth and the same desperate seeking for the spot you just can't reach that fires up into the night and makes people dance in the street, drink wine from the bottle and fuck a stranger. I smell leather, and I see the road. Hundreds of miles passing under tires. I see city after city after city. The East Coast and the West Coast war on the place to be. The west has Portland, San-Fran-Fucking-Cisco (to which I've never been) and the only real natural disaster you fear is "the big one" and if that happens, well... ...fuckit. Oh my beloved East Coast, where I spent most of my formative years. Ah the Big Easy. Now there I've been. Miami, a party in the heat, sunrise on the beach, black cuffs rolled up to my knees and a lace shirt on the first night a person ever asked me- -if I was a boy or a girl. I smell leather, I feel heat. I see the road. I know that Lindsey will be angry that I took my backpack, my sleeping pad. Those things were fucking expensive. I'm pretty sure she meant to keep them. And I think of a promise I made to myself a long time ago. That I would pack up, step outside, and walk north... Just north, stopping where I can, going on retreat with the Monks and all that pathetic hipster bullshit. Maybe to atone, maybe just to live. Perhaps I'm just dreaming. But I'm your average corporate hack now, and I can pull down mad cash if I really really have to. It's the mild reward for the chains of the man after all. In a month I could save over a thousand. In two, perhaps enough to get by for months. A year. All the ones I love hate me, and all the ones that love me I am afraid of breaking. I want to know if I'm black as midnight or bright as the sun. I've been thoroughly convinced of both and each time proved wrong. I don't know if I'm being born anymore or I'm dying.

Deep Breath, Hold It In...

Angel_Wylde — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 00:04:50 GMT

Friday for the first time in a long time I'm going to go out with nothing but vodka and recklessness in mind. I'm here on day three, and my body is slowly rebelling from a straight diet of Cuervo, Wine, a single piece of pizza and all the most self-damaging introspections of your nightmares. There has got to be some point of letting go. Fresh as it is the ringing in my mind must stop enough for me to function again. It's my theory, anyway. I used to trip alot, ALOT. I always had the subtle wonder of thinking with the fifth hit, or when I was particularly brave the tenth in a row. "Will this change the world forever, will my perception be altered, unalterably?" That is this, on a cellular level. I see no benefit in raging, in twisting. By now if nothing's snapped and nothing's healed I realize this is obviously not the way to achieve either end. Instead I make an appointment to view an apartment and try desperately to semi-amicably retrieve my things. If I look inside there is something staring back at me, and I recognise him, and I fear him. I have to look out, look up, look on, look anywhere. It occurs to me that all of my friends were actually hers. Long blonde hair and a body like that I suppose I get it. If I can resist the urge to rip and tear at them long enough I realise I'm actually excited, all old faces stern and cold I turn my back to find a waiting world. It's an inkling of hope drifting like a ducks feather on a calm lake. It's fragile, but it is undeniable. And all this madness swirls at the outer edge, reaching in, but blown back by sheer will. One more breath and then I can go mad. Just get through to the next breath and we'll worry about it then. I need to dance, Wyldly. I need to walk, distantly. I need to breathe, constantly. All must lead me somewhere, and anywhere is better than here.

