TMi

{sketch-while-wait} On Friday, while Human and I were well into our nearly 3 hour wait on the border to cross into the US, cops came around to the lot that half-way surrounds the house to collect a dead body. In case you lost count, this is dead body number 2 this year found in the lot. Human's mother was at home watching all the cops swarm in and comb the grounds. She didn't know what was going on until they asked permission to look around the 'yard' for the object that killed the man they found- a knife. Or so they said. And she watched as they wheeled the body out. The victim was a known vagrant who was often seen riding around Rosarito on a bike. I must have seen him dozens of times while walking around. They said he was stabbed to death in the lot during the dark hours- maybe 2 or 3 in the morning- If the dog trying to wake up Human's mom was an indicator of something going on outside at the particular time. None of us were disturbed by anything on that

Back before we were all bathed in glowy, glow  of  0110111101101110011001010111001100100000011000010110111001100100001000000111101001100101011100100110111101110011 we were bathed in mangled trees;  lignocellulosic fibrous material ;  paper. Hard copy.  My parents sent me a box of personal history in the mail awhile back and I have been looking through it a little bit here and there. Scraps of stories, dream diaries, poem fragments: the work unfinished. Sorting through it all in itermittent burst of curiosity prevents me from breaking down into tears. Though, I just might as well. Some items I pick up and literally throw them down because they evoke such strong memory - feeling. I browse bits of paper that record my decent into madness in my hometown, my travels in the UK and the US, my uncomfortable history in NYC... paper that reminds me of how much struggle I have gone through- right to the present. To still struggling. Plain, embarrassing evidence that I have tried to cre