Free-writing: 20 July 2019

I feel like a city with no gates. We approach to the percussion of hoof beats and city drums. The response returned with trumpets of hot breath and snorts. I sweat my anxiety and cherish my anger. That salty sweet spice, for to savor. Keep it tucked in my lip like a bit of dip. I let it soak into my blood and I spit every so often and sometimes I let it dribble down my chin. On my shirt it spreads like a Rorschach ink blot to be read by those not in my head. The ones that fancy themselves brain wrangling cowboys and sophisticated tamers and label-ers of my thoughts and actions.

The grasshopper and the ant. The cricket that kick flips its songs across its back that resonate in the air and feather across the air of the night. Bouncing in and out of the shadows. The hunt for Red October and our eyes bounce off those we toss our gaze upon and hear a reflection of ourselves in what we perceive. It’s an internal conversation about external hallucinations that we share in and call reality and reality is supposed to transcend individual truths but it is co-dependent.

Pause to drag a paw across a soaked brow. Fur covered and comforted eyes. The breeze of another breath seems to have such an effect on the temperature of our demeanor. We get hot or cold and call it the action of another person’s fault. What is the measure of force and what is force that we constantly need to give it measure? Constant quantification of experience in order to validate reality as we understand it. We are the limits of our own understanding. We limit our own understanding as a sacrifice to our polytheistic worship of varying degrees of homeostasis [disguised as idols].

Put the graphite to the floor and we ride. I try to glide across this page and in turn make each turn a trip across the mind. The dimensions of my mind, the mind I imagine to read along on this ride, and the mind not known, to include my own. Hair in the wind, with most thoughts of caution, as the training wheels come off along with the brake pedal. Got none. My mind and decisions, at times, are a series of predetermined acts of freedom. An illusion of control that is flavored like independent movement.

Love an excuse to feel cold enough to light the fuse and watch myself loose. Loose control of care to loose control of accountability to the thought that I can’t lose control of consequence and outcomes that lose perspective of what I lost in the first place because I want to lose so I have no reason to say I feel like I’m born to be anything but a loser.

Feet tap dance across some dramatics and we play those giggles across lips and smile with lips drawn across the bowstrings of our orchestra that bass bump a heartbeat and thump out the rhythm of a smile that stretches in all directions but curves like the equator across these stars set in our eyes. Twinkle. The light years it takes to travel from source to receptor leaves lifetimes for stories to unfold and be interpreted in the cosmos of our brains as they wrinkle in time.

One stroke. Infinite ripples. Concentric emanations. Centrifugal balance. Static duality. Respiration robs. Space occupied. Symbiotic destruction. Blamed exchange.

Trynna stop on a dime with an effortless imagination and it’s like feeling the beats of H.S. [marching] band while watching football games. Moths bumping against the Friday night lights and falling to the earth like expectations of childhood against the plated panes of life experience [feeding] the grass that grows over the bodies of the fallen insects. Ko Hoogkin - 20 July 2019

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Journal Entry (2016): Limahl

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Free-writing: Why do I love the taste of hate in my mouth?