The Color Of Hunger

Posts Tagged ‘writing


S…C…E…N…T of Sharpie tickles my IMAGINATION.

My palms begin to feel…magnetic-tic-tik-tic (toc?) against this pad of paper.

(+)Positive versus (-)negative.

The pull


as reality descends.
Sweating now.

¡NO TIME! to initiate a thought process.

Bundles of recycled creativity leave me longing for more.

More of…
(…)….anything….(…)….everything….(…)….all at once….(…)

No one can touch ME.

My veins pump quick with energy, my blood a thick, rich red.
People stare yet keep to themselves.

eyes dance with FEAR
my mind is thoroughly examined.

Skin cold, lungs numb; curiosity makes the pupils twitch.
A backwards breast stroke beneath a background of brilliant blue.
∞(.I see you.)∞
But please, no need for the negatives. Touch me, feel me, but don’t be afraid.
Uniquely Different.

FUCK routine.

I am a superhero of sorts without all those superpowers.
My heart is warm; shared sympathy never bitter.

I suppose I am happy here. I suppose I belong. Bright moments contracting dull.

Life is art and I am the artist. Crouched behind that big wooden easel.

My paintbrush…






with so many colors.

So much FrEeDoM.

Mind racing (racing) with opportunity; fingers can’t keep up.

Perspiration via motivation. The cologne of accomplishment.

The paper softens as I progress. Happy mistakes litter the page now.

Along-with-hundreds-of-inches-of-leeway. Ahhh, leeway.

My brain seems…bruised…with numb surprise.

Cleverly disguised in white, I suggest, ‘Perhaps, a different wardrobe?’


Everything just sort of connects/blends/combines.

I’m left to smile at these results.

Today, I cannot STOP smiling.

All this awesomeness is making my face hurt.


=] ♣ [=


Wow. Today my blog has reached the 1,000 views milestone. This, is pretty fucking awesome considering I write about only once a month. And when I do it’s usually nonsense. Like that last sentence. And this one. And this one as well. Haha.

Hmmm, what’s new in my life? Absolutely nothing. Haha, just kidding. About a month ago I purchased my very first car. A red 1995 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. 118,500 miles. $2,300 cash.


On the 20th of August, my two best friends and I took a road trip down to Oregon to visit a friend of ours who’s gonna be a freshman this year at Portland State University. Was the funniest trip EVER.

Saturday morning, we rode the MAX down to the street markets taking place in the heart of downtown Portland. It’s rather strange how the bigger the city gets, the meaner the people become. Everybody is always in everybody else’s way. All the time. And then you got SO many different personalities. The artists, the pessimists, the shy people, the confident. It’s incredible.

There was this artist on one of the corners who drew all of her pictures with numbers. Millions of different sizes of numbers. All blended together to create one huge image. It reminded me of pixels on a TV. I can only imagine how patient/dedicated/passionate you’d hafta be to finish just ONE of her pieces. The creativity behind ’em was very inspiring.

Sunday afternoon, we headed out to Cannon Beach. I cannot describe in words how fucking awesome it is to drive the 101 in a convertible. The weather couldn’t have been better either. When we got to the beach it was low 80’s with no wind and clear skies as far as the eye could see. The sun made the humidity almost unnoticeable. The ocean was still hella cold tho. HELLA cold. But that didn’t stop us from getting in. Of course not, duh.

Halibut was dinner, salt water taffy was dessert. After the sun disappeared, we grabbed sleeping bags from the trunk and slept right on the sand. Under hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of shiny white stars. T’was amazing. You know those moments in life where time is no longer a factor and nothing troublesome exists anymore, nothing bad can happen anywhere remotely close to where you are? Hakuna matata? Well, that night was my moment. Replay it a thousand times and it STILL would be just as exciting as the first.

However, all good things must come to an end. Mr. Reality must return sometime, right? Haha. So we took a final stroll down the beach and headed home. Eastbound Spokane, 350 miles. Amen.


