Sequence of Events

May 2013 - (ten months ago)  -  graduate from community college with my associates degree

June 2013 - (nine months ago)  -  receive acceptance letter into public university. Sign up for English / creative writing classes to pursue BA. Turn 25 years old.

July 2013 - (eight months ago) - receive increased student loan approval letters.
Aquire art studio. Get rid of apartment.

August 2013 - (seven months ago) - University classes start. Move into dorm on campus to pursue studying writing and begin working towards earning credentials to start pursuing career after college. Drive across state to art studio on weekends to create art and think outside the box.

September 2013 - (six months ago) - Go to classes. Some lectures are interesting and insightful, others are pointless and designed and exist only to fill time because you paid for them and your course of study requires them to exist. Most classmates are 18 years old and will never be the kind of writers they dream of being because their main interests, hobbies and passions in life involve watching crappy television shows and they will mainly lack genuine life experience until they die. Their most traumatic experience is the death of a family dog. They do not think for themselves, or outside the box, and the university is not teaching them to think outside the box, taking their money (and my money), putting us in debt, giving us no promise of careers in the future, giving us little valuable information, and promising to give us a piece of paper we can tell everyone we earned if we remain docile and keep being proponents of their system. I do not have much time to spend in my art studio, even on the weekends.

October 2013 - (five months ago) - I stay very busy on the university campus. I have many tests to take and papers to write. Tests on shallow facts I am supposed to memorize so I may forget later; Papers conformed to "neat" creative styles I am told to adopt and use. Deciding to conform to pre-conceived styles and guidelines are not my idea of a creative process. Nor is being tested on my ability to memorize and regurgitate various facts chosen by someone else. As I am expected to participate in my classes, I share my opinions and views. I open some eyes and furrow some brows. I am told I have a bad attitude. I begin to fail my classes. The few friends I have made living on campus all begin to shun me and keep distance. My teachers begin to shun me. I make it a priority I begin to spend more time at my art studio during the weekends. Soon I begin to spend time there during the week, too, writing and exploring my own creative process and studies, instead of taking tests, writing shallow papers for shallow reasons, and being shunned and ridiculed. I am absent for more and more class. I have alot of fun and I gain alot of experience. Art is created.

November 2013 - (four months ago) - I write, I paint, I record music, I edit video. I continue to study the artwork, style and creative processes of various artists, of my choosing. I am in a creative art conducive environment that I have shaped. I am asked to produce a band's first music video. The job doesn't pay, and it has only a budget of fifty dollars, but the band has a decent following and will be great learning experience as well as a potential gateway to paying jobs in the future. I spend large amounts of time racking my brain trying to figure out how to turn my art into a paying profession since the university failed to do that. I officially withdrew from my classes. And begin staying in my art studio, with no kitchen or shower, all the time.

December 2013 - (three months ago) -  Time is flying by. I'm working on several art projects. The music video shoot I agreed to produce takes alot of energy to plan, but I want it to meet its full potential to satisfy the band, the audience and myself. The video shoot goes very well, there are several hang ups, but we get past them to capture excellent, unique video in a unique venue with a great cooperative crowd. Still, no jobs are paying. The video will take two or three months for me to edit, and I will be out of money by then. I do not stress very much, hiking things will work themselves out, opportunities will present themselves and I will do my best to work well with them so I may sustain my artistic life without having to get a shitty corporate job that will wear me down and stress me out. I feel very in tune with the world around me.

January 2014 - (last month) - I start writing this blog.

February 2014 - (this month) - The end of the month is here. The power is off in my art studio as of this afternoon. I am still behind a month on the rent, and I have no money for the next month's rent due in the next couple of days. Obviously, I could have made more sound financial decisions and have avoided running into this bleak period of instability and uncertainty of what the future holds. Its stressful, and I'm not sure exactly what I'm going to do yet. After the initial shock, and beyond being able to shake the feeling of fucking up, being irresponsible and generally failing at life, a feeling of rock and roll creeps in.
Anytime I've gone shopping for music equipment, I always start by exploring the local pawn shops to marvel at their vast, cheap selection. I always try to picture the sort of musicians that hawked any random, sad looking piece of equipment on the shelf. Looking at the various articles, I wonder what sort of life these crazy musicians could be bringing them to the point where they bring their equipment to a scummy little store to sell at notoriously shameless prices. Now here I am, surveying my equipment to select what I only use intermittently and may bring in the most, little amount of money from a pawnshop to at least get my power back turned back on, while at the same time pondering how many days I may float my rent buy paying it with a rent check whose routing numbers are more than less illegible.
Bike Week is coming up very soon here in Daytona Beach, which has granted me an interesting, well-paying work opportunity I will be taking advantage of. I have also secured a small, freelance internet television broadcasting gig.
Gradually the feeling of despondency fades. Everything in life, always comes to a balance, even if sometimes its awful and taxing. Every action has an equal reaction, and even inaction is intense action, The only life that does not get to experience these qualities of life are the those led by the securely neutral lives. The backbone of society, standing solid and unswayed while we, the limbs, flail around in a mania. Opportunity is everywhere, and I will keep writing, no matter what.
One day, maybe I can find opportunity to be paid for writing.

