a newfound passion in a full, artistic life. I have been traveling and writing little fragmented notes and drinking good beer. I have broken an oath to write daily here (dwelling on it) and to let the words sieve out of me in a meditative ritual like lighting sage and humming through the corridor of a cathedral, the cathedral worshipping my body, the heart of the sun, the nerves spread out like river deltas, bells in the distance signifying nothing, letting nothing be known to come about, letting time erase itself like the first high tide wave erases the sand castle, letting the children know of future lost loves, of death of ideas.
Tomorrow I will begin, I promise. I’m feeling weird this evening. Fatigued beyond reasoning. Directionless and panicky. But I want to release the tension. I will dispose of all unnecessary objects in my life, sentimentality tossed aside like a bloody rag in war time surgery, because this is war, this is war against domesticity and laziness, this is war against negative birth defects of gravity, of alcohol torn out of the earth and poured down my gullet by topless body painted Roxannes outside Whiskey Hotel, the fiction trumps the fact, the fiction makes the fact sad it cannot be better and sexier.
So let fact or fiction come out and mix in the soup, the low flying clouds, the aerial dynamics, the choice of words, the verbs of movement over mountains, the Belgian pressure system on the lower intestines, the dry throat, crackling like New Mexican pueblos.
Tomorrow is the first of spring quarter. My last spring quarter before a special bachelor’s of the arts in creative writing. (See me go! Look at me sprinting toward that dangling carrot!) And then what? They ask. Fuck me if I know. I want to answer. I shrug and wonder how often they question themselves. None of us really question ourselves. We say, “I know myself pretty well now that those damned adolescent years and young loves are over with” and then never reform the picture with a body sagging four years in the future from that certainty. What is certainty after years without addressing it? It is not there. It is a crumbling viaduct sinking into the Puget Sound.
Not much in that. I don’t know myself too well. I know I need to be drastic or else I’ll drown. Like fish. They must keep swimming for their gills to work. Fish can drown if the current, or whatever, lethargy, maybe, holds them too still. I’ll just sleep here guys. In the snow drift? No, in my grandmother’s cottage as she approaches the senility of party host and puts sandwiches in the dresser drawers for me to take home and the family is quietly horrified but sings happy birthday extra loud, yawning after the candles are blown out, asking the youngest what they intend to do and saying things like “it’s okay not to know, just look at me” and see a flash of regret like a picture of lightning. An eternal flash. A captured flash. A life of regret in a cottage, in the undertow, in the young love never questioned, in the chastity belt broken and never repaired, in the heart of youth trading itself for a deported cardiac. And here I am saying I wanted to make sense with this proclamation of artistic intent.
But I intended really to say