I’ve battled the mirror for many years, blind to my error.Blaming all faults on the exterior as if it were all out to get me.My perception insists that the world is eroding, I am startled at the sight of my flesh aging fifty years in five breaths.Distilled landscapes have turned Dali.

If the world melts what be of the drain?

For years, I saw no solution to the suffering. I began to look forward to the torture, reaching for the shackles. …

Dear People of Placerville,

I have never forgotten where I am from. Placerville is the first thing I mention in every bio. I wouldn’t be doing what I do today if not for the Bookery, library, and individual teachers who encouraged my writing throughout my school years. Placerville is a beautiful town, and I love hearing the stories of our locals whenever I get a coffee, oil change, or stop in at a diner. I have met some of the purest souls here. …

Perhaps their bar of choice?

Memento Mori

Memento Mori

Memento Mori

Over and over, I etch this along the tavern’s wall.

The bartender shakes his head.

“Are you on another one of your benders tonight? Whatever you do, don’t expose yourself again, I don’t have the patience for it.”

He has me mistaken for another philosopher, the poor fellow who went mad from syphilis. It seems that the creative mind or cloaked genius cannot tame its lust for the women of the night. Is it due to the ego? Is their mind too powerful for their wellbeing, releasing all control? Or can they only read…

How To Make Prison Bread in Lawless San Francisco

This portrait by Basquiat has a similar tone to that day in the city.

I’ve learned more from the sedated sages who occupy San Francisco’s sidewalks than I have from a college professor.

For the city, fall means a closeted summer. The other day a heatwave set in, and the civilians had no idea what to do with themselves. Ice coffee, smoothies, and chilled beers were sought as a justifiable defense against the sun. Everyone might as well have been naked, layers of clothes were stripped, eyes concealed by shades, camel packs and makeshift fans crucial for survival.

Apartments became holding cells of humidity. All…

A friend gifted me an eighth of shrooms as an early birthday present. Rather than scarf down the whole eighth and live hermitic in the woods, I decided to grind up the shrooms and capsulate the remains to undergo an experiment. How would the microdosing of mushrooms affect my writing and overall mood?

I planned to sort the dosages into two piles, one for microdosing and another with a higher quantity for a full-on trip. In my head, this seemed like a well thought out plan. But I did not foresee a faulty kitchen scale. A proper scale should be…

Around midnight, I climb roofs to seduce stars and smoke. I’m reminded of my existence once the lighter comes to life. Shooting stars have given up on me. I’ve wasted all my wishes on a previous sketch of her. Her eyes and face are ingrained in my memory, but now, I doubt I could pick her out of a lineup. My only remedy has been painting portraits of her. This energy must go somewhere. Each time I set into a canvas, the depictions become more demented.

Perhaps due to a lapse of faith, all the churches have turned me away…

“Got tight last night on absinthe and did knife tricks. Great success shooting the knife into the piano. The woodworms are so bad and eat hell out of all furniture that you can always claim the woodworms did it.” — Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway was an alcoholic.
I’m playing the part today.

Absinthe alone will grab hold of you, but Hem took it a step further by adding in champagne. Perhaps an attempt to seduce the green fairy. The fairy was often called the muse and depicted as petite and beautiful, but I imagine fairies are non-binary.

My first taste of…

The absinthe has decided to fight back. I’ve utilized it thus far to drown out memory; in return, it attempts to drown me. My pours do their best to filter out the poison, skin drenched with sweat, nose a constant river. Head clouded and heavy. Stones in my mind-hollow-rather than filled with revelation. Body shivers throughout the night, an attempt to exorcise these demons. Dreams bring visions of a past lover. I reach out to embrace her, only to grasp air. Paradise is polluted by my intoxication. Palm trees melt into the cobblestone- Dali like- suspended in this sinister heat.

Isle Mujeres- Mexican Island in the Caribbean Sea. Across the coast of Cancun. Population: 12,642.

Vincent’s Absinthe

July 22nd, 7:30 PM
Winston sees the speed bump too late, the golf cart takes the impact, causing us to canoe. My cup of absinthe sent to the heavens, the liquor baptizes my face. A few of the locals point and laugh at our mishap. “If you weren’t my best friend you’d be lying on the concrete right now.” The police are not as amused. …

4 AM tends to seduce the soul, instructing it to step out of the body and examine what lies beneath the bone. The city has become a recluse. Neon euphoria still shines bright, but the cabbies and nightlife enthusiasts have returned to hibernation. All that remains is the tangible totems of consumer America and sidewalk tenants.

San Francisco’s pavements have epochs etched in them, hard to see through the shit and piss that pollute a city in retrograde. Money and techno-real estate continue to amplify. The citizens are thrown together and converged into indistinguishable data. …

H. Jacob Sandigo

Documentation of a never-ending epic.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store