tim barry

could be anywhere. could be anyone.


caught the buzz about...

couldnt resist the spray of rain. a day on foot for reasons that need not see the light of day. stepped into nostalgia and looked back more than once. seeds picked up off and stored in a pocket for the remainder. yest the colors are that color but the smell, you wouldnt ever understand. its beating in your lovers chest. amplified and the color of orland in october. should i have gotten lower, maybe closer, yes but an ocean still churns and amazes. a long time ago, firsts were spent cliffside and along a silver cloud. seagulls afloat and afading into the scene. occasional pelicannal. from there i filmed that risky fuel, contemplated the beginning and lost another to planks. it feels portland out now. it smells of home. and jason molina is perfect with this. even or not this is where i wanted to be, and a little more up beat.


dust of dazed

the sun set, faster than the still lingering red dust and we could taste it. i write of this with eyes clamped shut thinking of every second spent in tennessee. i had breakfast with david deweiss and family, real grits for the first time. a bland mash of mixed up nonsense of the likes id never eat again. the tail gate dropped down hard, resting easy on rusted hinges. the catalytic converter drew a line of the past. the trucks been around and all over southside tennessee. those two gas stations might still be there but i never knew them to have gas, just inhabitants behind borded up windows with oil lamps stuck between here and there. i could picture a fire and smell the soot, feel the firetrucks wet glow a day or two later as strangers sift thru the ash of peoples belongings. some faded photographs and everything else important to no one else, diarys as bibles and the likings.  david was my cousins buddy. rancher by nature and backwoods before birth. its 1130pm there and now and im sure hes settled in somewhere settling. they had over one thousand acres when we were kids playing in the stream that ran thru their property. im sure his father, mister deweiss, left it all to him. hard works begets hard hard work. the truck was full of grain, sacks of it and needed to be unloaded before the weather lew in from the south west. its always the southwest and her name is jane. looked up, opened my eyes to see if... and no. the barn was listing, the timbers from a century ago and the farm stood tall and leaned a little in every aspect. who has time to fix these things when theres so much work to be done. summer break was never summer break and school should have ended at 6th grade for these souls because precalc never mattered when fences needed mending. your gloves or mine the snips wont work, grab the pliers and hurry up. grain off loaded and the humidity as annoying as the june bugs, the clock was beat as we kicked it in to high gear towards the river. pinnacle peak. a medium height bridge, some sorta southern rope swing and a big part of my youth.


...reads anymore.

thirteen as ever with and along to nirvana. psychotic revelry, nostalgic and one blank stare. life force. that "moon over the wild sea" bit hard and threshing. "something in the way" lost at sea apparently and all over the board. i work, i ride and i sleep. playing tangled mesmerized with letters and three times now. i think i said fugazi, i wait. there were missed situations and i caught those lookers. the followers are following us. etched a stretch and always was lookin up. code deciphered and found the elevators.  another planet and im going to have to ask you too leave. once, twice and back on terra firma tumultua. soft and concerned, leaned and the roll south was lost between all red lights silence. knew and known. 

bumps along the way and life heavy set thru hungry brown. pump sunk, steel and led but lit. wonder and amazement as upturned. "the results are always perfect, but thats old news, an injured bird"1. colibri detras de la luna and off past the setting.

i spoke with freddy in his drive way, six steps and felt.

eleven over two

1. k. cobain


fictitiousness tried to raise me better.

sunday was just that and her hair, soft and lost with leaves, fell over her shoulders and onto the extra bedroll i packed. a pillow.  a defined and drifting slight smile creeping steadily, behind some story of well lit morning eyes. so the story goes. full circle and ever bridging the gap between the points of tonights curvaceous, crescent, and western setting moon. that old pacific is cold ya know? take a dip, the waves are menacingly menacing. touch and go, bound by only the gravity that keeps it in check. once en route forever en route, forever nonlinear, forever nonnuclear. to bend the ear of old man time and see the far out. black holes eating starved blacken holes. a repertoire of reckless reconditioning. silent letters left out and up-off. the preservation of characterism. soliloquy-ily daffodil and a tightened tall careful rain fall.  packed up and thru the sands of ever. legs pressed, pock marked roads and tiny scars. the exploration of disinsinuation.


half my lifes been on the highway.
all my life ive done it my way.


