3:38 pm
brain rinse. there is an admittedly long walk from the brick heart of campus back to my haunted little cottage home apartment where the stench of old money is something my numb tongue never tasted before. thoughts are free to form and melt along the sun shaded trees and root-ruined bike path with the bells to signify an approach, a close brush with tires and the horn of a backing up truck, the eyes of a French teacher checking our eyes for dots or punctuation or the roaming peripheries. But why worry about visible cheating when no one is certain the knowledge of anyone else. It is not a test of individual knowledge, rather one of stealth and quick snap judgment that allows the cheater to stereotype all and picked out the best. It is genius selection. Knowing based on intuition the criminal-looking fellow in the police line up. However smiling. Remember childhood experiences. Musical chairs and the hilarious republican prospect of allowing teachers to have guns. I am trying to imagine my dear little old middle school teachers packing heat and everyone feeling safer as opposed to horrified that those who discipline the trouble makers have a gun rack next to the coat rack next to the mommy packed lunch table and the finger paints.
Lost it.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Through an infinite tube- the echoes of collateral voices, of cancer and guttural insanity, of an old lady's distrust of gay pride, to the sleepy and silent bus ride through tunnels and over bridges and up the street, the city lights reflecting like constellations on the black glass lake water, black silhouettes of trees against a lighter shaded sky, passing in the hills in the distance, a few miles wide water, navigate through the clouds, the rain of a crying goddess. the plants and breaths and live all surrounded here within and the junk piled up, the extraction and subsequent total exhaustion this morning... move on. ...
Saturday, June 28, 2014
jun de vingt-huit, 1am
1 am
jun de vingt-huit
those dandelion eyes were melted wax and the introductions mattered as much as her comfort level when the water drinks were poured out and I met with her insults and condescending eyes. Jazz rhythm belt out chords to settle the score induced by a crazy bar tab when the beer was local but the booking agency was third party. Probably India or California.
"We don't need our heads because our bodies are young."
when the whiskey ginger poured out on her lap the eyes went blank and the comments became a depressed force like implosion or gravity or concealing... those counseling hours spent making bricolage paintings with spare body parts and the magazine cut out fiction and the finger paints neglected radically and the chalk outline around the bed and the feeling of helplessness that pervades everything and the negativity that serves drinks to sleepless nights- coffee or english breakfast or the motorcade jambalaya southern drawl stereotype destroyed by a philosophy professor with said drawl and testing, meaningfully, the stereotypes of tiny little kinds, not so much white fake generosity when the money is constant and the drunkenness pervasive. Can I have time with you... my intelligent graduate student friends? Or is my life too far removed from your tiny world of concerns that may as well encompass the entirety of your comprehension of the universe. It ends one day with a sad smile and no one ever cared.
do you ever think about your tragic death. mortality is a heat seeking missile. our fates our lined up with time if we are careful, otherwise we can throw in the twenty year curve ball of smoking copious cigarettes or the alcohol abuse that dilutes the mind to heart race mornings of hangover.. death-like crawls and a disregard for the wasted youth to hold high majesty the popular youth in which we oohed and in awe until the morning light at five took us out from horrifying dreams of persecution and then of death or betrayal or worse. When the bicycle tires flatten. When the view is so bittersweet that the viewer sits and waits for the eyes to take in anything else, however myopic. the paintings wonderful. the jazz in tempo with my heart. the jazz in tempe with my old brethren. the jazz in blues with my old guitar compadre. the civil wars we used to spark up between our instruments when the smoke exhaled and the dream expanded around both of our heads at once and the humanitarian views of life and love.. and the end scorn promise of above or below life and certainly only below life... imagine graves.. catacombs... we are useless if not already dead.
moment of death shocked me into a paralyzed awe. the sadness expands but not from my own tragic source. rather from my famille triste and the concerning letters of reprimand and the paintings forgotten and the confusion settles heavy over her brow and no one knows how to deal with her multi stroke name forgetting. imagine your own mother losing her wits. imagine your sister forgetting your role in her life. imagine the scenario unwritten that your friends had witnessed. those were hours spent in ridiculous departure from reality. the reality I can never quite exit. my doppleganger. there was never an exit route when the tsunami came as such a surprise that the seaside town could only passively board up windows before full destruction.
if only, if only I had nothing more to say
I stopped in my tracks at the thought of mortality. Terrified or petrified or both. Nonexistence is impossible to tell. What I've said recently has been extremely depressing... says someone close. No one else is close as I drown so succinct in the pit of absinthe dreams and collateral suicide. The most beautiful suicide crushed down into a limousine off the empire state building like an angel at rest having falling and napped out of heaven. Try to change the attitude. It returns. Evelyn mchale still falls to her fateful death into the far below limousine. an attractive girl and the idea of ideation. what that truly means. for me today this spark was like a horror story of future death. inevitable. it was the looming nonexistence and the subsequent forgetting of all stood for when the world implodes and the novel to be written that enters the space capsule for other martian generations one day. I believe in math. Send my writings out to the ether with space ships that no longer send signal back to earth. the mystery of receipt still remains. is anyone out there at all?
jun de vingt-huit
those dandelion eyes were melted wax and the introductions mattered as much as her comfort level when the water drinks were poured out and I met with her insults and condescending eyes. Jazz rhythm belt out chords to settle the score induced by a crazy bar tab when the beer was local but the booking agency was third party. Probably India or California.
