8:15 -
Can't seem to motivate myself to exercise my body, through space and up hills with a motion similar to walking. If a grizzly bear was attacking me I would run without inhibition but the breathlessness and the appeals to embarrassment. My body is a singular event like a star death that atomizes entire colonies of dust and people if destroyed. A universe of blood and branches and I am poorly using it. My magnet to exercise is dulled or repulsed, not the kind of training necessary for a three week journey in the european mystery with a shrouded women... self defeating talk. I must work out my body for my mind to be in any kind of shape. If there is a disconnect between these fundamental machinations of existence then my relationship to the world that surrounds me will be hindered, disconnected, torn asunder, stretched apart, broken like bones, blasted like mountain peaks, struck down light great oaks splintered by lightning, the dreams fail when the body is an uncared for vessel. The power of mind is formidable alone but the body must be involved. Like exercise with words and schematic connections in free verse formless writing or jazz improvisation on this instrument or that, or the repetitive stress hand injuries to learn ASL in a crash course two month summer of sweaty hands....
Tequila in a iced mocha plastic container to consume on our hooves to the bus. The anger if the other person has the last sip no matter who had more to begin with. Our demons happily bury their faces in these schematic-connection inhibitions. We think profound thoughts but almost about nothing at all. That is (her) desire. To feel a clarity rarely allowed in the neurotic connections of a sober mind. There is a stronger clarity but with it erases the access to networks... reducing memories to ashes. We drank a bottle of wine and walked to look at the moon. We talked about death of animals at the tavern because they had game busts mounted on the walls, a happy little old golden with a torn ACL, a story about a grizzly bear crunching through the bones of a trainer... the story of the dog attacking the child, the child's cat attacking the dog, the dog attacking it's owners, legally apt to be put down... the pitcher was a yellow summer ale. I paid for it. The next day was the tequila day. We also went to golden gardens and went to ASL lecture together. She took my notes in French. Great meals. Fragmented images. Crying in the bar. Aggressive glances from behind quickly downed wine glasses. Silence when there should be communication. Tobacco, sex, sunglasses. Other bitternesses. Watched the sunset with margaritas (walked down from the fair. the boring fair. the mutual bad feelings. watching blow up dolls dancing on a crowd. the crowd did not seem to mind that all songs sounded the same). "Go get it." Cruelty from behind the eyes and pulsing out across space and lawns. Beer at the sunset viewpoint. Hostility and sadness. Money and booze kill us. To the grocery that only has bad connotations with us anyway. "Box wine?" Great idea! and then proceed to drink into a stupor and feel worse and worse and then sleep an ungratifying sleep without dreams because the neurons are toast.