Music & Cough Syrup

I sat in a local coffee shop a few days ago, stoned and pondering my way through the evening.

I thought:

• I should not have to submit to authority or be put in a cage every time I do something police don't like.
• Police traffic stops violate my "rightful" freedom. In the words of George Clinton: freedom is free from the need to be free.
• Nothing I have ever voted for has passed into policy. Nothing, and that is fine. The voting system here in America is ultimately corrupt.
• Fuck, I'm stoned.

I pulled my mind together, stood up, and took a look around. There were a couple of lesbians entwined on a couch next to me, feeling eachother's tongues with their own, letting out deep moans. Buried underneath them was a young man, a grin naturally stuck on his face; he was stuck in ecstatic coma. Together, the three of them make up a whiny, emotional folk music band. I would never complain about their presence, it added a nice touch to the atmosphere and makes it easier for me to relax.

As they occupied the couch, lusting on each other, I heard one of them talk about the drugs they were on. They had ingested extraordinarily large amounts of cough syrup to achieve an altered mental state. It worked. The stuff had them fucked up and out of their minds and was likely responsible for their open sexual behavior.

They, the band, had a musical performance scheduled later that night. It was to be a quick, private musical set to compete in a local battle of the bands. There was a prize for the winner, but nobody had a clue what it was.

The ladies got off the couch and tried to figure out how much time there was before they were supposed to play their show. The young man stayed on the couch, with an expression on his face like there were still a couple of hot chicks laying on top of him making out.

Four hours remained until their music performance was scheduled to begin, and it came to light the trio had not performed together in over a year and had no collaborative knowledge of what songs they would, or even could play together.

They talked needing to practice before they played in front of any large groups of people. There was a hint of frantic fear and desperation creeping into their voices, and instead of practicing, they decided it would be better to go to a bar and try to hustle a few drinks and loosen up before their show. The manager of the coffee shop said he would drive them in his car and he asked me if I would stay and watch the shop in case anyone showed up at the door. Not customers, just anyone who happened to come knock on the door. Someone said a drummer might come knocking.

I have been good friends with the manager for years, and I was accustomed to overseeing the shop in his absence.

Everyone left, and I cranked up a little Slayer on the in-house music system.

Before long, there was a strong tapping coming from the glass enterance door. I moved the piece of plywood that blocked the enterance from curious eyes that may happen to be walking down the street. On the other side of the glass, standing in the light rain and cold wind was a large, round man of his early thirties, dressed all in black. His short, stringy purple mohawk stood at attention. Through the glass, I asked him, "Who are you?"

"Lucifer!" I heard him reply.
"Wait.. What?"
He told me his name, but I still had no idea who he was or why he was doing there. Some had told me a drummer may come. I wondered if this was him.
"Do you play drums?" I asked.
"No, I don't play any instruments. I wish I could, though."  he replied.

Having always been a man full of risk and short of caution, I decided to unlock the door and welcome the man to come inside. He said one of the girls had contacted him over the internet and told him to come over. He walked several miles through the cold rain to arrive at the shop. I told him the girls had gone somewhere and I was the only one around at the moment. He didn't seem surprised they had forgotten them. 

We hung out and listened to music while making bullshit conversation, trying to kill time. We slipped into a stoned-out mental state where time had no purpose. I have no idea what this man's state of sobriety was, but he was coherent and seemed to be mostly there upstairs. That is more than I can say for many of people I encounter through my day-to-day adventure that is life. As we talked, we smoked some pot and threw any problems we had in life towards the netherworld. We waited for the shop manager to return with the band, and by the time they they arrived, it was two or three hours later. One of the girls that had been making out with the other on the couch was no longer, and the two remaining band memebers had somehow gotten even higher.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to go onto a stage," one of them said to me in passing, as they came back into the coffee shop. "People are going to look at me and I'm going to have no idea what to do." He was right, the words out of his mouth and the look on their faces led me to believe cough syrup was rotting the two strange, alternative folk singer's minds out like hungry worms of the brain.