"We don't need our heads because our bodies are young."
when the whiskey ginger poured out on her lap the eyes went blank and the comments became a depressed force like implosion or gravity or concealing... those counseling hours spent making bricolage paintings with spare body parts and the magazine cut out fiction and the finger paints neglected radically and the chalk outline around the bed and the feeling of helplessness that pervades everything and the negativity that serves drinks to sleepless nights- coffee or english breakfast or the motorcade jambalaya southern drawl stereotype destroyed by a philosophy professor with said drawl and testing, meaningfully, the stereotypes of tiny little kinds, not so much white fake generosity when the money is constant and the drunkenness pervasive. Can I have time with you... my intelligent graduate student friends? Or is my life too far removed from your tiny world of concerns that may as well encompass the entirety of your comprehension of the universe. It ends one day with a sad smile and no one ever cared.
do you ever think about your tragic death. mortality is a heat seeking missile. our fates our lined up with time if we are careful, otherwise we can throw in the twenty year curve ball of smoking copious cigarettes or the alcohol abuse that dilutes the mind to heart race mornings of hangover.. death-like crawls and a disregard for the wasted youth to hold high majesty the popular youth in which we oohed and in awe until the morning light at five took us out from horrifying dreams of persecution and then of death or betrayal or worse. When the bicycle tires flatten. When the view is so bittersweet that the viewer sits and waits for the eyes to take in anything else, however myopic. the paintings wonderful. the jazz in tempo with my heart. the jazz in tempe with my old brethren. the jazz in blues with my old guitar compadre. the civil wars we used to spark up between our instruments when the smoke exhaled and the dream expanded around both of our heads at once and the humanitarian views of life and love.. and the end scorn promise of above or below life and certainly only below life... imagine graves.. catacombs... we are useless if not already dead.
moment of death shocked me into a paralyzed awe. the sadness expands but not from my own tragic source. rather from my famille triste and the concerning letters of reprimand and the paintings forgotten and the confusion settles heavy over her brow and no one knows how to deal with her multi stroke name forgetting. imagine your own mother losing her wits. imagine your sister forgetting your role in her life. imagine the scenario unwritten that your friends had witnessed. those were hours spent in ridiculous departure from reality. the reality I can never quite exit. my doppleganger. there was never an exit route when the tsunami came as such a surprise that the seaside town could only passively board up windows before full destruction.
if only, if only I had nothing more to say
I stopped in my tracks at the thought of mortality. Terrified or petrified or both. Nonexistence is impossible to tell. What I've said recently has been extremely depressing... says someone close. No one else is close as I drown so succinct in the pit of absinthe dreams and collateral suicide. The most beautiful suicide crushed down into a limousine off the empire state building like an angel at rest having falling and napped out of heaven. Try to change the attitude. It returns. Evelyn mchale still falls to her fateful death into the far below limousine. an attractive girl and the idea of ideation. what that truly means. for me today this spark was like a horror story of future death. inevitable. it was the looming nonexistence and the subsequent forgetting of all stood for when the world implodes and the novel to be written that enters the space capsule for other martian generations one day. I believe in math. Send my writings out to the ether with space ships that no longer send signal back to earth. the mystery of receipt still remains. is anyone out there at all?
Friday, June 27, 2014
June 27
Daylight spent conjugating french verbs and listening to soft voices whispering over the tops of these sailing songs or soaring high escalators and wondering what I said and what the others heard and who may have been hiding behind the doors of the casket. The catacombs of bar districts with networks of neon signs and a discomfort and inarticulate description of the world when it is overpowering in its enormity and proud stoicism. human nature more a stunned silence went rippling through the waves until lapped up on shore with fragments of eliots poetry and emerson's short stories when in the unrecyclable days of an arizona childbirth and the sun swept streets and the mild cold weather with rain and the hours too early for my head to wrap itself around the important details of what must be done and I have 10 hours to complete my tasks and I wonder if I can without losing my mind and the fever child will fly through another fever dream and the tentacles of sleep grasp at my girlfriend until we no longer get circadian and get post afternoon when the light bulb does not fit and the posters are poorly fitted to the walls in general when plaster melts like old paint and the foundation however connected falls into the mud below. the sink hole. the cave system. the museum of the dead.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. Positioned center in the room with bookshelf at one end and reduced purpose as a collective seating arrangement. There is a random tangle of led-lights shaped like reign beau stars overhead. The high pale white ceilings are rounded at the edges like a dome. my elbows rest on a deep stained mahogany glass top thin table which contains my lightning round summer course books and my calendar and the insane lullaby of an impending Europe trip that is now booked with hostels and hotels and campsites and all of the camping plans disintegrated into a cost fallacy when the canals and rivers and bicycles would not allow for us to comfortably carry all of the weight. (acquire a bicycle and get comfortable before going.) sip of coffee. taste of vitamin c gummy mints. blinds are inexplicably closed. daylight begins at 5 these days. art pieces from friends family myself or magazines spatter the white stucco walls. the carpet is beige. dream catcher. globe. hand woven lap blanket. jazz rhythmist. old shoes run dry through the ancient wash. I broke his heirloom drumsticks because I played too loud to be any good.