Quick contemplation... Weight of credits on my back crunching me down and wondering the financial aid coverage and the out of pocket extra money and privacy of money and loss of courage. I have squandered much. Learned from it. Now how could I possibly ask to stay for longer?
Tess nearly killed herself in a car accident. Swerved to avoid a car pin balling across the highway. I search for a hotel for her mother. She judges my actions like a hawk and I fail and she notes it mentally. I want them to have a nice stay while they are up here. Nothing close is available. It is of upmost importance for her parents to have a good impression of Seattle. The daughter struggles and so does the dumb, money-burning boy, who does not seem to know how to impress himself into a landscape without feeling the aesthetic of the painting is ruined. His presence... mine... is a black splotch, like a hole of night ripped through the blue daylight sky, just a shadowy presence.
French is soon. It is grappling at me for fuel. It feeds on me and I haven't studied. Where is that motivation? Where am I?
Ocean sciences. Poems with grit. Creative writing portfolio. Write and die
10 40 pm
Bavarian cottage tombstones made out of granite helicoptered in from yosemite when night fell and no one was watching. The incessant flow of impressions and observations. Of pipe dreams to create an indie rock jazz band with Stephen and the conversation about alcoholism and a general concern and conscious decision to avoid it for a moment. Prevent the nights from drinking themselves up and go into them with the eyes of the outsider as in Arizona when the writing was constant and consistent and the world stop twirling for half a second and our eyes glazed over with metaphor.
No one really all that committed to the project these days. When did I become such a passive participant in my own god damn life? These veins will dry up and I'll branch out into an oak tree or the peeling bark of the kind that line that grey area between frat row and sleepy time corpse neighborhood. I am in the valley of the undead. Their groping eyes feel their way across my windows but nothing reflects. Just some strands of colored lights and a general disgust rooted in the moment. Physical disgust and neck pain. Talk of other things please. The concern for the family stress and the terror of sobriety and the moving out and on of a daughter attempting to be independent with a freedom felt less before. "I'm calmer than you are."
Progressive influence for musical interludes. Write complicated music simply to get back in the hang of writing. Write simple music just to get back to writing. Write to write to write. Simple process. All it takes is decision making and memory. Or decision making and transcription. Or decision making, creative flow and infinite recursion until the music no longer resembles the initial idea, that first pulse that breathed life into some monstrosity or simplicity unexpected... Do musicians desire the original fervor of initiative music before those second or third thoughts... the editors in the mind with clipboards... come through to ravage the original genius until lifeless or squashed into an "attempted idea" rather than a happenstance mysterious forgetting of the collective self and a general disdain for order or rhythm or marijuana or the cold turkey quitting because of how alone I am and how alone everyone is when they go out drinking until silly. Proximity becomes an issue. No one is near! My neighbors are not my friends and treks get longer as the nights turn orange or pink or black a simple drawn out tar-black that embalms the city for a number of miles in all directions. Oh that tired concept.
Coffee eyes. Sultry red lipstick. Torn dress. Coaxing motion with the fingers to follow into the river. Water is smooth on the surface though thunderous and booming just under, just below. Storm always so close to surface. It takes a magazine ad. Happy orange people with beers or margaritas. Psychology today of 1970's. Stubbed toes and a haziness generally. Should not stay up late. Should sleep out the lawn sleep stress I felt. Such anger and hopelessness in the sun in the sun listening to The Dodos. When they weren't cool.
