august 28

time the writing to place it in a space originally planned for the discovery of a part time job to assist with the pleasures of budgeting and the concerts coming up quick, oh a wasted day, so silly and paralyzed, I feel a post European adventure depression that sweeps great ideas under an increasingly lumpy, lumpier rug, with red and yellow designed with ink pen swoops of trees and monkeys clambering for a view among the branches of the explorer with a cast on the right forearm. Sure the ideas roll out like an old dusty carpet. wallpaper with moisture behind it causing peeling and uncertainty.

So here I am. Typing away instead of emailing my professors or reading the books or receiving my Seattle Public Library card (oops once again forgot my evidence of residency). Why not get a new driver's license or take around my passport? Why not adopt a cat and set up the internet under a password all our own? Why not become a serious person with serious issues to solve in a solemn and silent cloud, at the rickety desk in the corner, the dark corner, by the front door that does not open from the outside, a mentioned before detail, and all of them are but not for my life. This life I have yet to begin. I am like a kid terrified of water with my life jacket on at the edge of the lake.

Memory. Normally would have something assisting me in flotation, on American lake with the fish and the witch island and the room built around a tree with the creative energy of time spent in one place always creating, carving wooden ships with a little knife, whittling away time as a woodpecker shaves away bark to get to the gritty, oozing sap, the marrow of life, the exceptionally placed hammock out the second story window... I jumped in without the support of a noodle or anything that floats. My arms felt the strength. My open water mind expanded to contain all of the oceans and the fears of jellyfish swarms or great algal blooms that can infiltrate and colonize a scratch, a mere flesh wound, or time spent in the water replaces my rubbery flesh with silvery scales, and I wish. I wish I wish I were a fish, a fish.

So jump, asshole. Spread those wings, those flippers, those motherfucking arms you haven't lifted weights with in so long, they've shrunk. Write the sad songs out of your system. Make the band a necessity. Do the laundry. Move along. Lost time to figure out why the internet don't work. Why don't mind work well either. The espresso isolates my anxiety and I don't think I should transcribe more notes from the journey because you know, reality. Submitting applications at sundance. Waiting to hear from the grange. Picking up fucking groceries from Trader Joe's. Losing my mind and wishing I could see Elvis Costello at Bumbershoot but probably going camping instead. All is vague.

august 27

listen to the rx bandits. roll the ankles. details but no story. never left, stayed in a hole of depression and then isolated by the horror of mosquito bites or scorpion kisses while sleeping in the haystack bed and losing a friendship to get drunk like getting drunk is a way to make friends when you turn 23 and the hype is reduced.. young bucks, distraction, our livers hate themselves and the tobacco locked itself in the car, a joyride lie and the rolling papers soaked in beer, it may as well be a deadened habit, with or without real flaky friendships, me or them or all parties difficulty in retaining the necessary relations with people I should call my friends. Hey I kind of know you. I know uncertainty.  I know what it is to wish for better. For work with the Stranger. Or some other publication. Something important and less confusing... less drunk with inertia... something rolling like a snow ball idea with the recording software made and learned until found enough... the weight of hesitation... somehow it is feeling incorrect and I have only terror to survive the morning within... oh god...

August 26

to compete with this kind of longing you need a steadier heart, no arteries formed of glass, you need to leap out of bed in the morning like everything is on fire, the posters you meticulously straightened on an edge, standing on a crooked chair, sputtering about the house with a passion seen nowhere else.
Can't complete a thought. A character portrayal. This kind of longing is born out of an uncertain future. It is a building constructed 40 stories internally, to be noticed across the plateau of an Arizona cafe with outdoor seating only used when the sprinklers are switched on and they can dilute your drinks unconsciously... 8:15... poses for album cover, the second or third since I said I would do the same and then again with sunhat or the desire to live in Washington as if I don't already do that, toothsore in the quiet tuesday morning, every morning sounds the same hollow emptiness of the ravenna retirement home where the doors never swing... red dress swaying on the desert highway with a kindred spirit contained within, some ethereal spirit, more like, something impossibly distanced by time mores than age or ability or talent, our depression manifests differently, mine has been allowed to nurture itself on my thoughts, the good ones, always eaten up by a negative cloud, some screaming clouds let in the back of my mind when I was drunk and the regret, the lack of writing letters, the suffering caused by an awareness of great ideas and a mind aware that I cannot think to move forward for any of them... There she was... Now a denied access roommate to all of this hoarded space. Now brightly decorated. Easy to have slow morning when all is so comfortable. No no. We need time. How much time? Where will time go once we get to the other side of it? Does he know time... does she know time?

changed from whimsical acceptance to paranoid fraudulence.

all of it feels so useless some days. this writing. these words toppling over previous combinations of words and the free writes are not the same quality because the nostalgia of the past beats the description of the present today, but then, when she broke my glass blood into silica fragments on a beach somewhere, somewhere without natural water, a manmade lake beside a small hill called a hike, deeper hills elsewhere with larger hikes, rattlesnake coves and dusty sunrises, no no I am there not here. I was able to write presently in that moment but not this one. I am presently exploring the recollection of the moments she sparked in me. Thunderbolt down through the top of my spine. Worries and a tense shouldered feeling that I can never recover. Discomfort of the los angeles show and the loneliness of a sad drink while she sings sweetly and my conversation is distracting and horrific and I wanted to sob and I think I did once I found my car and drove through traffic through Hollywood alone in the painful throes of celebrity insanity and every night is hot and cultural and dangerous because the strip is a cesspool and I brought that energy with me because I molded myself briefly into their framework, making me the shitty landscape I was a part of.

Now mountains, trees, peaceful silence? This part of the city is like a god damn rest cure. They feed me money and free time and I eat it without thinking about the future or my music or the speed and direction necessary to make anything difficult happen in life. (difficult in the arts. music in the veins though no dancing blood still. she has those cute little veins that light up in the nighttime hours for creation when I go out to the pub and destroy.)

her little bird sings when I drown mine.

August 25.

formless anxiety bends the mind in on itself like a concave mirror and in this concavity is disallowed the clarity desired to move through in a day, the clarity breathing through beautiful scenes when they are noted without reaching for camera phones, the breath of the landscape down your neck or is it the breeze with the salt and the ethnic food in the air, the dishwashing jobs available at the indian restaurant on the ave, the avenue, the splotched and spotted streets all straight and easy, a little too simple to get around, the "there are only three counties in this state I haven't been" attitude along the border of canada and where Idaho meets in the south, south. Noticed a parisian cigarette box and now a gallery of French architecture exciting the walls, exhibitionist paintings of naked towers down by soft alcohol and using the contours of a smooth body as paintbrush and stroking, rolling around a canvas to imprint the romantic idealism we destroyed with our sloppy kisses and inappropriate public touching though the daunting architecture, naked, clear-sighted over the horizon and illuminating the foyer from afar, the desire for a naked architecture, of clarity when a landscape looms, of the ability to adequately keep oneself simultaneously distanced from the seat of and strapped to the electric chair of life and a consciousness of the self as it yawns and expands or shrinks and shrivels, spread wide across a sand scattered beach hut hit by boats propelled like missiles on a mighty wave, projectile ships with tall masts scattered along the mountaintops in a mysterious and ominous glow. where can clear sightedness form when all the signature buildings, metaphoric as a defining personality in the glowing heart of the city, have you been there before? in that state of calm execution, the motions seem more natural than breathing, the motions are fluid and deliberate, the second guessing is a voice erased like a ladybug met fate of an aphid or the roses protect themselves with new toxic plume. No, no. I haven't been there before.