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. Positioned center in the room with bookshelf at one end and reduced purpose as a collective seating arrangement. There is a random tangle of led-lights shaped like reign beau stars overhead. The high pale white ceilings are rounded at the edges like a dome. my elbows rest on a deep stained mahogany glass top thin table which contains my lightning round summer course books and my calendar and the insane lullaby of an impending Europe trip that is now booked with hostels and hotels and campsites and all of the camping plans disintegrated into a cost fallacy when the canals and rivers and bicycles would not allow for us to comfortably carry all of the weight. (acquire a bicycle and get comfortable before going.) sip of coffee. taste of vitamin c gummy mints. blinds are inexplicably closed. daylight begins at 5 these days. art pieces from friends family myself or magazines spatter the white stucco walls. the carpet is beige. dream catcher. globe. hand woven lap blanket. jazz rhythmist. old shoes run dry through the ancient wash. I broke his heirloom drumsticks because I played too loud to be any good.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
june 26
I would sleep through the war if I climbed back into bed with her. The shape does not move. Frozen clock. Split the country and find the cold coffee heralded in through balcony wine nights with reflective views of cross street buildings and an every day relationship forming with the classmates of summer the summer warriors and the minds all eager to soak up these days with a fervor. Rearrange furniture to keep balance between wild Dionysian desires and the rigidity of Apollo. Slow drag of the sun across the sky. The consistent nickname ruins hope for change. "they call me consistent apollo." That works for a modern world of cogs and wheels of human machinery and cooperation.
My dreams accused me of horrible things. I heard voices of disappeared friends echo all around me like sword stabs at my back from most directions. All but direct. I woke up with the sunrise. Again with the alarm. Again with the trial and execution of my self and my relationship held up to their eyes for awful scrutiny and the arizona sun kills herself when night comes and comes and never goes. it stays in our hearts when the dust spools up again.
Accused of wasted time and promiscuity. Feel the filth of failure fold me.
Otherwise. Dreams lingering in the corners of my eyes and haunted shallow. I am waking up from the fourth and last identically scheduled day of the week. For this morning I began to write a ballad poem about the eruption of mt st helens and the man who lived at the lodge up there who refused to evacuate. he spent so much time in the majesty of the mountain that he felt his soul had fused with it. to leave her wilderness would be death. so he resigned himself to let her consume him with her fiery breath. as for a third person outside perspective I imagined mt rainier watching the events take place.
Lexique le france.
additionally.... I imagine neighbors at my parents house taking down trees and opening up a view of mt constance and then that afternoon watching it erupt and explode although not a known active volcano.
maybe that is ideal firework view from above fox island.
recall the parking lots of the last two years and shiver inside.
My dreams accused me of horrible things. I heard voices of disappeared friends echo all around me like sword stabs at my back from most directions. All but direct. I woke up with the sunrise. Again with the alarm. Again with the trial and execution of my self and my relationship held up to their eyes for awful scrutiny and the arizona sun kills herself when night comes and comes and never goes. it stays in our hearts when the dust spools up again.
Accused of wasted time and promiscuity. Feel the filth of failure fold me.
Otherwise. Dreams lingering in the corners of my eyes and haunted shallow. I am waking up from the fourth and last identically scheduled day of the week. For this morning I began to write a ballad poem about the eruption of mt st helens and the man who lived at the lodge up there who refused to evacuate. he spent so much time in the majesty of the mountain that he felt his soul had fused with it. to leave her wilderness would be death. so he resigned himself to let her consume him with her fiery breath. as for a third person outside perspective I imagined mt rainier watching the events take place.
Lexique le france.
additionally.... I imagine neighbors at my parents house taking down trees and opening up a view of mt constance and then that afternoon watching it erupt and explode although not a known active volcano.
maybe that is ideal firework view from above fox island.
recall the parking lots of the last two years and shiver inside.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
june 25
the miserable french language and her mafia cousins haunted my dreams. the poetry came out as prose and the self identification section represents a greater lean toward prosody in chunks of logical lay out and poetry in gaping blank space formula. you have to carefully pick your words and you do so quickly. lexicon is large for the poems but rather choked lexique in france where the wine and castles spiral up out of the vosges and jura mountains, the water shining and glimmering fair along the coastlines outside the grape wrath reach. It is a pipe dream mystery.
I am taking summer courses for the first time in my life. Aside from Berklee School of Music songwriting classes. Both in Boston for a week and online in the comfort of the purple luxury chair in the open ended 'computer room' before the invention of the lap top invaded my life and my music and my writing. These songwriting classes sparked and stifled my creative energy and I did not participate gleefully. I wanted to break through borders without knowing where they stood. The Germans called the mountains a natural border but the French said it was the river. They pushed and pulled until both influences scatter the landscape and a unique Alsace culture is born between two mothers.
