At night, alive in the room, there’s a dark blue feeling coming over me – it is here I make myself overwhelmed. Oh, my. You still haven’t shared any of your photos of Friday Harbor with the Others. You’ve yet to share enough of yourself. You still haven’t opened. Listen to Chopin and cry your lower back out of alignment.
In the night, when the machinery of day has ceased hissing with steam and clunking through the pipes like a tossed apart marble staircase, or redo, an actual boiler pumping steam through a coil heating the wine into a phase change, where it undergoes compression (and many other chemical disconnections) and purifies itself into an anesthetic. In the night the good ideas tend to crowd you. In the night, pressurized eyelids slam shut like steel traps with a hiss of steam and you enter the copper coils of dreams, cooling off so the overworked brain can make sense of the day. The sleeping brain works through a series of collages of unseen images procured and unremembered images remembered, banging around in there like little hammers, and completely out of control.
Here, with wine teeth, when I am in no mood to travel through my folders, or search for good clues to the completion of The Idea, it feels the most impossible to pursue Goals. I am stuck here juggling migraines and optimism. Toying with absurdity and catharsis. An unsolicited collage of wine labels. Looking for the purity of some higher proof spirits. Yet still no pictures. Still a bilious guilt rising. Still no poetry. This is nothing to be read by any fool. Why do I suffer myself? There ought to be no guilt in the incomplete. No guilt in the