When the Rain

Angel_Wylde — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 23:50:13 GMT

It's over now. All the scheming, all the compartmentalising is finished. It was wiped away in a few seconds. I keep playing the scene over in my head, wondering what I was thinking, what made me that brazen in that moment. All I come back to is that they were so beautiful, just too amazing to pass up this time, at this moment. I didn't even stop when I started noticing people I knew walking by. I dissapointed the hell out of my friends, good people, ones I loved dearly. There was only skin, eyes, teeth, lips, and me. I will not deny who I am for one more second. I love women. I love the sounds the make, and the way they move, and I want all of them all of the time. But someone I love never knew the level of it all and here I am now. I have blisters on my feet and my entire wardrobe is most likely somewhere between here and the 405. I keep moving from the bed to the table to the Tequila and then back to the bed. Everything about me feels disconnected, rather half-connected. No one to blame but me. While I'm sitting here I'm forced to realize some things about myself, like I've never been *out* of a relationship. From sixteen until now I've been hopping from one place to another, always keeping a foot in one pool while trying to leap to the next. This is no way to do things, not any longer. It chips away at my spirit until I'm... well until I'm like I am now, unshaven unwashed and unable to move. I realize that there was something horribly wrong, too far back for me to see. I'm not sure what, but I have my theories. My brother hung himself in jail three weeks ago rather than serve a thirty year sentence for rape. There has got to be *something* back there. Right now, I'm trying to pick up the pieces or at least to start considering picking something up in earnest. In the meantime I go from tire-tread numb to surface of the sun panic, it rolls over, it comes back. Within it I'm reminded that I've left a corpse by the highway, and it was a beautiful girl that just wanted to love me. It wasn't her fault she never knew who me, was. For now these cigarettes keep burning down, one after the other. I breathe in, then I breathe out. I roll over in my mind if I am sick, or if I was just unable to express who I really was for so long that I don't know how to do anything else. If all this has a blessing it's that denial isn't one of the tools in my armory any longer. That should offer some solace, but all I feel is each person I've let down, every wasted thing I ever said. It's over, maybe it's starting. Maybe it's a waste and maybe I'm better off dead. If my chest ceased rising I'd be just that pretty thing, unable to betray or lie or do anything other than just be. I have to chuckle at the irony in that. In death to be able to do the thing I found so hard in life. Just be. At once all the profunditity of trying to understand myself and not hurt others rendered successful and final. Mother Moon, Sister Storm, Father Sun help me. For I am lost.

Ode to Deep Creek (inspired 6/7/09)

Angel_Wylde — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 18:30:49 GMT

There is my heart, and it is much like the desert. Desolate seeming and then spiritual upon reflection and exploration. It is as undeniable and constant as the sun. It burns as hot. Thus I am sitting in a pool watching diamonds cascade from the hair of a stranger, my mushroom addled mind begging me to reach out and trace old tattoos with new hands. I want to be this places constant companion, my blood making the rushing sound of the water, my eyes dancing like those diamonds do. These connections are my breath, and I want so much to breathe deep. A girl with sacred stars on her hips bums me a smoke. She's rolling, she says as her top seems to weave around her neck while my trip takes hold. Fresh friends, we bang instruments and share out here where sharing was once survival and has become communion. We are a fresh crew, divine in moments in sand dust and mud, brought together by collaboration location and luck. I lept lost headfirst into the murk to disappear among the algae and wildlife that dwells below the surface, allow it to wash over me like a metaphor for what dwells, is hidden, and yet alive. Oh, this is my place, it's my mirror. Every grain of sand and hidden alleyway among the scrub-brush is an allegory for the dips and dives of my nature. My skin sucks up the experience like the ground craves water. I run with all the small animals that eek out a living among bright spirits in this once forgotten and forever coveted place. And too soon the world calls me. I ascend, hearing drums come up from the valley as I dream of taking flight and gliding back down- To stay.

Sister

Angel_Wylde — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 00:14:52 GMT

Sister, burn the temple -And stand beneathe the moon. The sound of the ocean is dead- It's just the echo of the blood in your head.

Go go go

Angel_Wylde — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 00:06:29 GMT

The blood makes the grass grow. I heard the ghost of Hitler on the radio....

Rare Lyric Quote Post

Angel_Wylde — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 23:04:56 GMT

Because it's just how I feel today. "Your cigarette traces a ladder...." "Here's lookin at you kid, celebrate years- Here's lookin at you kid, wipe away tears. -long time, since we're together- Now I hope it's forever." - Velvet Goldmine

New Ink

Angel_Wylde — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 23:27:52 GMT

Soooooo stoked! Okay, so it's right up on my out-in-the-sun-spend-all-my-time-naked season, but I think there's *just* enough time to add a new piece to my back, shoulder to shoulder, here's where I found the design, waddyathink? It's taken from a piece of egyptian papyrus. O'course, I'm gonna altar the color to match the ankh between my shoulder blades, but I've been craving for awhile. *does dance*

...Is?