Poetry, with the summer time lisp knee surgery limp hairless professor who loves form and dances in the rhythmic blues of the perfect meter. I must learn the rules to know how to deliberately break them. Such is learning about creativity in a classroom across the board. There are rules to follow and follow and then, left alone at night in your room, you can push out from them and explore uncharted terrain or foreign maps of countries, or short stories about a disappearing fisherman, or the frozen lake and melts in an instant and leaves a gaping void. The stories could become a novel. The novel makes no money. The environment still suffers. World ends. Leave out words. Taste aperitif. Assume the exaggerated accent so then the language begins to feel more natural and comfortable when using it in a non-academic setting.
did you count your words
does your lexicon glower
I am taking summer courses for the first time in my life. Aside from Berklee School of Music songwriting classes. Both in Boston for a week and online in the comfort of the purple luxury chair in the open ended 'computer room' before the invention of the lap top invaded my life and my music and my writing. These songwriting classes sparked and stifled my creative energy and I did not participate gleefully. I wanted to break through borders without knowing where they stood. The Germans called the mountains a natural border but the French said it was the river. They pushed and pulled until both influences scatter the landscape and a unique Alsace culture is born between two mothers.
Poetry, with the summer time lisp knee surgery limp hairless professor who loves form and dances in the rhythmic blues of the perfect meter. I must learn the rules to know how to deliberately break them. Such is learning about creativity in a classroom across the board. There are rules to follow and follow and then, left alone at night in your room, you can push out from them and explore uncharted terrain or foreign maps of countries, or short stories about a disappearing fisherman, or the frozen lake and melts in an instant and leaves a gaping void. The stories could become a novel. The novel makes no money. The environment still suffers. World ends. Leave out words. Taste aperitif. Assume the exaggerated accent so then the language begins to feel more natural and comfortable when using it in a non-academic setting.
did you count your words
does your lexicon glower
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
fever
The moon is buried behind red clouds like a flashlight beam through thick smoke in a burning house. Sure, I could use this time to rest and allow my nausea to cool off with a hot plate hiss. Must be the bile of my memories coming back up to me from my indigestive bank in the gut in the center of it all. Oh Leonora, do you see the red sky night when the moon hides? Gaps of black space look like islands in a pink lake with the moon playing itself as backdrop like a keyhole image for every page of an art book, used creatively for different representations each time. a little hole punch piercing for that new nose of yours. oh calabasas library and your columns, do you know my reverie? ask the reference desk for 'fever dreams' and 'existentialism' and also 'vonnegut' and maybe the remedy can shake up these disconnects and let me live on without the weight and eye-pressure of fevers, of fevers. delirium, mother, I talked to you in a gasping angered asp voice for no reasons other than I heard myself shift into complaint and lodged in my throat was the inability to claim anything beautiful or appropriate and the conversation turned sour so fast that I couldn't even try to keep up with the better parts of it because I erased them all with blank india ink. oh roscoe street, apache boulevard and palm walk, oh vista del sol, the rebibo household and the montessori, the grassy park and the hills up into smoggy viewpoints, up mulholland drive, and broadway, yes and 6th, the spices of life hide inside the addresses we visit enough times to make them memorable, the outdoor patio and the new fence, I helped smash a tv, longboard down E Broadway... past the field of dreams which happens to be Daley Park near the orange trees and the train tracks. down to mckenny behind the pizza hut. across from the park and the other nonsense. my head is full of it tonight. no source of hope just invariable impressions and a consciousness tired and angry with itself because the fever, yes, mustn't forget the fever. the fever of maps and of addresses and books of them just for the self and the postal codes forgotten always and the zip, the car insurance, the road worn tires and the driven blocks of insanity and the girl fallen in love with at the reception desk and the homework accomplished in the waiting room and the tan booth the tanbark the missile sole the name tag, the natalie, the ashley, the christina, who knows what is what on their, those hieroglyphs that change last names suddenly as if in an overnight flash and no i am not well adjusted these memories are dead and so are the people probably it is a life i cannot reclaim and the traumatic experience of my life is an inability to reconcile all of these experiences within myself. they are too many. i am crushed by it. they define me but what about the present tense. is nothing about the red clouds interesting any more? yes. the moon is completely buried. just a blank red sheet remains. some bottom lit silhouettes of trees and nothing else. just sadness for time lost and the face i had when i was 19. all gone in a single flash. sleep, sure, feverish sleep is the best medicine, uh huh, the absolute best when your sleep levels are low, yearn, yeah, that is when that reality embyro really bursts itself into fruition and okay, sure, doctor vesuvius, I'm sure you've seen it all but my case, my case, my case (the moon peaks out for a brief entanda and then goodbye entendre) hey the words are just as sporadic as before when i would come home high from musical exercise and die a little listening to upstairs neighbors have sex and the general silliness of all noises and all sensations all tan lines all hysterics and here is no different nearly the same the engendered differences and the lack of harmony and consonance all are lost and lost and lost and no one matters anymore it is a farce to imagine lasting friendships when all is bleak and senseless and irrevocably changing and gregarious i am not and can't be unless forced so rudely. who was i in arizona that i no longer am. who did california turn me into that i must fight with to work through into a better context. in az i desired to enter all night life clubs and bars and meet the friends. the lasting friendships. horse ass. horse ass. there are always pipe dreams. i don't think i have any anymore.