I walked into the back to pour myself a cup of coffee. The remaining woman from the band followed me, As I filled my coffee cup, she came up behind me and grabbed my hair and pulled it. Hard. It made me lean back and put me into a submissive position. She licked my face and rubbed her crotch on my leg. She didn't ask me, she told me to give her a kiss. "No," I told her. "I'm not going to kiss you. You've got a gig in just a little while, and you've no idea what you're going to play,and yyou're fucked up in the head. Go get prepared" If I had been feeling a little more frisky or incredibly sad or disgruntled about something, I probably would have let the sado-masochist beast I keep inside of me come out and play and done some very naughty, nasty things to her. I thought instead about the woman I am currently having a lovr affair with. She is someone else's fiance, but my feelings for the woman run deep. This other woman, the crazy bandmember who was tripping balls and grinding on my leg while pulling my hair in a coffee shop couldn't hold a candle to the other woman who actually consistantly keeps my stomach full and my balls empty.
I pushed the woman off me, and there was a new person tapping on the glass door. The manager of the coffee shop went to the door and moved the plywood to see who was tapping. It was another member of the band. This one, a bulky older man. wearing a backpack, was not tripping balls like the others. He was carrying a large djembe drum, looked like a seasoned musician who was ready to play music.

He took a good look at the two bandmates standing before him, who were laughing uncontrollably. He asked me if they were on something, as if it weren't obvious. "Of course they are," I told him. He opened his backpack and pulled out a zip-lock bag filled to the top with fluffy, bright green pot. It smelled delcious, and my stomach grumbled like the smoke was somehow going to end up there instead of my lungs. Hoping to calm his tripping bandmates, he packed a bowl and passed it around. Their staged performance for battle of the bands competition was supposed to begin in less than hour.

The bowl went around, and several joints were also rolled and passed. The two who were tripping finally were calming down a little and picking up their instruments to try making some music. 

They each had a guitar, but one only had three strings, and the other had a broken neck. This led them into a chaotic fit of pacing around the room and mumbling to themselves. They were confused by everything around them. The time they had been scheduled to start playing came and went. Not long after that, however, the tripping singer/guitarist girl stopped her pacing mid-step in the middle of the floor, straightened her straightened her posture, and had some sort of moment of clarity causing her to exclaim:

"Alright! It is time for us to go!" Everyone stared at her for a second in silence, trying to figure out if she was serious or not. Someone asked her about the lack of functioning instruments,  It made her eyes go wide and it looked like she was going to have some sort of violent outburst. She took a deep breath, though and it was easy to tell she had to make a strong mental effort to keep herself orderly.

"We'll find instruments when we get there," she said.

People gathered their things and made their way outside to the cars. I picked up my skateboard and was going to avoid baring witness to the potential trainwreck that was on its way to the stage by heading back to my art studio, but it was cold, windy and raining; not good skateboard weather. I hopped in a car with the guy with the djembe drum and headed with the group to where the event was being hosted.

We arrived. Someone led each of the band members who were tripping balls by the arm through the rain. We found our way inside and there was a large stage set up in the back. There already a band on it and they were rocking out.  "Finally, you're here!" 

Someone handed one if the singer/guitarists would were out of their minds on cough syrup an entry form for the competition. She stared at it with a blank look. "I have no idea what this is,what it means, get this out now my face." She passed it off to the other one who has out of his mind. He held up in the air. The woman who was in charge of the event and judging looked at them, half unsurprised by their obvious mental state and half in annoyed disbelief. "Really?" she asked. She asked the manager of the coffee shop if he could fill it out for them. Although amazingly stoned, he was relatively sober compared to the members of the band except for the djembe player, who was somewhere else in the bar, trying to hide the fact he was associated with the group out of embarrassment of their state. 

He didn't want to perform with them in the competition for fear of soiling his name as a musician here in Daytona Beach, where word spreads quickly between bars about which bands are good and which are a joke. When the band was ushers up to the stage to play, though, he picked up his drum and followed them because he didn't want to hurt and possible chance he had screwing the female singer/guitarist later after the performance. 

I ended up filling out the entry form myself. It asked for the band name and contact information, which I filled out to the best of my ability. Where there was a space to write the "band's tagline, " I scribbled in "Worth the wait... and so much more." 

Up on stage, people working the event set up microphones for the vocals and the drums. They offered cables to plug their guitars into. The girl in the band walked up to one of the microphone stands and said over the speaks: "There are no instruments we have brought."  The woman who was hosting the event let out a deep sigh and looked like she had reached her limits and was about to kick them off stage and out of the bar. One man who had played earlier saw this and looked amused and like he wanted to see what other antics this band had to offer if they stayed on the stage. "I havea guitar you guys can use, " he piped up. "I don't know what kind of music you plan on playing, but here, give this a try." He walked up to the stage and offered them a hallow-bodieded acoustic/electric Flying-V apparently to share between the three of them.

