Chopin & Vaporized Wine

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. Continue reading

Advertisements

may 18th

Morning Free-Write (meditation in the form of words. an untangling.) 

Of all the things to dream about. Cheering of a crowd to the lashing of a friend when accidentally thrown under the bus. I need to let the wall fall down and the pure bleed of thoughts spritz out of me. There are barricades to this form of subconscious. First wall is the skull. The second wall is exterior distraction. The third wall is my own self-consciousness when I think of audience or burning coffee or the curvature of my spine and straighten up abruptly, too abrupt, I’ll feel that later. Continue reading

may 5th

Yeah yeah so forgetting things. Letting jazz replace what is lost. Letting what is lost stay lost, even jazz now. Okay world. What will you have me do if not remember you? Grey sunlight in the early morning. Itching all over. Letting red wine stick between the teeth and cancel Darwin. Heaping platter of Faulkner. Let the jazz and wine becoming poetry. Let the grammar erase itself with meaning. I am eaten. Soup, it was, and bread. Red pepper. Roasted. Russet potatoes. Then the 6th grader with weightier nerve took the eraser and got to rearranging my embarrassing forgetfulness. College papers do not ask the placement of adverbs in question form when the dictionary definition holds truth for moments only and seeps into backdrop of blues when the drum beat is erased and the piano and trumpet take the lead and the guitar is only a layer like a first coat of paint and the splashes of higher definite color with broken glass enamel, tooth smeared, guts all torn out with the advice of yesterday died inside that forgotten sphere up there in my mental architecture when the snow can be shaken up and globed and trotted and coating the cars enough to bend their muzzle. Alright, ridiculous, here I am fallen out of language because it feels good to let inhibitions slide off down the icy hill and into the frozen lake of languish. Nothing like that really.

I am sitting here barely caught up. Very itchy. Wondering what happened to all of my friends. What to do with my suddenly invited free time of evening without work (five minutes in the normal future) and finding myself barely up to the challenge of the literature assigned and the writing work to accomplish. Only available for parties of existential nonsense, this clown, all dressed in normal young man clothes, no suits though, because I’m not a business marketing major and my zip hoodie suits me as well as a suit suits you and your fast cars will leave me behind in my dumb old leaky brakes. No stopping now. I am an evolution of something. I am an expansion of younger selves but what would they think to see me so crumpled and heartless?