Two bats flew together over me in the garage as I spilled whiskey onto the carpet. This grey and thin carpet with the duct tape cross hatched over the burn holes from fallen hookah coals. One fell into my shoe once and burned its way out. “You make real friends quickly.” Settled into the self with a foxtrot. Finding a dried up pine needle in between my letters and numbers on my keyboard.
It’s hot and I am anxious. Words could help if I could make them form into their physical forms. I have a lot in my head I haven’t conveyed. It all bounces around and I cannot translate today. Earlier I walked around the yard, aimless and quiet, hoping to catch wildlife unawares, but they knew I was there, crunching leaves, barefoot… the only animal I encountered was a bellyup dead mole and I shoveled it into the blackberry bushes with a sad prayer.
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
I can’t get over a few happenings today. This morning I felt slight tunnel vision in Handwerk’s class and made a poor thought out comment about how irritating I think Robinson Crusoe is. I meant, the godtalk, the guilt narrative, not the construction of the book itself. But I set myself up to be used as a launch pad for greater depth commentary, and everyone is so damn shy and quiet in the class I want to speak up even if it is stupid, to fill the uncomfortable gaps, the gaps caused by a professor who knows so much, and who prods at us, and I felt dumb today there. Learned about Defoe’s writing a bit. Returned home for a feast because I forgot to go advising again. Wrote two tasteful parts for the second verse of a new song. Now the chorus is boring in comparison. Will have to spruce that up too. Other things occurred. I read poetry. Drank coffee. Printed poems. Responded to an acceptance letter I got from a small poetry publication who accepted my “Mariana” and I made some ridiculous comments revealing my ignorance to the actual location of the great oceanic rift, which I’ve thought for at least a year was somewhere in the Atlantic. Oceanography, what happened? Astronomy are you out there? What about mixology? My alcohol-themed radio show? And the other games we played and forgot. The parts of my brain that have been intoxicated out of normal worth. There are caverns plugged up with sandy saltwater. Crushed sea shells and the like. Rorschach Orca whales floating out to sea or to shore to dry up.
So a few idiotic things. Finally, and before I get to the middle section, as I walked down the hill from work, some sorority girls were yelling at people passing by to come in and donate for a rootbeer float for some charity drive of some kind, I was ambling down the hill when one started to call out to me, a heavy set blonde girl, the others skinny brunettes in shorts on this cold night, the heavyset girl says “no not him, he scares me” and I had no reply to this! I didn’t scream or frighten. I just bashfully walked on like a true psychopath. At least some wit at the dismissal. No thank you I’m lactose intolerant. Or, no thank you, to be honest you are frightening me. Or just ask, scare you? I just got off work, what is frightening about me not to invite me to your ice cream social? I obviously could not be a part of the festivities if one of the sisters had “an ominous feeling” about my stride, my walking, my red cap, my black coat, my hands thrust into my pockets, my old white headphones dangling around my neck, somewhat of a mustache surrounded by stubble, hard eyes, black jeans, black shoes, black back pack, barely making eye contact when I talked and never stopped walking, and u-turn and no how could I if your overweight friend is afraid of me? Of my presence coming down the hill? And the dumbo 18 year old gall to say that I am frightful to the other girls while I am in earshot.
Why this affected me. I could have at least put some personality into my response. I put nothing. I did not try.
Earlier regret from night shift driving. A man was kneeled down taking pictures of the roof of the Convention Center down town. I wanted to yell at him “How conventional!” and drive off.
Then the episode with the Burke Gillman falcon. I heard a peeping from above, wondering what in hell it was, and realizing I passed it, looked up to see a beautiful amber hued bird of prey sitting on a branch with angry yellow eyes, piercing eyes, a hooked beak, and suddenly it swoops down over me toward the powerlines and a small green belt near the 45th street viaduct. I notice there is a mouse or a shrew in the great bird’s talons, peeping pathetic little peeps for help that will not come. Elsewhere a female falcon is brought a bouquet.
Great blue bounded book, like a metaphor for the earth itself, as a reflective spectrum of oxygenated atoms and blue-hued electrons for the educational material that is all material you can get your hands on except some of it is created with intent to psychologically diminish you into a vegetative state and languish on the couch with your cats and your popcorn and your hollowed out eyes with the beer and the chew bottles confused disgustingly.