I stumbled inside the dinky 7-11 packing two bright yellow squirt guns as my heat. Despite the dizzy feet and double-vision that now had a hold of me, I was still functional enough to know that fate was doom at this point. However, most of my conscience had now been dissolved thanks to some cheap vodka and a nasty break-up a few hours earlier. How the hell was I supposed to know there’s a difference between the Eagles and the Falcons? They’re both birds for Christ’s sake. Maybe I got a bit carried away when I chucked that wine glass, but our Valentine’s dinner should NOT be second in line to a god damn sports broadcast. Besides, we live thousands of miles away from Canada. Who needs a Canadian football team as their favorite? Love yer own city, Barry. Traitor.

“Did you need something miss?” Judging by the cold and bitter tone behind the cash register, I apparently had gotten lost in thought again. Fuck, how long have I been standing here? Long enough. “Gimme the special of the day….and spare me the bullshit.” I revealed my tiny sidekicks, resting their triggers against my pointer fingers.

I couldn’t tell if this guy was laughing or in panic. Millions of tiny wrinkles divided his face in such a patterned way, it looked as if I could peel pieces of skin from his cheekbones and form my own little jigsaw puzzle. (Shudder, shudder.) Beneath the layers of aging epidermis, I managed to make out a toothless grin, that to this day still makes me wish God had spared me a gag reflex. He slowly lifted his veiny left hand from underneath the counter and pulled out a gun of his own. Only his was shiny and didn’t leak when you tilted it sideways. “Yer toast, bitch”, he uttered, murdering syllables as he spoke them.

Shock set in, but not so much as to paralyze. Luckily, Mom had been right about increased agility via Wii Tennis. And luckily, this time I had listened. Dodging the first shell was like being on the receiving end of a doubles match with the Williams’ sisters. With no partner. Minus a racket. Shhhhewww! (A near hit.) Wicked speed encased in stainless steel proved to be my toughest enemy yet. And I thought Barry was bad.

(To be continued….maybe….haha.)

I’ve figured out that when I write, I tend to focus on fictional stuff as compared to non-fictional stuff. I’m just better at it. (Good at making stuff up, yea Mom really wants to hear that one, haha!) For example, when I write about non-fictional stuff, I find myself ranting or complaining about something and that’s never fun. Unless it’s sprinkled with humor. That’s cool. I refer to this genre as “Bitching In Color”. Everybody’s doing it. Haha, just kidding.


I haven’t been writing much lately though, due to the fact that my laptop committed suicide via motherboard approximately two weeks ago today. I’m now forced to use the fantastic piece of dying metal in the corner of the living room better known as ‘the family computer’. This sucks some major D. I’ll list my reasons why.

1. It’s dial-up.

2. It constantly overheats and shuts itself down whenever it feels like it.

3. It’s dial-up.

4. All four people in the house use it.

5. It’s dial-up.

6. Privacy and hiding content is impossible.

7. It’s dial-up.

8. Loading video streams is like trying to skip rocks with yer weak hand.

9. It’s dial-up.

10. There’s no Itunes, only Windows Media Player. (Triple frowny face.)

11. It’s dial-up.

12. Whenever I try to install new software for it, Mom verbally attacks me, because apparently it slows the Internet down. (Good Lord.)

I went to the famous Geek Squad the other day, in hopes of reviving my other half. When they told me it’d take between $300-600 to fix the damn thing, I almost shit my pants. $300-600??? I might as well just get a brand new one with that kind of money. So then I asked the skinny guy that had first diagnosed my laptop if it’d be possible to reconnect the hard drive if I did end up going new. (This would include all my music, pictures, videos, etc.) He said he could. He also said he could plug it into any model, and that it wouldn’t have to be another Acer. This made my day a little brighter, just a little. But then he ruined it by saying it would cost me $100 to do so. Damn it.

I left Best Buy super bummed, so I walked down to Fred Meyer’s for some food and Starbucks. Food’s the best when yer down. That sentence makes me sound like a total fatass, but hey I’m just speakin’ the truth. I love eating. When other people make it for you, it’s the best, too. (I’m a total lazyass as well, don’t judge. Haha.) Anywho, along my Fred Meyer’s safari, I came across a small little computer repair shop with a thinly lit sign in front that read WKA Innovations Incorporated – “We let you love your computer again!”. Oh jeez, I thought, these guys can’t be for real. Hell, they got a parking lot with three spaces and they’re prolly not even registered with the BBB. But maybe a second opinion wouldn’t hurt. So I walked in, despite my doubts.