The chick grabbed it and passed it to her fellow singer/guitarist who was sitting on stage next to her atop a bar stool tripping balls. He took it in his hand and held it in his lap like he had never held a Flying-V before. I found out later that he hadn't hadn't when he asked me "what was with that guitar and it's pointyness?"

While he sat shifting it around in his lap, trying to figure out a comfortable way to hold it, she spat out a long string of crazy psycho-babble into the microphone. 

Everyone in the bar looked a little unsettled and confused by the lack of music and the surplus of awkward vibrations coming off the stage. 

"Play some music or get off the stage!" the event manager yelled at them, sending the two with microphones into a giggling fit while the man with the djembe stared at the ground, pretending he was somewhere else and nobody could see him. The event manager rose out of her seat and began walking towards the stage to pull them off.

Suddenly, the young man holding the guitar pulled himself together and found a huge burst of energy that sent everyone in the bar to sit upright and look straight at him while he struck a musical chord on the guitar and let out a loud, harmonic, vocal wail. Now that he seemed to have everyone's attention, he looked around the room in an awkward moment, making eye contact with as many people as possible and giggling to himself under his breath. The low giggle, amplified by the microphone, rolled out the speakers across the bar and sent chills up people's spines making many shift in their seat uncomfortably, slightly disturbed. 

Suddenly he burt out into a song he had obviously played many times before. He sang with extreme emotional conviction in his voice and strummed the guitar and slid his hand up and down its neck like he was softly molesting it. The sound coming out of it said it liked being molested, though, and his voice lulled the guitar and everyone in the bar into an accepting submission. The event manager walked back and sat back in her seat at the judges table.

The music brought tears to some people's eyes as it was so emotionally charged. The man with the djembe held excellent rhythm and it tied all the music together. After four or five songs, the band manager told them to exit the stage, and someone from out group came and ushered the two of them to sit at the bar. Some people bought them drinks and tried picking them up for reasons ranging from sex to music, but they were too messed up in the head to do anything other drink, smile, laugh and nod.

It was late, still cold and raining. I rode back to the coffee shop with the djembe player to take a nap and wait for the rain to stop. The two band members came back, too. I fell asleep drifted to sleep listening to them have sex on a couch a few feet away from me, and I woke up to the female trying to forcibly remove my pants and and get her mouth wrapped around my cock. I tried to stop her, but Im only a man, and eventually I gave in. I took her shirt and came all over her little brown tits.

Everyone else was asleep, so I came back to my art studio and began writing what you have just finished reading. 

Until next time, don't do anything I wouldn't do,  and be sure to subscribe by entering your email on the rightside of the top of this page. 

Ultra Fucked (Part 3)

My landlord has indeed noticed I haven't paid the rent yet this month. I was in the middle of making a deal, trading motorcycles with a with a friend of a friend, when he found me and asked if I had any money for him. I told him I would, but it would take me a little while to catch up and square off with him. He accepted that, and I'm very grateful. I made the trade and got a new motorcycle.

Tonight I brought some friends into the art studio, and we made ourselves drunk, stoned, musical and we became motorcycle mechanical. After they were all gone, I watched ten minutes of the American State of the Union Address, which was such a sack-of-shit buzz kill. Barack Obama filled everyone's ears with misleading dribble and poppycock butt-tickling. I shut it off and opened this block. Instead of talking politics, I want to finish the story I started telling a few weeks ago so I can move on to sharing more horrible adventures in my life with you beautiful people.

Let me continue where I left trailed off of Ultra-Fucked (part 2).

I wandered around the after hours club, over by the darker corners in the back. By darker corners, I mean not only was it pitch dark, but the only people in there black. I am not racist, nor do I discriminate, profile, or judge. However, there were thirty or forty black men in the back, sitting in shadows, smoking weed with big-bootied bitches on there laps, and they only stood up to make a shot on the pool table or go sell someone drugs. I walked into the group, drunkenly sliding my feet and one of the guys if I could take a hit off of a burning marijuana blunt he was smoking, to which he replied, "Yo, you got any money?"

"Yeah, I've got money," I said, "but I'm not going to pay you cash just to take a friendly hit off your blunt. We're all just hangin out, man"

"Naw," He said. I drug my feet and moved back other direction towards the bar to get another drink. I went up to a woman that looked like a hooker, and asked if she wanted to go to the bathroom to do some blow. She got a real big smile and looked me over head to toe. It looked like she wanted to fuck me just for asking.

