we saw a bobcat on the ridge. i do not wish to write with a clear subject in mind i wish to unravel the threaded sculpture of my thought patterns and let loose the harmonies of those strings plucked individually. no music tomorrow. listen to the rhythms of traffic in the city. regret drinking. watch a movie and be an insensitive critic. see what is there. see what is needed. where do these inflatable nights take us? what of the magnets on the refrigerator or the tears in the bedroom or the tweakers in the alleyway or the heirloom citrus or the speed of walking down the street (and about the functionality of shoes). is this comfortable to be surrounded by what you don’t own always and losing days so the gym membership has already bumped up exponentially for daily practice, only been once and, regretfully, only figured it out one time, watching birds fly in blue skies on a screen in someone’s apartment across Mercer street and babies laughing and the soft hum of moving buses moving people in doppler affect, in straight lines predetermined and chosen by the people. we are not scientists. we are philosophers with lungs. we are the living breathing engine of caregiving to the self though we are almost always bombarded and strangled and coaxed by free radicals by desires beyond the edges of skin and chemical formulas for high points retraced and reenacted like an awful play and an awful play would be to let the windows close before they were known to be open. you cannot let those bastards take you down.
“I have misunderstood the process of making something cool as the process of making something to share.”
No. As the lady at a crafts booth told me, “You are an asshole if you don’t share your art.”
She had strewn about handmade keychains, picture frames, pastel block prints, planters.
This was 6 months ago. This is now.
I don’t know what I am doing. I am picking up equipment to record through the winter.
Here it is. Let’s go for it.
(dives into the water but makes no splashing sound)
Here it is. Let’s go for it.
(leaps back onto the bridge. runs to the garage with a sweater on).
“Here is a guy who everyone wanted to hang out with, but he did not want to hang out with very many people.”
How can this continue as such madness?
Become domesticated or share what you’ve made of your anxieties.
(with grace, if possible).
This was 10 months ago. Now I am entering music
into the S.E. Alaska State Fair songwriter competition,
though last years winner won with a song called “That’s my Mom!”
I have songs to share with you. (Mountain Lion. Profanity Peak. Northwestern Debris).
She had said, “You are an asshole if you don’t share your work.
You have no idea what kind of good it might do for someone
else. Maybe it inspires them to make art of their own. How god-damn
rewarding would that be to know you opened a stranger up
to the wonder and the joy of bringing new ideas into the world?”
Here it is. Let’s go for it.
Please excuse me for my nonchalant passive absent minded talk. There were words that needed to be said and a format to say them in and a way to convey thoughts as they occur in nature, as they fire across my internal retinas, as the motorcycles burst out the window, a calendar event reverberates at me, in small wave pools, tidal creatures swaying swaying. I’m sick of being such a jellyfish and I want become an orca whale, sonar crackling, singing under water like a god damn ambulance siren. Coax me to your island. No time for passivity, for not knowing yourself, for keeping distance from your desires and letting the wills of others weigh on you. Said better, I’m letting the will of others guide me too much. My decisions sometimes do not feel like my own. If any of these decisions were criminal (such as stealing a roll of toiletpaper and a scone) then who could be blamed but me? I could, if caught for something, plead insanity in a blame that god uses me as a puppet. Something like the zodiac who murdered people because he believed they would all be his slaves in the afterlife.
but not that, too drastic. Social upheavals within myself aside, I want to break out of present sloth and carve into passion with a hurricane force. The force of a burning cruise ship smashing into sleepy docks. The noise a cat makes when it sees birds flying out the window. The smell of marijuana mixed with black and mild. I will die if I do not create art of some kind. I would melt into a skeleton or sprout into a vegetable on the couch or become ice cube in a freezing river, nothing short of impossible to stop a motivated mind. Now motivate>
Isn’t it amazing? Sudden, intrinsic motivation to accomplish those secret goals without anyone’s asking. It is a lightning bolt that enters through the top of the skull, toasting neurons, and exits through the soles of your dirty old shoes. Burns your dirty old souls. If you had that metallic surgery for hip replacement, as well as spinal readjustment with steel rod, your body would be blown to smithereens. Pieces everywhere, no goal accomplished, aside from the ability to be everywhere at once.
Get out of bed without waking her up. Brew coffee like caffeine is not an addiction. Let stomach ulcers develop and teeth rot yellow. “The sleep was great, babe. Thanks.” Accidentally watery, remedied with viscous soy creamer, the black coffee brightens up through a gradient into brown, light comforting brown. Hot coffee on a hot morning is a mistake. I am too far gone, too impatient, to go through the process of creating iced coffee.
1. Brew coffee.
2. Pour into stove-top appropriate pot and let cool for 15-20 minutes as to not melt anything in the infrastructure of the fridge.
3. Place pot container lukewarm coffee into freezer and wait. Icy coffee chunks are rather nice but too much time in the freezer will cause a pot-shaped vat of black ice.
4. Pour over ice (chunks of frozen coffee or pure, filtered water), serve in a mason jar, with sugar and creamer as desired and enjoy.
Wonderful, right? Now I pause this instruction manual in order to burn my tongue on some lava hot caffeine on this lava hot morning in this volcanic valley.
The motivation to create interesting, beautiful things is out there. Some days that little whispering voice, the one that will guide you through to new territories, new inventions and mete out tiny quips of information outside the contents of your consciousness… some days that little voice is lost in the wind, the sound of cars, the sound of coffee brewing… and all is lost. Don’t allow that inner monologue to fade.
I am listening. Birds are chirping outside. Communicating. Flying.