june 10
I fell asleep and woke up with double vision. A bleary eyed and headache inducing dizziness and a lethargy that could make a happy whale beach itself. What source is this? I'm not sure. I listen to music and the faint buzzing of my periphery and feel as though I might implode. Maybe my reaction to a great pressure is one of frail defeat and I fall into myself without regards to the ground or the clouds or the pain of the neck and the spine readjusted and the delirious tremens triggering their synapses reminders that the soma must be introduced to the system or else it all falls apart like a hot air balloon caught on fire, is this a meditative calm or a horrible indifference and what if a combination of both. Oh yes I have a cumulative exam this afternoon (in two hours or so) and I am not concerned about it. I have a 7 page intertextual analysis paper due tomorrow evening and I am not concerned about it. If this nausea and general disease prevent me from high performance, there is no excusing.
These words act a testament to the mind that controlled the results of these assignments. Tonight I draft. What do I do right now? Prevent the sickness from taking complete control of my sensations. Probably best to go outside and walk it off. This is no joke. It is a sensation of consistent vertigo paired with a bile-burning feeling in my throat. There is pressure behind my eyes and within them. I feel out of body. This is the best way to describe a perpetually haunted feeling I've had recently. I feel as though I'm hovering over myself looking down disapproving of my actions. Like a soul departed from a body too soon. The body is not dead. On both planes of existence, a somnambulant plateau, the eternal bridge crossing but the death of the world wouldn't reunite these personalities. A body without a compass. The soul seen in glimpses in the clouds as the consciousness zooms in between the two during each blink. Maybe I feel the pull of the earth. Gravity is hurting my eyes and I move slowly because my earth-legs have not yet developed. The sea of sea legs and the arms of sky arms and the lips of earth lips and the teeth of tree teeth. Cavernous depths of the psyche when taxed and stretched over the openings. the horror of poor executed attempts at success-given opportunity. feel the burn in the eyes and the ears and the teeth clack together. wonder what this is all about. why must it be today, if some virus has taken my body... give it a few days! please!
These words act a testament to the mind that controlled the results of these assignments. Tonight I draft. What do I do right now? Prevent the sickness from taking complete control of my sensations. Probably best to go outside and walk it off. This is no joke. It is a sensation of consistent vertigo paired with a bile-burning feeling in my throat. There is pressure behind my eyes and within them. I feel out of body. This is the best way to describe a perpetually haunted feeling I've had recently. I feel as though I'm hovering over myself looking down disapproving of my actions. Like a soul departed from a body too soon. The body is not dead. On both planes of existence, a somnambulant plateau, the eternal bridge crossing but the death of the world wouldn't reunite these personalities. A body without a compass. The soul seen in glimpses in the clouds as the consciousness zooms in between the two during each blink. Maybe I feel the pull of the earth. Gravity is hurting my eyes and I move slowly because my earth-legs have not yet developed. The sea of sea legs and the arms of sky arms and the lips of earth lips and the teeth of tree teeth. Cavernous depths of the psyche when taxed and stretched over the openings. the horror of poor executed attempts at success-given opportunity. feel the burn in the eyes and the ears and the teeth clack together. wonder what this is all about. why must it be today, if some virus has taken my body... give it a few days! please!
Saturday, June 7, 2014
2:40 am
What does it say of a thirsty young man to avoid bar scene with miles walking and to go back and drink chlorinated water and a big lonely apartment in the suburbia quiet of a well rested and time tested tomb a loud and chloroformed status of quiet contentment when the locus of control is faded out into a vague mystery of forgotten quiet and the memories all wink at one and other with intent to start a new kind of poetic motif when the canopy collapses and the groundwater wells up and the shrieking reaches a decibel higher than human ears can hear so we can ignore. We can so dutifully ignore and fall through until the end of time when that happens and the antique clocks with the clock master insignia fall through our eyes like placid comets melting before even reaching our atmosphere and then breaking up like constant strains of ridiculed contentious claims of well being. I am nauseous and I can barely hold it together. This is the result of throat pain and amazing music and wild well being as a mask. as a mask. a dull mask!
Thursday, June 5, 2014
june 5th
June 5th - 4:20 pm
I woke up as a burning pine tree and each little leaf is a day or a second and eventually I will collapse into embers and ashes... maybe a phoenix or a redwood will rise out of my demise. These thoughts are whatever. They matter less than cleaning your car once a week.
I tried to walk with the perception of a philosopher. Away from those unique people... "I'll probably never see you again." Well, yeah. Why not be happily absent to that idea of full disconnection. Then I realize it is absolutely my own problem. Another group of people who could form into decent relations disappeared because I don't know how the hell to feed social conscious. I die a little when I walk away from any conversation. How could it have gone worse? Well. Not the point. The point is larger. Narrow social settings do not matter. How does one cope with such transient friends who like similar things and study with a great fervor and speak in riddles and tongues and use uncommon words and probably play music on the side and aren't graduating and I have no parties to attend, what in hell have I done with my time and how can I break this ridiculous spell, what is the secret to a less somber isolation? Contrast probably. When I want to get away to have the ability to. I get away when I really shouldn't and everything burns down like a funeral pyre of social intention.