Angel_Wylde — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 18:33:41 GMT

There was a day, lost now in the ocean that I might have been normal. I can't put my finger on when it might have been, but I imagine at some point half naked, throwing mud-clots at my best-friend, father in his work shed and mother in her kitchen I had a true shot at being like the people I pass on the street every day. At night, as we lie in our bed, even with our voices crying out loud the spiritual importance of who we are we wonder; "Is this a huge mistake?" I have no compunctions. I do what I do because something inside me is broken. Like a story of someone with a gift, and a brain-tumor responsible for it, I know that the spectrum shifts and the light bends. I know I see deeper. I know I still miss much. What is sincerity, here. What is this that I am giving? Is it my heart? Is it simply a series of skills taught to me by the world mimicked back, the human ape repeating the path of least resistance down the maze to the endorphin dispenser? Or have I stumbled across the prism and found a gate that isn't there. Am I truly an instrument of communion? Or is this just the shape in answer to the light, a different light, not even a better light, just a different shade. I worry for the people that love me. The more they love me the more I worry. I have not been treated with a gentle hand by the world. I will not here begin an operetta of the tragedies of my life, but there are things in it that I would have run screaming from, anyone would have run screaming from, but found myself backed against the brick wall of blood and therefore balked. I balked for my youth, I balked for my naivete and was shoved head-first into the organ grinder that would spit me out this collection of iron rods fueled by the thermite of my searching soul. I am Satyr. But I am Midas too. And my hands shake for fear of gilding the ones I'd touch, and by that gleaming kill something soft inside, something human that I'd dispensed with for the wounded morals of survival, beguilement, and the suppression of so much rage. So much rage. But the smile never falters, and the eyes gleam. His nails are always dirty and his hair when he had it was always wild. It is the definition that found me, and in my way I've become happy with my destiny and the way I point. The path I lead to. The violence now is only one of chemicals, I have channeled it into something else. But sometimes at night, laying in my bed I wonder; With so different a perspective, at what point does even my understanding of things like love and friendship become skewed. My heart is tender for the ones that I love. My heart is tender and I cry when they cry and I hold their hand when they need it and speak soft words that I swear to christ are all sincere. I rage at them when they make me angry because I would not see them fall and I dote on them like some vengeful golem- But we all know I am not a true man, and I live in dread of the other shoe-drop. I am terrified, and even that feeds me. I have channeled it into something else. So I cross myself and say a prayer, clutch the pictures to my chest and stare down the mirrors edge to the half-naked boy in a mud-clot war with his best friend, dirty nails and blood-soaked scalp from close-scrapes. A smile wide as a fault. I wonder if that boy had a better understanding of love, than this man.

Step-Down

Angel_Wylde — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 17:37:38 GMT

The edge of my perception is vibrating like a high tension wire that someone just fell off of- -without a net. I am blessed being freed from addiction, and blessed that new addictions walk by with their own particular vibrations. I am not contented, I am a seething star, ready to burst, to burn, to light the way and create shade behind the moons of the cosmos. Burning child, wanderer, tapped to the ancient. Masculine, feminine, and only then human. We're as much of this world as any other. First, we are one anothers. This is communion of spirit, skin, silk and stone. Forged from the heat of desire we coalesce in the strange dark places and heat them, light them. We drink each other like wines from the heart of the earth and become drunk on desire, truth and discovery. And strange vibrations rise and quake the earth, a volcano erupts, our post coital sigh. The oceans roll and ships toss on the motion of our backs and the whim of our fingertips. We create with the clay the rest of the earth fears, it's molten glow that blinds them, it's primal heat that singes and hardens itself into the ground. They see it in our eyes.

Honor-ific

Angel_Wylde — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 01:55:05 GMT

At night she taps away and says she can't have as much of me as she wants. She struggles with this. She says. Sometimes over the weekends we spend the entire time inches from each other, never touching. Her and I, the flame itself forever parted. Twins in heat that could part the sea- And warm you between us like livid logs. Her jaw sets, when she thinks I've burned without her, and cute little flames dance in her eyes. And there it is. The struggle, but now it belongs to me. But the inches still separate us, until we're allowed to supernova, and our kind is such that a roomful of people in the vicinity become naked, lathered and confused. We're ephemeral seduction, these two chemicals combined. I wonder who I'm wronging, the Angel, or the Flame.

Wing

Angel_Wylde — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 07:18:49 GMT

Unruly children, glitter-eyed psychopaths. Victory bound angels. Pray with me. Prey with me.