Looks are very deceiving, let me tell you. The minute I entered this place, I was immediately greeted with a vibrant personality coming from a woman who, just by first glance, you could tell was a tad on the smarter side. I pulled out my laptop and started telling her about how I just came from the Geek Squad and how much money they told me it would cost to fix and how there’s no way I’d be paying that. She kinda laughed and told me that the Geek Squad is prolly the most overrated group of computer fixers on the planet. She said they use their popularity as an excuse to over charge people and in turn, use that money to commercialize their services on TV. I’m not sure if this is true and I’m not saying I believe any of it, considering it’s coming from a competitor, but it sure as hell makes sense. I asked her how much it would cost me then, if I decided to leave my computer here for her company to fix. She handed me a fancy pamphlet that had one price on it.


These guys’ll fix any problem with any computer, no matter how long it takes them, for $75. And even better, they’ll give you yer money back if they can’t fix it, and won’t charge for any labor. Wowzers, what a find.

So now that I’ve got some birthday money to spare (Mom handed me 100 bucks cuz she said she can’t shop for me cuz I never like what she gets me. Which is true, and even though it’s taken her 19 years to realize it, I respect her for realizing it.), bringing my laptop to WKA Innovations Incorporated is my next big project. Sometime this week, I’ll head out there. And when I do, there shall be more writing, and more blogging, and all that good stuff. So don’t give up on me yet, I’ve just been forced to use ‘the family computer’ (shudder, shudder) these last couple of weeks. Over and out.

I’m not sure why I called in the first place. You never pick up anyways.

I wish I could have x-ray vision. But for feelings. Then I wouldn’t hafta guess anymore. I’d actually fall asleep within ten minutes of hitting the pillow. I’d actually know what to expect in return when my mind gets to those clingy and obsessed stages. Fuck I hate those stages. I never had those stages before you came into my life. I actually hafta make myself not want you, or else yer all I think about.

I feel like I’m following Hansel and Gretel. But you’ve got all the clocks in the world on pause and an unlimited supply of bread crumbs. I’ll get to a curve in the path sometimes and loose track of the trail. He’ll come back for me, I tell myself, emotions shaky, confidence shakier. (The broken is the beautiful, right love?) But you never do. I’m left to find my bearings all alone in these creepy woods. The trees are always laced with unfulfilled needs and wants. The forest constantly reeks. Strong whiffs of could-have-been’s and I-wishes get trapped in the linings of my nostrils, even when I come across the crumbs again.

My need’s dominating my want tonight. That’s never good. Potential danger is no stranger when the need overrides the want. Shit gets ugly, attachments grow stale, and most of all, desire becomes a deceiving enemy. I find myself in an epic battle with that word. Not a bloody one, just a simple scuffle. A Looney Tunes chase, per say, where nobody gets hurt and everybody goes back to normal at the end. Me versus Desire. But not vice versa.

Just give me a compass of yer sensitive side. Please? I know you have one, I’ve seen it. I crave the man I used to spend endless hours on the phone with. Not just for a quick fuck either. There was meaning behind the words we exchanged. At least I thought there was. Or am I just lost in those woods again?

When I search for yer bread crumbs, I search everywhere. Sometimes for days. Being lost is no fun, especially in those woods. I’ll get to that breaking point where nothing seems to matter much anymore and giving up is inevitable. The wildlife are protagonists, I’ve learned. They wipe my tears away with gentle paws and tilt my head up so I have no choice but to connect watery blue pupils with them. Lacking the ability to speak with their mouths, they use their eyes.

It’s amazing how silent love can be. An infinite language that the deaf can hear and the blind can see. So powerful, so distinct. I sit there for what seems like forever, locking irises with these creatures of inspiration. Until finally, they’ll bat an eyelash and force me to break my gaze. Slowly, without missing a beat, they point in unison at a tiny piece of bread underneath a fresh pile of leaves. I must have overlooked this spot before, must have walked right past it. Then they disappear among the masses of trees before I can even thank them.

