7:50 - 8:10
Their words strip my nerves. I wait with little patience for the conclusive, climactic watery steam release sound of the mr. coffee who marches through toward his odious task, unassuming what it might do to my teeth or metabolism. He is archaic technology and he knows it. It is a hollow sound, a molten lava flow with clicks and taps between and silence from the kitchen. A murder of crows caw wildly at something, an airplane and its huge, resounding doppler effect crush the air like a breaker, and a car horn intermixed. Sounds of that unimaginable outside world when the blinds are closed as they are. I tell myself this traps the heat in. (at 7:55 I went for coffee and returned a minute later, to be subtracted from the time I have left in my life.)
These nerves, like channels to irrigate cloudy waters or the sun reaching branches of the great washington elm tree and cherry blossom dendrites dance in their somewhere, with a purpose, I'm sure. They have striped them, yes. With hollow thoughts echoing through canyonlands, egos that could blot out the stars, and even, for one at least, the belief that an omnipotent being created the stars out of clay. Comfort can be found in self deception if you bury it deep enough to no longer be sentient of it.
Here the constant haircuts and English prose. Here the history of the ancient streets ignored. Our descendants. If they can whisper any beautiful warnings into our sleeping ear. If the voices that interrupt our conscious thoughts can inflict truth. No, no. He believes that one day he will be rich because he is a good disciple of god. Many people in America believe this I'm sure. That bible belt must have been wrapped around their throats as children, constricting the blood vessels, starving their malleable minds from oxygen, because they grow up forced to church and sunday school and somehow never question if this belief in god is only a conditioned effect imprinted on a young, previously blank slate, mind. I'm looking at you, Descartes, when I think with fear of the thought of predestined belief in god, that you are innately born with the desire to love god.
Terrifying, right?
I saw a picture and it sprang all of this. False prophets with arms around girls and ugly, cheap smiles... Last night as I was drifting fitfully to sleep I tried to mentally imagine the layout, the blueprint, of my day today. I did this in a minor way the night before, less forced perhaps, and the day ended up beautifully productive and warm inside. I failed to remain calm last night. The thoughts that overwhelmed were of guilty stupid and petty crimes I've committed and the consequences of them, the roaming about of Arizona and a faint buzzing in the background of consciousness that tells me I'm not worthy of the experiences I've had. Nonsense. I need to justify my actions through word and song. Share what I've gathered like a caveman showing the one who created fire his bundle of dry wood.
Let the mind at ease. Rant so hatefully it might just reframe my day into something obscured by these emotions.
What about the open mic night success? Another time I guess.