ive driven all night before. the second wind, it beckons for a third and even the forth. time most absolutely flies. even now. a swung leg, clipped and bruised. got in and situated, peeled off and amazement pursued. an unknown shrouded with a decade or more and rightfully ripped back. headed up and in all directions. contort and revert. the jostle of a little pain. gussets next go 'round. figured and sandy amongst the embered footsteps of the hummingbird silently behind the moon. it crept and lit, danced a little while past sun up and disappeared somewhere beyond the beach. priorities and a decided way of being. life is joy life is pain. welcomed to wander. indefferently defended. a well groomed train of thought and ive been here before, entrenched in swamps.


to my keyboard cassanova, i too can do this dance...

grammatical airs and the such are for you. krooked and keruoac, bukowski, beavis, and butthead. fall off that high horse, come down to earth, dont bump your head, it needs no more swelling. i didnt know you followed rules, man. so tell me, is it one space or two after a period? dont your little pinkies work for the capital letters? fuck it, right? thats what i think... which is why other than this you get nothing from me, im too busy outside living and working to read your nonsense. hopefully it makes you feel better though, cause...  at least a proper address would be nice.


aloha anita and brighton bound

Contoured and in time, her hollow body fit form well next to i. The bed lie strewn amongst a corner of a room of a building I've passed a million times, a room delicate to their being, casual light with ease. That last breath, as he climbed out and over from corners soaked up by him only, a shockingly reminder of a small time apart. A heavy glance at her tight and naked body, cloaked in sheets.  twenty-seven days and counting. Reverse the weeks and start a new. A photo from day one upon a bench, some bar filled birthday. A march on the fifteenth and up against a wall. Defined a little memory, noted and cherished. A group effort, an invite to her place and a gentle decline from that old man. She peered from a window silled watch as he left illegally, begrudgingly.


to make up for the miles ive been losing.

While you was gone you must have done a lot of favors
You've got a whole lot of things I don't think
That you could ever have paid for
While you've been busy crying
About my past mistakes
I've been busy trying to make a change
I made a change
I've been riding with the ghost
I've been doing whatever he told me
I've been looking door to door to see
if there was someone who'd hold me
I never met a single one who didn't see through me
None of them could love me if they thought they might lose me
Unless I made a change
See I ain't getting better. I am only getting behind
I am standing on a crossroad trying to make up my mind
I'm trying to remember how it got so late
Why every night pain comes from a different place
Now something's got to change
I put my foot to the floor
To make up for the miles I've been losing
See I'm running out of things
I didn't even know I was using
And while you've been busy
Learning how to complain
I've been busy learning
How to make a change



from phoenix for omaha.

picture arizona winter. 03/04 and rewind another 6 months. lets put it at july of 03. at the time, and I'm trying to lose the common place terms, i was northwesterly living and anticipating a move back to the desert. that drip dry barrenesque placard of land the hopi call home. enter mark murawski. a friend thru the arizona skateworld. with a quick call to see if he had any rooms avail at his house, he even quicker said, "you can live in the backyard."  i said, if you're serious, I'm serious, that sounds amazing, and so it goes. 

somewhere dancing on early november, i was back in tempe and scrounging for wood. a couple of two by's and sheets of three quarter ply, anything to get my home built. turn down free rent? not during those days. and this reference, twice now today, as skating is my past is anew, that life as a past, anew. stepped upon a sturdy state of being. continual process and growth. f o r w a r d  m o t i o n . 

at the time, i had just spent all of my savings and maxed out a credit card on gas and gas station rations, i was broke as ever and literally scrounging for wood to build this thing.  frequenting job sites for scraps and an eye on something to go back for later that night. ed abbey would be proud. wood was lifted, stolen, borrowed, liberated and put to good use.  

with primitive tools, maybe a drill? but probably just a hammer, i constructed a four foot wide, eight foot long and five foot tall shack to live in for however long i could take it.  during the build process which was two days tops, my buddy neal stopped by the house on his way from social to visit friends and family in florida. he had just overcame a heavy alcohol binge and was starting a sober life to which this day, eleven years later, still clean and healthy. 

neal had been a part of a crew in southern california of ramp builders, construction crew, and then party animals. but he had knowledge of building structures and building them correctly, so his quick visit was much appreciated as this was before any skills that i now have with wood had developed. 

so up the walls went and then the roof. i had no idea and the reason for a pitched roof quickly made sense.  as mentioned previous, it was a quick process and i was soon left simply to fill the windowless cabin with my belongings, futon mattress and figure out how to make best use of my space. 

aaron forjan was installing cabinets for a living at the time and offered up the cabinets in the picture. i built some shelving for the foot of the bed/shack and found a mirror that went along the opposing end to visually double the size of the spot to help with that enclosed feeling i never had to begin with. the mirror made people laugh and later on, i strung christmas lights in the the tree and along the walk way to my front door. 