Miserable. With my 3.7 on an exam I thought I bombed. Why not happy and exceptional and say sorrowful goodbyes and then I found the clique again and disappeared into the fold without room to breathe and god damn it all was great fun and I am worse for the where. The what. What is it?
I woke up as a burning pine tree and each little leaf is a day or a second and eventually I will collapse into embers and ashes... maybe a phoenix or a redwood will rise out of my demise. These thoughts are whatever. They matter less than cleaning your car once a week.
I tried to walk with the perception of a philosopher. Away from those unique people... "I'll probably never see you again." Well, yeah. Why not be happily absent to that idea of full disconnection. Then I realize it is absolutely my own problem. Another group of people who could form into decent relations disappeared because I don't know how the hell to feed social conscious. I die a little when I walk away from any conversation. How could it have gone worse? Well. Not the point. The point is larger. Narrow social settings do not matter. How does one cope with such transient friends who like similar things and study with a great fervor and speak in riddles and tongues and use uncommon words and probably play music on the side and aren't graduating and I have no parties to attend, what in hell have I done with my time and how can I break this ridiculous spell, what is the secret to a less somber isolation? Contrast probably. When I want to get away to have the ability to. I get away when I really shouldn't and everything burns down like a funeral pyre of social intention.
Miserable. With my 3.7 on an exam I thought I bombed. Why not happy and exceptional and say sorrowful goodbyes and then I found the clique again and disappeared into the fold without room to breathe and god damn it all was great fun and I am worse for the where. The what. What is it?
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
June 4th
I've shunned sleep like a friend I am avoiding. Perhaps I cheated on her with day. That nap in the afternoon. Night-sleep upsets herself with me and tossing me out into the day without much energy to perform surgeries or diagnostics or trampoline tricks- the bridge is crossed by only kindred spirits and I hear them rustling about in their tomb cottages making floorboards creak as if they had anything more than celestial, transitory weight. Alyson, though. Why didn't I ask you about your life? This space is huge and ridiculous and expensive. My body is numb. I walked away from the theory examination with a dull roar in my head. One of insecurity and disbelief. Allison. How did you do on your test? Shouldn't we have talked about something else? Dual citizenship. Asian-American. How is your existence? What do you like to do when this is over? Can we be friends, get coffee, lunch, laugh a hundred times, share music, consider the following, cancel magazine subscriptions, share gum, stumble listlessly across the dark planks of a dock party well spent and then our drunk friends carol us back never knowing we knew they did not know what we knew.
It is an illusion. She walked off to her vigilant feminism and her artistry. I walked into a cloud and floated around for awhile. An out of body experience, so pointless, barely hanging on to the atmosphere, the tug of outer space was felt and I could have melted away for eons before returning. What if they found my body on campus. Not dead. Just vacant minded and melting into outer space. What medical miracle could resuscitate such evacuated consciousness and then when my eyes connected with theirs could I transfer information as adequately as words are tossed through the air, caught in the teeth of a fetching dog, the ears of a friend, the mild voiced and restless tired soul of the stomping soldier- the mine field and the ballroom dancing. The volcano eruption and the alpine picnic. The tsunami and the stand up paddle board. Does it all also melt into the whirlpool for you? When this feels like insanity and never waking up is a genuine threat after some heavier meals how can social relationships, Alison, be difficult, be worthwhile, be real, golden, sparkling, active, outdoorsy type, haunting... Then with you Laura, just as well. Ph.D and the snow shoe kayaking weekend. The dragon in the sky at gas works. Lake Leena. Lower. the Calanque along the Mediterranean. Et. al. It is a wild experience to find my own life disappearing so strangely. Time is a bandit and stolen moments caused by a faulty wired mind create these voids and these lulls in my demeanor not to be filled out easily by new information. It is a suction and a forgetting of urgency.
It is an illusion. She walked off to her vigilant feminism and her artistry. I walked into a cloud and floated around for awhile. An out of body experience, so pointless, barely hanging on to the atmosphere, the tug of outer space was felt and I could have melted away for eons before returning. What if they found my body on campus. Not dead. Just vacant minded and melting into outer space. What medical miracle could resuscitate such evacuated consciousness and then when my eyes connected with theirs could I transfer information as adequately as words are tossed through the air, caught in the teeth of a fetching dog, the ears of a friend, the mild voiced and restless tired soul of the stomping soldier- the mine field and the ballroom dancing. The volcano eruption and the alpine picnic. The tsunami and the stand up paddle board. Does it all also melt into the whirlpool for you? When this feels like insanity and never waking up is a genuine threat after some heavier meals how can social relationships, Alison, be difficult, be worthwhile, be real, golden, sparkling, active, outdoorsy type, haunting... Then with you Laura, just as well. Ph.D and the snow shoe kayaking weekend. The dragon in the sky at gas works. Lake Leena. Lower. the Calanque along the Mediterranean. Et. al. It is a wild experience to find my own life disappearing so strangely. Time is a bandit and stolen moments caused by a faulty wired mind create these voids and these lulls in my demeanor not to be filled out easily by new information. It is a suction and a forgetting of urgency.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
june 3
9:57 am
Slumber stays in the corners of my eyes like an anchor weight, a ship pulled down into depths, the chain tangled up in tentacles, and my mind is drowning in a daze unlike one I have felt in awhile. To wake up utterly asleep and to expect to function and to succeed on an exam and to begin writing two essays and to feel okay through the whole thing like I don't need caffeine as a crutch this kind of depraved morning. Insomnia has haunted me as a physical presence for a number of nights. I should exorcize and survive.