And I Smile

Angel_Wylde — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 07:03:43 GMT

I am momentarily lost, in the idea of the gentle knob of a hip-bone traced with a fingertip in the rising sunlight through blinds. I sigh, contented in absolute urge, because it helps me see so clearly. I am faced with so... much... want that the ideas in my mind bend, landscapes become lands of peach curved stillness except for breath, after breath. Rib-cages moving and all sensory in the vibrating air of stillness after screaming. Alive, variable, changing, enraged. Profaning what some consider holy makes it holy. Whoring that which those consider sacred in the covetousness of convention is set to reiterate it's reverence. We fall at the feet of the new because the practiced now takes it for granted and renders it useless. We take the breaks off, and the art of shock is not so nefarious that it doesn't bring you to see that he wonder is still the same. We are still the same. We reach for the stars, and if it seems we defy your gods and hate your laws it is because the ideas of thought and imagination superseded and CREATED your perception of what you fear today. And we as a race capitalize on it. We allow ourselves to be UN-defined by it. We rebel to give credence to the spiritual. We damn, just to pray. And you may find me vile, a man who splits his soul in two's and threes and wonders in the idea of shock, the very heart of crassness. But the future bound moment that six hands caress in the inhale-exhale razor thin shock of light through blinds in the wine-soaked whiskey-tinted heat of the day remind me that the limits are only what we can accept, how much we choose to explore. And, I smile, because as the light crosses the bones of my hips I realize that it is all there, in the slow travel of light from belly button to breast, to smile to eyes, not in the light, or in the skin, or in the eyes but in the now as perception travels, and her breath sounds like a sigh. Like perception travels, and two girls touch lips because they know exactly what you will see when they do. In second, to second, to breath, to blink to sleep, to waking, to smile. We are smoke that weaves through the second, our now creates itself and we are present. My palpitations fade, and knowledge comes with sledge hammer certainty. I awake. And I smile.

blink

Angel_Wylde — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 20:55:33 GMT

Speaking today of passing mirrors- I think I may be looking at the most delicious reflection. Cannot wait, for time to tell. Somewhere in the west today, wings are flexing and the fact they they are for now imaginary makes the impression no less profound.

Um... yeah ;)

Angel_Wylde — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 16:44:13 GMT

Who rocks a skirt? *I* rock a skirt. ;)

Out-fit

Angel_Wylde — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 16:42:44 GMT

I walk by the closet, picking my skin for the day. What will it be? What can I be today that will tell the story of who I am every-day. The steadfast friend? The seducer, tense muscled demon? Hard faced soldier for the cause- whatever that cause happens to be today? Reconciling these puzzle pieces are my constant contest with myself. It would be simpler if someone could just say that I am fragmented, a splintered soul searching for who they are. But I already know who I am, what I am. I'm a cosmic soup of all of these things, and so many of them conflict and jockey for position that I could spend all day in this skin-closet, testing fabrics and ideas. But the day, or the night always calls and I walk out into the star-light (because even the sun is a bright and shining star) with the intense wonder and apprehension of someone who has made a choice that will color all perception and council all decisions. And should I look at the mirror as I pass by, there is sometimes a moment when I don't recognize the man that stares back at me. He stares at me with eyes gone dark as midnight when my soul feels soft and malleable. He looks wounded and alone when my heart beats through my chest and my fingers itch to scratch at something, to cause the shuddering breath and claim eyes from across a room. When am I going to find a place where the chameleons gather? Where all aspects are understood, or at very least alright. This little lizard version of the ugly duckling has found every manner of swan on the pond... Now he just wants white wings of his own.

The Air

Angel_Wylde — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 18:00:44 GMT

My mind is managing my own madness. I should have anticipated that, it has after all had so much practice. The dreams are slowing down, not in occurrence but in severity. In that oh so flippantly offered aspect of wolves I'd forgotten about the knife-sharp clarity that follows the primal scream. When the world stops rattling and the ground ceases it's restless rumble and I am laid down, face against the grass- It's then I hear it start to grow. I sense it in the air, and it's bitter-sweet. I look and see the ones around me standing still and I know for some of them I've taken them as far as I can. I'm so far away from the goal myself you see, and no leader in sight. I am all discovery. I can tell I've become rim rocked and the tug and reach will soon cause me to dash on stones far below where we all are now. Granite is trickling down the side of the mountain and I must leap or retreat. I hear every sound, I anticipate every breath from everyone. I worry over those that I leave behind even as I gaze up into the eyes of the ones I race to catch. I can go neither back or to the side. I cannot stand still. What I was is no longer needed, and what I am is such a damn mystery that I'm glamored and watching the twisting light. I'll heal the cracks in foundations, must heal them, to swing myself up and reach for the next hand, out there somewhere- In the Day. So for those I leave behind, that subtle and timid sort of moving on that makes us fade we are only walking off into the distance, and the path may turn back around someday, but I leave you in the hands of the world that formed us all and the spirits that take us exactly where we need to be. Maybe one day I will be struggling to catch up to you. And those that see my outstretched hand reaching up. I strain against the idea of ceiling, top, and summit and insist that we can all climb right up into the sky. I strain past addictions and watch waves of light to see if any look like staircases. With or without them my aim is to keep climbing.