I dust my knees off quickly with both hands and recover from where I left off. I suppose you’ve forgotten about me by now though. It’s been too long, I don’t blame you. And I’m sure you don’t either. But yet I continue following this twisted path. I can’t help it. I’m stuck on this endless journey of undeniable lust and blind reactions. Why won’t you come back for me? I’m so sick of following. Be by my side this time, I need a hand. A man’s hand. My man’s hand.

When people laugh and ask me what I see in you, I simply tell them “everything you don’t.” I never lack courage here, and why would I? By loving me, yer teaching me how to love myself. Love is life, and if you miss love, you miss life. And I guess it’s so incredible to me because I’ve never felt it this strongly before. I’m high without smoke, without pills. Everything I do is so enhanced and brighter with you on my mind. It sounds so fucking cliche, too. But it’s….true? Yea, true.

So this is my life. And I just want you to know that I am both happy and sad, but I’m still trying to figure out how that can be.

So, today I came across the most amazing techno/electronic/funky/sexy/crazy/amazing/beautiful/wicked/awesome song. Allow me to explain.

This Song robs me of breath. I grit my teeth without realizing I’m gritting them and find myself frantically searching for an inhaler. Even if I did have a few puffs to spare, they’d be gone before I made it past the 1-minute mark. This Song makes me dizzy, it’s so awesome. Demi Moore would divorce Ashton and remarry him again, just to have This Song played at the wedding.

My play count column has reached thirty-five for This Song within an hour of downloading it. And it’s 4+ minutes in length. (This Song makes impossible shit possible.) I wish I could create my own genre in Itunes. I would put This Song under an independent label better known to music fans as “ABSOLUTELY FUCKING AMAZING”. It would be the only song in its genre. People would buy billions. The music business would resemble a sort of Avatar-like boost in popularity, but eventually get so big that the entire movie industry would be considered ‘just a fad’. All thanks to This Song.

If This Song were a fashion model, she’d be the skinniest, most attractive model in show-biz. A healthy skinny though, as in sexy skinny and not part of a tree branch skinny. This Song’s strides would be one with her stilettos. Her legs would extend and collapse at perfect angles when on the runway. Cameramen that gathered in mobs beneath her feet would drop to their knees, surrendering helplessly to her soft, yet difficult outer beauty. ‘Maybe she was born with it’, would be the joke of the century.

I think my imagination and This Song just fell in love. It puts me in a world of blurry trance, a fantasy land with side-effects consisting of constant movement and rapid heartbeat. This Song holds me hostage to its positive vibes. The bass on it could re-invent water. The treble holds enough power to turn Obama Republican and Michael black again. AC/DC would be lucky to have This Song even consider touring the world with them, because worldwide tours are against This Song’s religion. That, along with the whole concept of having a religion to begin with.

This Song’s Myspace page would be set to private due to the amount of followers it would receive on a daily basis. It would probably freeze the Internet on a global level if it did end up switching to public. In fact, This Song puts Google to death simply by profile views. You couldn’t count how many hits it had in the  first hour of live streaming, if you combined all the hands in America and multiplied that number by twenty. (“Shit that’s a lot, maaaan”). You bet yer ass that’s a lot.

This Song is so incredibly hard to stop listening to. Just thinking about it gives me a nosebleed and causes me to forget how to spell my own name. I start to fade out from reality but come back again, solely to hear the rest of it. I’m fascinated by how many high and low parts This Song consists of. Techno music has a few here and there, but This Song is a high and lows pimp. It’s so well-written, my five senses are having a tea-party inside of my head. But instead of tea, they’ve got Starbursts and Red Bull. My tastebuds are moving with the backbone of This Song’s chorus. Like bundles of tiny red Pop Rocks, they bounce in beelines on the surface of my tongue. This Song always laughs with me when my mouth goes numb. A manly laugh too, the laugh you never seem to hear anymore; the loud and hearty chuckle uttered by a confident man who could give a rip less what people think of his cackle, sometimes even making fun of himself.