This quarter = a time warp. I burrowed through a tunnel into the future with my gnashing teeth and torn up fingernails. Somehow, oh god, I'm about done with a second quarter among a few dollars worth. Am I any more educated? Or does this all amount to a deeper debt and a more profound confusion because my stripes are revealed... I cannot stay hidden and write in the shadows of other pretense, oh music sure, but what are their motivations? What is the driving force behind them, fear? Now when I must succeed with the brightest flying colors imaginable I wake up sleepily, fail to dream happily during the night or day, crumble into myself like a canvas painting suddenly removed of its wind perhaps by a hurricane wind, or a monsoon, or a dust storm, or a typhoon, or lightning, or thunder in the rumbling distance, but then it shakes the house and is it a sonic boom from a jet or an earthquake or an epiphany?
Under the microscope. My own heart pulsing and pumping fluids out into the sea. Somehow I must reconcile. I must move forward with a skeleton smile. If my skin dissolved. I would be smiling without choice.
I wonder my passions and if my distractions are always so big and prosaic and transient that I will forever be forbidden from a raw creation of any of my ideal visions. What I need are artistic friends who push boundaries and talk about interesting things. I have them in the periphery. Inspire me, oh great philosophers, oh mountain climbers, bury those ashes at low tide so they wash in and scatter over the shores to be discovered biologically involved with the tide pools, the urchins and their secret mouths and the poison stings of miscellaneous ocean born blobs that no one pokes with a stick anymore because it was thought of as a bit of unrecycled plastic and the chemistry of the ocean changes which then will change the chemistry of our skin if we swim in it too much.
Self motivation. The commitment to writing. Reading. Music. Something. Something voracious. It is all so half assed and the growth so slow. Not even in college upon my return do I feel as productive as I can be. Blame alcohol. Blame isolation. Blame poor routines for even the simplest and healthiest activities that feel honestly good and provide a natural high, a natural energy. Running, for example. Desire to find myself a bike and sell the old bass cab. Use the money for Europe, that odd thread dangling out in front of me like an oasis or a mirage and I can't tell what the hell it is yet though it is a disconcerting break in the landscape like a roaring waterfall suddenly appearing in a slight creek you were rowing in with your angry when drunk girlfriend and two bottles of wine and she glares at you instead of openly and gently at the passing scenery, the every and each moment that holds more beauty than is capable to be described but this is not a giving up. Soon I will commence the "word-paintings" and then some other truth might be reached.
Notebook for europe. Lineless papers. Write observations and happenings. "Word-paintings" poems and sketches of scenes - dates and locations. to be combined later with pictures and writing about in greater depth. shrthnd.
9:18 pm
I have sorely neglected accurately explaining my existence in this apartment. In Seattle as a ghost in a small community of ghost cottages. My windows have dried up rose brushes pressing against some of them. None have screens and when I leave them open flies and spiders practically flock in as if they thought it was a good thing to be so domesticated. The neighbors all close up their blinds in fear. Many I've never seen open. I'm sure people live there, somnolent and sleeping with eyes open, in the fabricated light of lamps and television screens. Life is too short and ugly to miss every single sunset because your favorite show is on at that time. You realize the time of the sunset changes every night slightly. Your consistency has turned you into a piece of machinery. A blind chopping motion at a meat processing plant. No blood on your hands because you wear gloves. When I ran earlier I saw feet kicked up on ottomans in at least 6 windows. A numbing light coming from a wall I am parallel to. May as well be a mirror to their dead or dying, dehydrated and malnourished dreams. I ran and when I lost myself the music and the flowers and the breathing all combined into a single sensation of selflessness. Not the mission trip kind. That is not selflessness. That is acting like a sieve for an organization that does not appreciate you unless you are money and the heaven's gates are slammed shut if the donation hat does not make it back to altar. I sought out selflessness to appease a mounting anxiety about a huge amount of tasks surrounding the end of this spring term. Oh how neglected my writing and my study. I must keep my mind constantly in pitch with my environment. That is how I succeeded so readily in Arizona. I was a fine tuned machine. Now I need oil. Maybe I found my groove. There is no consistency for me. I should run to find a sunset viewpoint every evening and return to my writing and my studies. I should join the circus. The impressions acquired through the day last and expand and must be exorcised or else I expand and bloat and explode light a great flaming blimp in that fatal sky that mortal day when the car flew off the bridge or the cliff and the meadows all sang sad mourning songs of a tribal tongue when all knew from somewhere. Where?