I went to the bathroom and she followed. I pulled out the little bag of cocaine from my pocket, tore a fresh piece of paper off my cigarette pack and made a scoop out of it. I scooped the entire contents of the bag onto the paper and with one good SNOOT it all went right up my nose.

AGH! I felt great. I turned the bag inside out and gave it a little suckle so all the miniscule remnants could numb my mouth, and I looked at this sad, haggard looking woman. She couldn't have been over thirty, but looked like she had lived sixty years of hardcore street life. "Well, that was all of it; there's no more, but I'll give you twenty bucks right now to suck my cock."

The woman looked absolutely bewildered and a little frightened. A little bit of excitement must have boiled back up into her head, though, because she looked me over once more and said "I'll do it for forty."

"No," I told her. "Twenty bucks.That's all you're getting." Her opened wide and locked into mine. She was bewildered before, but now she was just plain baffled. "Okay," she said. "Cash first." I dug out my wallet and thumbed past the couple of remaining hundreds, the fifty, and found the twenties that were left. I pulled one out and handed it to her. "Thanks," she said, and dropped to her knees, and slid her hands up my legs. They made their way to my zipper and while one pulled it down, the other dove into the opening and pulled out my cock. Her mouth opened up and it took me in like I was a bug and she was a vacuum.

It didn't take long for my blood to rush from my big head to the little one. I molested the girls face with force, and she kept taking it like I was giving her what she had been wanting and thinking about all night. Eventually, I offered her another twenty bucks to fuck her. "Fifty," she said. "Yeah, you go it, but I'm going to fuck you in the ass."

"Well..." She started saying something but I reached into my pocket to pull out my wallet and it fell on the ground. "Hand that to me I said." I watched her pick it up, fumble with it and hand it back to me. I was too drunk to focus on what she was doing. I had become... Super Loaded. When she handed it to me, I opened it up to get her money. There was only a couple twenties and a fifty left in it."I dunno how much cash you just lifted out of here, but I know you don't need any more, and you can be damn sure I'm going to fuck you in the ass now."

She dropped her pants and turned around to offer her ass to me. From there, I grabbed her hips and pulled myself into her. I wasn't in her ass, but I didn't care. It was wet and warm, and her hair was sprawling down her back for me to pull on. That's all I needed.

We got some rhythmic motion going between us, and with one hand pulling her back and neck up towards me, and one hand wrapped around her throat, I used my hips to push her into the wall. There was violence in our sex,  and I was thinking it was worth every penny. Or thousands of pennies. Tens of thousands of pennies, is what it actually was, though.

I could feel the pressure building, and I was going to explode, so I pulled out of her and pushed myself right up to her sweaty, probably slightly soiled little asshole and left a gooey mess for her to tend to on her own accord. I turned around and stuck my dick under the faucet, rinsing it off the best I could. Shoving myself back into my pants and giving her a kiss on the cheek, I tried to pull my mind together as I stepped out of the bathroom to get another drink. I was already Super Loaded, and now my rent was spread around town between various bars, strip clubs and their employees, drug dealers, hookers and this weird after hours club, leaving little in my pocket for food, booze and/or cigarettes in the coming days. I had no idea when I would get more money, my income from my art studio was, and still is, almost zero. I see why they call us "starving artists."

After that, I remember leaning against a table, laughing about god knows what with the bondsman and his big, black friend. Then, the next morning, I woke up in my hammock in the art studio. I looked around. My head felt like an egg constantly being cracked on an iron skillet. I shuffled over to a mirror and looked into it. That's when I had known, I had been Ultra Fucked.

Yes, Ultra Fucked seemed to sum the night up well. I Ultra-Fucked myself financially, I Ultra-Fucked my mind with a combination of drugs, booze, and purely self-indulgent hedonism. I had been Ultra-Fucked by a prostitute in a skeezy bathroom, and I Ultra-Fucked her right back. I had Ultra-Fucked my self respect with all of the above, and looking back, I'm perfectly alright with all of that. Sometimes, being an artist, an outlaw, an asshole, an alcoholic, you have to mix all that together, explore your weaknesses, let the beast off the chain, and Ultra-Fuck yourself to find some inspiration. I had been feeling artistically stagnant for awhile before that night, and now every time I set down to get a little creative, I have no trouble finding inspiration to write, paint, or create/record music and videos. I am Bill Nomad, and I will forever find myself Super Loaded from time to time. Hopefully, I will not Ultra-Fuck myself again for awhile, but there really is no way to be certain about what will happen in the future. I invite you to horribly indulge yourself vicariously through my twisted, helpless adventures. I don't know what end any of this may bring, but together, we shall all find out.