after some soul was set and all was figured, it started to look the part of a home. i had a little patio with wood i found behind the co-op i worked at that had ant stencils spray painted on it. i had power ran from the house so i had lights, space heater, phone charger, etc… it was about as perfect as it could be to be honest and if the situation ever came up that i needed housing like that, id be pretty prepared and ready to take on the challenge. do it again? if the situation arose, of course…

so between november and may is almost eight months which is how long i stayed there until my next northwestern excursion. i was paying my share of utilities so i could heat up water with ramen noodles in it, use the stove for grilled cheese, and shower like a human being. during this time i was working at the previously mentioned health food co-op that was later scammed into selling out and going out of business. new general manager took an amazing cooperative and sold it to developers and pocketed a healthy sum of money.  not a fan. 

i was skateboarding every single day and life was about as good as i ever thought it could get. early 20s, know it all, stuck up skateboarder, etc… so anyhow, heres my shelter for the better part of a year. i loved it thru and thru and had some of the most interesting times of my life while calling this home.  


looking for a calexico song to play along with.... i found this.

The Glowing Heart of the World

by Brian Andrew Laird

Arizona six-sixty-six, south in the early light,
Painted desert, streaks of dying night—
Copper-ribboned sands
Empty haunted lands
In the rear-view.

Heading back to the place you gave me,
The past you saved for me,
Where the San Pedro runs
Through cottonwoods
To empty canyons.

I'm going to the glowing heart of the world.

I'm wearing Johnny Ringo's boots
And Kirker's hat,
Got a headache like Mangas Coloradas
Staring out at the Willcox flats.

I'm wandering in the desert
Wishing I were old
Remembering when you were with me
At the glowing heart of the world.

I was a boy when you brought me here,
I looked up at your eyes, but saw no fear.
We waited for the storm to come
So we could smell the rain.

You said, look at this great dry and wrinkled land
Where rivers run, then run to sand —

Here is the glowing heart of the world.
This is the glowing heart of the world.

I'm driving to where I met you,
To the desert where I left you
Memories like bones, white as ash,
Sifting down into sun-bleached sand,
Becoming part
Of the glowing heart
Of the world.


drawn guitars til double lined.

woke up, believer. the sound of a caustic sea. chased shadows with warmer backs, followed footsteps. "fell into it, like a dreamer." taken from everywhere. reoccuring inspiration, mounting. some soft tune hums from below. thru the wooden floor a familiar voice backed by some strumming. tim would walk 500 miles. crept out and earlier, thru the rain and divided invisibility, tried my tired hands at handling.  the roads soaked, the truck. soaked and so on. caught a quick glimpse of summer two thousand two. eased back a few tears and kept it going. trucks are for driving, hoods are for hiding. i wish these walls to be and you were hospitable. i found these walls to be and i was honestly...

of death and the monument.

the clock struck some wandering time zone. not a single hour or even one of those wasteful and meaningless minutes. it was just calm and then fielded. felt, left, folded, it was too cold to cry. taken from everywhere. one written book, buried along with fifty thousand imaginations. to pull it out and finish the last forty pages, slap a title, and pull the trigger. good bye utter and distinct world say hello to anew.  so safely cynical down a dusted and dirty road. find then and make it last all nite.

my morning commute exists in a pair of running shoes. the scent of the lavender picked this morning. stolen and moonlit, the hike, still honest i just aint got wings. all have scribbled down destinations, all have moaned at the grace found once forgotten, gimme two steps forward. call it tomorrow, call it and theres steps being made. its fucking known. corners being turned and pages swept under the rug, pressed on like kens worth. beating down the two laner, blistering under the heat. middle day, forecasted and swing just to sway.

unearthed some past. got lucky, babe. to write of death is the beginning of that aforementioned accommodation. fill in the blank, fill in the box. a life of mash. tyrants and their tyranny. breakdown, logged and on one.

asked and fled. honest as ill ever be. no one will ask and thats okay. you know? i know.


"this might be my favorite song i ever wrote." written in 4/4 time.

"And if what you seek ain’t free then steal it
If it ain’t necessity you don’t need it" tim barry

snaked and roostered

come calling good meandering. the weight, the other spelling and leave. the cold, between toes and the snore of ever kicks one awake. definitive to sway. abosulte the solution.

bent to the river

rite of passage and a mosaic of snapshots. taken from everywhere. that last album, left and leaving. so many miles that make up amongst every memory every morning. destination bangor maine.  one nylon strung guitar. this down pour, static and hissed.