Where does it all go?
Slumber stays in the corners of my eyes like an anchor weight, a ship pulled down into depths, the chain tangled up in tentacles, and my mind is drowning in a daze unlike one I have felt in awhile. To wake up utterly asleep and to expect to function and to succeed on an exam and to begin writing two essays and to feel okay through the whole thing like I don't need caffeine as a crutch this kind of depraved morning. Insomnia has haunted me as a physical presence for a number of nights. I should exorcize and survive.
This quarter = a time warp. I burrowed through a tunnel into the future with my gnashing teeth and torn up fingernails. Somehow, oh god, I'm about done with a second quarter among a few dollars worth. Am I any more educated? Or does this all amount to a deeper debt and a more profound confusion because my stripes are revealed... I cannot stay hidden and write in the shadows of other pretense, oh music sure, but what are their motivations? What is the driving force behind them, fear? Now when I must succeed with the brightest flying colors imaginable I wake up sleepily, fail to dream happily during the night or day, crumble into myself like a canvas painting suddenly removed of its wind perhaps by a hurricane wind, or a monsoon, or a dust storm, or a typhoon, or lightning, or thunder in the rumbling distance, but then it shakes the house and is it a sonic boom from a jet or an earthquake or an epiphany?
Under the microscope. My own heart pulsing and pumping fluids out into the sea. Somehow I must reconcile. I must move forward with a skeleton smile. If my skin dissolved. I would be smiling without choice.
I wonder my passions and if my distractions are always so big and prosaic and transient that I will forever be forbidden from a raw creation of any of my ideal visions. What I need are artistic friends who push boundaries and talk about interesting things. I have them in the periphery. Inspire me, oh great philosophers, oh mountain climbers, bury those ashes at low tide so they wash in and scatter over the shores to be discovered biologically involved with the tide pools, the urchins and their secret mouths and the poison stings of miscellaneous ocean born blobs that no one pokes with a stick anymore because it was thought of as a bit of unrecycled plastic and the chemistry of the ocean changes which then will change the chemistry of our skin if we swim in it too much.
Self motivation. The commitment to writing. Reading. Music. Something. Something voracious. It is all so half assed and the growth so slow. Not even in college upon my return do I feel as productive as I can be. Blame alcohol. Blame isolation. Blame poor routines for even the simplest and healthiest activities that feel honestly good and provide a natural high, a natural energy. Running, for example. Desire to find myself a bike and sell the old bass cab. Use the money for Europe, that odd thread dangling out in front of me like an oasis or a mirage and I can't tell what the hell it is yet though it is a disconcerting break in the landscape like a roaring waterfall suddenly appearing in a slight creek you were rowing in with your angry when drunk girlfriend and two bottles of wine and she glares at you instead of openly and gently at the passing scenery, the every and each moment that holds more beauty than is capable to be described but this is not a giving up. Soon I will commence the "word-paintings" and then some other truth might be reached.
Notebook for europe. Lineless papers. Write observations and happenings. "Word-paintings" poems and sketches of scenes - dates and locations. to be combined later with pictures and writing about in greater depth. shrthnd.
9:18 pm
I have sorely neglected accurately explaining my existence in this apartment. In Seattle as a ghost in a small community of ghost cottages. My windows have dried up rose brushes pressing against some of them. None have screens and when I leave them open flies and spiders practically flock in as if they thought it was a good thing to be so domesticated. The neighbors all close up their blinds in fear. Many I've never seen open. I'm sure people live there, somnolent and sleeping with eyes open, in the fabricated light of lamps and television screens. Life is too short and ugly to miss every single sunset because your favorite show is on at that time. You realize the time of the sunset changes every night slightly. Your consistency has turned you into a piece of machinery. A blind chopping motion at a meat processing plant. No blood on your hands because you wear gloves. When I ran earlier I saw feet kicked up on ottomans in at least 6 windows. A numbing light coming from a wall I am parallel to. May as well be a mirror to their dead or dying, dehydrated and malnourished dreams. I ran and when I lost myself the music and the flowers and the breathing all combined into a single sensation of selflessness. Not the mission trip kind. That is not selflessness. That is acting like a sieve for an organization that does not appreciate you unless you are money and the heaven's gates are slammed shut if the donation hat does not make it back to altar. I sought out selflessness to appease a mounting anxiety about a huge amount of tasks surrounding the end of this spring term. Oh how neglected my writing and my study. I must keep my mind constantly in pitch with my environment. That is how I succeeded so readily in Arizona. I was a fine tuned machine. Now I need oil. Maybe I found my groove. There is no consistency for me. I should run to find a sunset viewpoint every evening and return to my writing and my studies. I should join the circus. The impressions acquired through the day last and expand and must be exorcised or else I expand and bloat and explode light a great flaming blimp in that fatal sky that mortal day when the car flew off the bridge or the cliff and the meadows all sang sad mourning songs of a tribal tongue when all knew from somewhere. Where?
Where does it all go?
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