Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I’m motelin’ it at my own place. It’s not the same as last night. I knew it was possible or even common and I hoped it would never come to that. Actually they broke in here some time back but didn’t take too much, indifferent or in too much of a hurry to take anything but obvious.

Hell I don’t have much and the stuff I have is getting obsolete. My stuff is old. I have a ten-year-old cd player that played a forty year old Funkadelic disc last weekend.. “Red hot mama from Louisiana, thumbin’ her way to Savannah, she’s been cooped up too long”. And those unnecessary Eddie Hazel guitar safaris toying with supercharged reggae were awful in my head for a week straight. At least I had all that obsolete shit until yesterday when they broke in again. Again.

This time they looked a little harder. The place is in complete disarray, more than it was last time. I haven’t felt at home here lately, in general. You know it’s funny, when you tell people you’ve been hit more than once they’re always tempted to say you should have done something. I should have done something. I should have installed a fence around my shit, not that I might possess, but in case anyone who swiped it had no clue what to do with it and therefore just wasted it. Those bastards stole my sister’s painting. They have no clue what to do with it, they just took it. Yes I should have done something. I should have installed some kind of goddamned fence around my shit, but it’s too late now. And it was all here two nights ago, that’s close enough.

I gotta get outta here to get to another here. That’s what I sense. I hear the whir of my computer. I’m glad they left me a whir. My computer is obsolete and heavy, too heavy to truck out through the door. The monitor’s gone but I still have a whir. My collection of music has gone to dandelion seed but I still have a whir, obsolete and heavy as hell, otherwise trucked out through the door as well.

Maybe I should hire a contractor to install an alarm or something. Mostly I’m tempted to stick a middle finger to the heavens. It must be my fault because I’m angry, but who the fuck isn’t? My shit is old and irrelevant, and no one’s interested in stealing that again. My shit is so damned old and in disarray that people are stealing again. At least they left most of my favorite cassettes. In my motel room tonight.

she-yitt, nazz.
damn
i mean yes, buddha, non-attachment, yeah,yeah,
but shit. your sister's painting. what a bunch of assholes.
greedy, desperate, i guess they were/are desperate for anything that could bring a price.

you're lucky you've still got your whir.
aside from a fence, you could get a dog - a whirring dog

Very sorry to hear about that

The stuff gone is bad, but the sense of violation of your home hurts like hell too.

I wish I knew what to tell you.

mark ... this sucks... but you knew that

i'm so sorry to hear this

great writing but that doesn't bring back your stuff

Second time? I wonder if you're going for the '3rd time is a charm' deal?

Surely your beautiful city has some beauty left to move into... yes? If that's what you want, of course. They haven't stolen your soul and have no chance of doing that, but the thieves has damaged your spirit and you need to patch that up... for your own good, eh?

I’m motelin’ it at my own place.

good to know that you keep your sense of humor on, friend!

(yeah, an alarm, to electrify the perimeter or train one or two rottweillers maybe are good ideas! -I´m joking, of course, concerning the last two options!)

neat writing, you´ll survive...!

clean narrative,nazz

a few weeks ago, my roommate invited some lowlife from the hood into our house. It was cold outside, he was being charitable. The guy stayed awhile and split suddenly. Next morning I noticed that my change jar was gone. Vanished, disappeared.

So, it was only small change, about a hundred dollars, nickels, quarters, dimes. I was sad that someone would sell their soul for such a small amount of money. Hope the guy doesn't ever need to get out of the weather again.

Thanks everyone. Been a while since I wrote something on, you know, actual paper-- set pen to paper. There's something about it, different than a text box-- more organic or something. Haven't done it in a while, not since the road.

I got one of those big plastic tubs full of miles and miles of road. Scribbled on Truck stop cafe napkins, place mats, motel stationary, maybe a log book or two, post cards, I keep hoping I will overcome this compulsion of mindless typing one day and write it up here.

I sit here like I am behind the the wheel of a peter bilt and this screen is my windshield and the keyboard is my cb radio.


Good writing for what it is work naz. for what it cost you. reminded me of a scene from a novel, The Big Sleep where he is writing about his home, the home the naked blond in his bed has just trashed.

Damn! Really? Geez Nazz you oughta move..check out the Lockhaven where I live, (if you're still in Seattle), great little flats and cheap too!
Say, if you're still in Seattle, why haven't we gotten together for a coffee?
Huh?
H

I've been wondering about that myself, hesty.