June 3rd – Day & Nite

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 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 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 frame 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 stares at you instead of at the open and gently passing scenery, the every and each moment that holds more beauty than capable to describe but this is not an admission of failure. Perhaps the “…word-paintings…” and then some truth.

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 sunset. All are unique. Maybe it is 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 in earthy scents 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 like 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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