It's Times Like These My Insides Seethe

Angel_Wylde — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 16:51:21 GMT

New place (Irvine) new view over the mountains every morning. Things have settled and I'm finally able to take a breath and contemplate the things I've put off for so long. Strangely, it's just this kind of situation that's the hardest for me. In the hours between four and dawn when everything is still the world reveals itself to me, and in the onslaught of information and contemplation I find myself reeling and mad. My eyes are wide and I contemplate possibility, a dangerous thing for someone of my past and skill-set. And strange dreams from the nicotine patch. The holy cigarette has followed me since I was thirteen, a throwback to my quickly fading days as a redneck child. It's dust on my shoulder now like a language used in childhood and retained in the back of your mind, nowhere else. The day is coming soon when I visit home and I wonder if they'll recognize me. I wonder if I will recognize them. The patch gives me strange dreams, all with sex and suicide. When I wake up I put on my suit and suddenly I'm just another Mad Man selling Ice to the eskimos. If they could see inside my head they'd run away or fall down on their knees and... A friend sends me updates from LA, about the dungeons goings-on there. I resist, but I end up looking, and at once I can hear the buzz in my head, the will to reach out and caress, or tear, or kiss and the edge of my desk receives the scratch marks of a soul ready to run-riot on the outside world, but mediated and medicated until I can breathe again. My conversation is my outlet, and in that I soak and bend and writhe, but I eternally wonder when the breaking point will come, when the eyes will narrow and the feral crouch will come before I spring into the crowd and take down the unwitting beauty. This primal surge is life-giving, absolute affirmation, but so dangerous if only to myself. I wonder which would be worse, to find a reeling gaze or a returned smile that submerges me in this fantasy that would be SO EASY to make reality. Least resistance indeed. I need to get out, cross a field like lightning and just run. My skin itches for wind and craves the boundless open. I want to travel low to the ground. I want to howl. I want to explode. Those standing nearby, take great effort and care, your virtue may be forfeit.

I was a guest on Dr. Suzy!

Angel_Wylde — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 23:26:31 GMT

LOL so I tried to post a listing about it, but it looks as if it was fugged from the start. After hanging out with the Spirit's Fire crew on saturday, I dopped in on my friend Dr. Suzy. Before I knew it, Linz, B and I were her special guests on her radio show! Check it out; http://drsuzyb.com/z

LA Times, MSNBC, and the Chicago Tribune (Nudity update)

Angel_Wylde — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 16:56:16 GMT

LA Times Nudists OK at San Onofre beach, for now http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-nude21-2008aug21,0,4780513.story LOL they're still using our picture! MSNBC Nudists win round in court against San Onofre beach ban http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26321374/ Chicago Tribune Lawsuit over swimsuits http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/chi-nudist_letteraug12,0,602960.story :)

Think About It

Angel_Wylde — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 15:09:16 GMT

Let's dance in style, lets dance for a while Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies Hoping for the best but expecting the worst Are you going to drop the bomb or not? Let us die young or let us live forever We don't have the power but we never say never Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip The music's for the sad men Can you imagine when this race is won Turn our golden faces into the sun Praising our leaders we're getting in tune The music's played by the mad men Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever? Forever young Some are like water, some are like the heat Some are a melody and some are the beat Sooner or later they all will be gone Why don't they stay young It's so hard to get old without a cause I don't want to perish like a fading horse Youth's like diamonds in the sun And diamonds are forever So many adventures couldn't happen today So many songs we forgot to play So many dreams swinging out of the blue We let them come true Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever Forever young, I want to be forever young Do you really want to live forever? -Alphaville "Forever Young"

San Onofre, the news is spreading!!!

Angel_Wylde — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 22:24:47 GMT

From a news source in Vancouver http://www.straight.com/article-155646/wreck-beach-under-siege "Williams isn’t paranoid. On May 28, the superintendent of parks banned nudity at Wreck’s “sister” naturist beach in San Onofre, California. The reason: a ranger had complained that the nude beach was attracting public sex. California, like B.C., tolerates some clothing-optional areas, but there’s no legal protection in either jurisdiction. And Williams is concerned the same thing could happen here. Both nudity and public sex are still Canadian Criminal Code violations."