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.