This Song could randomly walk through a fancy night club in downtown L. A. and be asked to DJ within thirty seconds of entering the place. The disc jockey would stop his music and the dance floor would go silent. “No, no, I liked what you were spinnin’. I wanna hear you spin.” This Song would go on a marathon of modesty and excuses before crossing the finish line of temptation. It couldn’t help it, music was in its blood. {Ahhh, the irony.} This Song would always end up spinning the best shit, too, never settling for a boring show. Its fingertips would caress the record in such an exotic way, it’d make you believe there was a zoo of instruments inside the vinyl itself. You just couldn’t see them. You had to feel.

The word ‘feel’ was This Song’s job. People considered it a chiropractor to their lyrical backbone, a doctor of sorts, who couldn’t tell you how to spell ”Ph. D” to save its life, but could lay down a throwback track so hardcore, that a sad, old, deaf man would drop his cane and start dancing the ”Funky Chicken” to it. Then This Song would turn Grandpa’s little walking stick into a cluster of speakers and turntables and Grandpa into a damn good DJ. The old man would mix for hours, hypnotized by the way the black record brushed gently against the soles of his skin. He would be alive again, revived by the therapy of sound. This Song would even coin a name for its treatment. It would be referred to as ’stimulation of the music muscles.’ Music memory. The art of finding one’s self between the crosshairs of a good beat and an even better baseline. Getting lost in tempos, but refusing the map. The Lewis and Clark of creativity. And boy does This Song like to be creative.

This Song would force Santa to turn anorexic with how intense its lyrics are. (Pssst, it doesn’t have any lyrics.) He would fire all his little elves for bald midgets, who whistled portions of Beatles’ songs when they worked. This Song would be their Christmas theme song, even though it had absolutely nothing to do with the holidays. It didn’t have to. The pure brilliance of its inner beauty and outer details were enough for it to replace the national anthem. The “Star Spangled Banner” would be a thing of the past and completely unheard of to younger generations.

If This Song decided to move to South Africa, its entire fanbase would move with it. Later on in life, it would write a book about the adaptation to African culture. The book would be titled “Caucasian Invasion” and would put Mark Twain to shame. It would be considered ‘too controversial’ to be sold in Walmart. When This Song heard about the boycott from Wally World, it was so frustrated that it bought the entire Walmart franchise, shut it down, fired all the workers, and opened it back up again. Only this time Wally World was a massive chain of rollerblading rinks with free admission.

People would travel from all over the world to bask in This Song’s success. Little kids considered This Song to be their idol. They wanted to be just like it. Parents would even name their children after cities This Song’s rollerblading rinks were in. It always had a way of making people smile, too. No one could understand how outstanding it made them feel, it just did. (There’s that “feel” word again.) The addiction to emotion was way too incredible to pass up. Every emotion was stimulated when listening to This Song. Sad, happy, mad, funny. You name it, This Song stimulated it. I’m not even sure if it should be called a song. The offspring of Wonder Woman and God himself would be more in the ballpark. (Or maybe Matt Bouldin; that guy’s a stud. A very attractive, tan stud.)

It’s almost intangible how talented This Song is. When it was born, it came out wearing bright green aviators and had a Puerto Rican cigar perched between its perfect apple-red lips. It weighed fifteen pounds and spoke seven different languages, primarily Italian. Over the years, This Song would loose its accent, but never its pride. Cooking up killer spaghetti and lasagna dishes for hungry rollerskaters would be its specialty. Right behind being the best tune in the history of the world. “No big deal” it would say, confidence and poise behind every word. “I can’t explain it. I guess it just runs in my blood.”

This Song =

~ “Charlotte” by Booka Shade ~

Spokane, WA. 26 years young. Aquarius, of course. I am a very optimistic individual driven by passion and creativity. Music is my inspiration to everything. I dig the nightlife. I enjoy discovering new craft beers and breweries. I like animals more than humans. The ocean is amazing. I have no idea what I wanna do with my life and prolly never will. But I'm going to succeed because I'm crazy enough to think I can.
August 2019
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