1/2015

today. this late. 3:29 am on the first day of this new year…. here is where my unedited daily writing rants will have a home. the handwriting will continue yet the fact this is sent out into oblivion is an exciting incentive to write with a clarity unfounded in my notebooks, a placebo of crowd control, a pill that makes an audience materialize where there isn’t one, a quiet girl who abstains from everything and a party where a dude pukes on the ground while the rest watch the senseless fireworks from the 45th street bridge over I-5 and the voices complain anyways- because they are used to complaining about the cold as if it is news to anyone to say such words aloud, {I require new words. Screamed out loud. New ideas.} The fragments of talk are lost because it is a shit show of a night, with the vomiting and the jazz music in the car and the avoidance of drinking and the sleeping on the orange chair and the strangeness of it all I appreciate and yet I wonder what the appeal of the others was, the allure of the observation and the couch conspiracy and the kayakers and the overwhelming odds, the lost opportunities and the lost girlfriends, cast aside like soft buoys to prevent smashing into loading docks.

What is a BA w/ Writing Emphasis if you do not habitually write? Okay, Sufjan, I agree there is too much riding on that. And I realize the squandered time of my life in education when I could have been studying how to tone car engines, the peer pressure talk about it, and the motor oil companies drilling into the earth with a force of new technology and the hard hats all of those fractin’ fools wear out there to protect themselves.

Nothing matters anymore. Writing because it needs to be a necessity. Writing because Sigur Ros is soundtrack and my night is full of experience I barely understand. My night is full of impressions I cannot fathom and will never be able to. What I felt tonight will explode into the past as soon as I wake up. That is the fear. This will happen continuously until I grow old into retirement and die with mounds of unused cash under my corpse. Yet I also fear the wage of it all, when the money piles on in waves like millionaire pilots or like getting in great shape and making more music because it all matters that my mind is uneasy and the new years in seattle have been bust always and fuck seattle fuck it to its core because it is a bad luck omen at everything possibly relaxing and the quiet is not something I appreciate. I need the noise. I need the words that are considered filler because I need human contact and words like goodbye are not enough to express a longing to disappear, a longing to jump off of bridges alone, alone, alone. Words fix it up and let it golden in the wintry sun.

—-

10:09 am

waking to the sound of trumpet blasts, morning violin, morning guitar, speedy recovery of a lost art, great green ghosts gliding, nothing said, barely communicating with the airs put on by the light weight, collared shirt of a mindful guy, the music and the intimidation of playing guitar, the stylized virtue, the moral values, the codes of conduct, the Benjamin Franklins of our day are in computer labs, typing code, synthesizing data, drinking well whiskey, talking into red wine cups, playing bass in a band like Pete the janitor, juggling oranges on the street for cash, mumbling into the pillow sweet something or others, completing puzzles and television series….

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