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June 17, 2025: The hair on her head was something of the color of rust and baked beans and she had these explosive dark-rings caverning her eyeballs. She came up to the counter and started expressin’ all sorter’ questions about chopped up coffee chocolates and cones and cakes and creams and all. She was on some wicked drug, pluming up her mind like an atomic depression she was too dead to even notice. Her 3 boys stood behind her in line. One young lad and the others grown. One I noticed wildly, since he had his hair all shock shattered into an erratic cloud about him, and he had that sort of royal nose like a Biblican figure and was a sorter’ Solomon looking Son with his long hair. He wore a Superman Hoody, so he must have been mighty, or so he self-assumed. Now, they all ordered their ice-creams oddly with a dark presence enshrouding their family, and they took their leave so I went back to scooping the icecreams, till’ awhiles later I see em’ all outside the windows walking by again headin’ for the staircase. And so I sure saw the older brother kick his mother in the back with a wicked jolt and laugh, and I was shrank for a moment in disbelief and she stumbles and the boy looks up and sees that I saw his whole wicked deed and he most shrinks away for a moment in shame, till’ his mother arises in time and whaps him good with her purse and stumbles on. How did it go for them? Where are they going? I imagined the small warped home and rough throat barks with catastrophic sorrow, and a humbugged attempt at cheery Walmart decorations for hopeless holiday, and the spiritual loss and Lunchables all wrapped and torn together and the trying to look presentable, and the resentable and the violent thoughts and stale days where the sky goes gray and you wonder, ‘Is the wood floor real? Am I a lonely child in a bunkbed? Do I need to change? Where IS everybody?” And you return to your old ways once more. And I imagined the rooms in the mother’s heart where grievous scars took lay of her light, and she was left with dark grooves in her eyes and a son to kick her down the stairs as she took him and his brothers to go get an icecream, in the middle of a day on Monday in the world where she wondered, ‘How long till’ this hurting is over?’”

Sep.22, 2025: God was a man. He got to experience the things He created. Did He notice the rings within the bitten carrot, like the inside of a tree? Did He notice the red and white patternment on his fingerprint? Did He notice bizarre stars when He stood up too fast, or was that too simple for Him, considering He substanced and substacked the nebulas of dust and magic milkyway in the first place? Did He notice the intensity of another’s eyes and how the sheep eye looked like saturn itself? Did He notice the faint taste of dirt on potato skin, and the drudgery of an inflamed tastebud? Did He notice a rainbow in the liquid as it married sunlight in ethereal unification? Did He feel the spirit of a thousand twigs mixed with blood, when He sat too long and His foot fell asleep? Did He bite his own fingernails, that He himself created? If He gazed at a sprightly tomato plant in sunlight, did He wonder at its infinity? Did He experience the emptiness we feel when the wind touches our face, and we look at the ground feeling infinitely small? Did He rub his eyes with tiredness, which He had created in endless energy? Did He see through the flesh eyelid covering his lens? Did He feel the aliveness and deadends of sea-coral and sheep hair, walnuts and lungs, love and color, ripples and voices, hands and roots, what did He think?

June 28, 2025: My sister asked, How am I struggling lately? To which I responded with bitter laughter enumerations of suffering “mentally, spiritually, physically, emotionally, intellectually, artistically, socially, universally, bombastically, complexually, wonderally, depressionally, exuberantly, quietly, loudly.” Will I ever not be struggling? No. But I can laugh with holy laughter because, as every molecule of my body evaporates into the spirit and I become one in Eternity, all those stings, writhes, and sufferings will fade. No matter the beeswax stuck in my brain, no matter the coils of disease and mental disparity that tuck into my cells, I will have faith. No matter the quarrels I have with my own mental personality, no matter the loss of love and liveness, no matter the lethargy of every ligament in my bodily lithography, I will have faith. No matter the moles and holes and dust and rolls that accompany me, I will have faith. No matter any scrumple of in-sane hurt, I will have faith. (Have I begged for trouble?)