A big wooden table spreading farther than my arms can stretch if I were to put my chest and the left side of my face onto the middle somewhere, sits (wobbling without certainty) in front of the open screenless window. Moths come in and bang themselves against the light bulb. A bulb on a geometric stand with no lampshade. A bright murderer.
Leading up through the scree past where the trees tend to stop. No soil for roots to spread out under like expanding hands and fingers, implacably spreading until the desired balance is achieved. A deliberate balance between sunlight and cool shade. Continue reading
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
I bet I’ve only seen 10 people fully naked in public. We hide in our clothes like clown cars. What happened to jumping through the thin layer of ice over the lake? Then the fireside with the whisky warmth, burdened by our wettest skins, wring me out, tear out my skeleton from my flesh and watch it float, buoyant, hollowed out by calcium supplements that weren’t FDA improved and physiologically did the exact opposite as professed, ‘build your bones! be strong and supportive! you are a framework for better movement, you are a science class specimen, you are your worst nightmare on a sunny day in plain sight, across the street, completely oblivious.”
Driving around aimless last night after clocking out and driving around aimless after clocking in during work, paid to get frustrated at the radio static, the dumb drivers sharing space with me anonymously but with horns and lights, but with wipers windshielding. Do you remember standing at one end of the rainbow as I stood in the cemetery at the other? I said I brought my shovel and start digging already, for the gold, the treasure, the fool’s gold, and you said you’d meet me with a back hoe and help remove the fillings from the bony jaws. You wore a Las Vegas smirk, lacy white leggings, and some awkward countenance, some sunshine met under the rosy cherry blossoms, some solid secret thoughts, something was there and then gone and at the 20th and Ravenna house party you were there and disappeared and “Who was that?” and “Oh yeah I remember her.” Oh man. No one knows how to flirt with pretty girls when their girlfriend is asking for the lighter to try and open another beer.
I had other thoughts. Romantic maybe. Angry maybe. It all faded into unfortunate indifference. I don’t know what I’ve done today. Laying on the futon without cover. Attempting to make a remix of “Make a Plan to Love Me” by Bright Eyes but it isn’t working out quite yet, I can’t keep the tempo accurate. I really just wanted to sample a few parts of it and make my own tune from their with nice accents. I tried hard for bit, slammed into a wall, gave up. Had a smoothie. Worked on a song in 7/8 and the key of Ab Major. Memorized the chords for “Holy Shit.” Studied some French. But free time is this! I don’t know what to do with it! Do I read? Write? Play? Dig up gold teeth behind the Catholic walls? Not the last. On sundays, cemeteries are too kitsch.
Snap fingers, shoot rifle. Jump bridges, gaps in teeth like the accidentals, the black keys, the notes with sharps or the wayward blues, the notes defy grid of music key, unlock, unhinge the jaw, place words on the tongue so they dissolve without water, taste the B vitamins of nonsense here in this cymbal swelling, this sad knowledge of a five year thwarted path, pah! Continue reading
I dreamed in French last night. My dream was childlike, because my grasp on the language is about equal to that of a 6 year old. They can communicate better than I but I understand the governing concepts behind complex grammatical phrases. I know verbs. Know is a verb. Verb is a noun. Noun is a noun. Is is a verb. And so on.
The dream was limited to my vocabulary. I walked/marché along a street/rue in the night/noir all alone/seul. Poorly lit alleyways, as my more fluent friend stayed asleep in the hotel, I decided on fresh air and the dim alleyways whispered at me to join them in their silence and darkness. Fire escape ends of cigarettes burning above. Grey brick. Black ironwork. Snowglobe stars. I joined the scene, I walked through them, puddles of moonlight, luna, scattered ashes of thoughts now. All is vague, bumping into passersby, je suis désolé they said. ça va. I said and journeyed on.
“When you were a kid, everyone was your friend” – sings Jen Wood, interrupting a 23 year old’s description of a dream. She is the female voice on the Postal Service record. Her music is pretty, jazzy, bittersweet, sad, soft, dynamic. Wilderness is the name of the album I’m listening to. She plays at Columbia City Theater next week. Probably see her.
So the dream ends at the dull interaction between myself and my projection of a local. Perhaps they said more words than I knew, words I didn’t quite pick up. How fascinating if true! If I could dream with better French vocabulary than in waking life. The anxiety of an inability to communicate with someone. Then I think about the Vietnam documentary I fell asleep to. Fire bombs, traps set, ambushes, friendly fire, mortar shells, choppers shot out of the sky, warm beer airdropped. Then I think about the Radiolab episode I listened to about experiments regarding the intelligence of dolphins, trying to find a common ground language between english and ‘dolphin’ and to learn the contents of their sonar, echolocation, flipper-handed, blow hole noises. Are the squeaks and croaks and chirps language we can understand? Research suggests that dolphins call each other by name, having a recognizable ‘homesign.’
What am I in French? What am I in dolphin? Who am I in English, Russian, Latin, Vietnamese? The language of music?
If I could kill my compressor. That would be nice. Something with guitars picking along, then electric swells, a voice full of heart and comfort, could it be my voice? Music to make – melodic, thoughtful, all truth and honesty. For this to happen, self-correcting must die. Squeezing the tone out of life must also end. I need to let loose ideas, gorgeous ideas, ideas full of wonder and raw emotion.