What the sun does to the atmosphere. What the rain does to outdoor plans. The Netherlands, a section of the Libyan Desert, and the Caspian Depression, circling the sea of the same name, are the three most notable locations below sea level. Folded mountains are created when the earth’s crust buckles or doubles over on itself as a result of subterranean pressures. This is why buried emotions often reveal themselves in the physical exterior of a body. “What’s wrong?” – “I’m crumbling. I’m doubled-over, folding. From the inside out.”
Living in a drowned coastline,
I almost said “of your love”
and realized I don’t want to be
that kind of writer.
I am the type to call myself
a meandering river
with emotions incoherent
Yet the certainty of melodrama
of love emerging out the delta
a smile like wave cut cliffs
or a mountain glacier, carving.
The Pacific Ocean is 63,985,000 square miles large and with an average depth of 14,040 feet. About the height of Mount Rainier, if you’ve ever been to Seattle or seen a picture of the skyline from Queen Anne Hill or the Space Needle, or ever knew of the St. Helen’s eruption or ever even cared about what tremors and forces crawl under your feet, in huge processes incomprehensible to you, and that shaking is a molten core not an ice cube heart, passivity wins where gravity no longer attracts you to anything.
Lakes and evergreens. Images of the world I inhabit anyway
yet romanticized with a French veneer
the Northeastern Canadian provinces and the lakes shine
turquoise, and the trees are a darker black-green by contrast
yet Banff National Park is perfect north
of Northern Idaho
and one day in a flurry of strewn about feathers
I will speed out over and up and yonder
take the train l’est and speak a broken french
with an accent of romantic cold
J’adore. Fireside book reading love
hot toddies and wool socks and snowfields
outside melting snowflakes and we cut our own out
of newspapers to hang in the window
There is a city called Swiftcurrent
yet it is a ghost town for ambitions
Washington, a-westering of most other states
had a population of 2,853,214 in 1964.
Today there are nearly 7 million people wandering about
seemingly with motives
to perform things with excellence or maybe
defined will. Ghostly.
Meandering glades of fire.
I tried to sleep with music theory slanted ideas in my thoughts. I wanted to lay down and fix problems with the cognitive cleansing of dreams and yet I awoke feeling like I thought about nothing in general and suddenly coming to about noon and then lapsed again behind I heard a genuine French accent and wanted to thank her yet out coldness wasn’t aimed at her we simply did not know how to say things or form phrases and the easygoingness of Maya was lost in the wind of inarticulate repeat-after-me phrases.
So sleep didn’t work. I should try using real life to explore complex relationships between idea and form and actualization.
I should look at 1960’s atlases for inspiration, see a huge changing world spiraling out of control, and try harder to put my feet down and launch. Explode up into space as rockets did. The sad, lonely moon waits for new contact.
And I only got to South America before meeting up with my girlfriend to make her say things in French on the radio.
To compete with this kind of longing
You need a steadier heart.
No arteries made of glass, no waiting for clots to form.
You need to leap out of bed in the morning like everything is on fire,
the posters you meticulously straightened on an edge,
standing on a crooked chair, sputtering about the house with a passion seen nowhere else.
“Welcome to December,” announces the darkening sky above the frigid inland Pacific Ocean empire of the Puget Sound. It is cold enough for the words to take form as icicles, fall to the green Earth, and shatter like glass ornaments, or crystal wine glasses full of icy water. Even these words, if spoken aloud, would drip down from my mouth like stalactites (hanging from a cavernous ceiling) and build up pyramids of unique snowflake phrases at my feet all in a white flurry.
Now, moments after an appallingly early sunset (4:45 pm) the sun’s light evades our latitude and longitude for a full rotation. A full rotation of it, of us, our axis, its axis, gravity, precession, astronomical terms from a college quarter years back that I’ve forgotten the specifics of… needless to say, the onset of our cold and lingering dark days is an inevitable domino-chain reaction to the forces of gravity and the wonderfully perfect proximity of the earth in our little galactic system of magnetic drifting archipelago. The ground beneath our feet formed at the exact right place in space, so says physics, and therefore we are not destroyed by any temperatures too hot or too cold to imagine. Neat, huh.
The early sunset and black ice roads remind me that we are a part of a chaotically perfect system and we are internally governed by the same physical laws, or so we currently understand, as the rest of the galaxy… So I twist open a seasonal beer, take off my wool socks, pause to look at the dancing lights of the family Christmas tree, listen to a lightly crackling fire and classical orchestra music (‘like a bath of ice cocaine and rainbows’). The music washes over me like waves splash on a rocky beach for millennia until the beach is transformed into pure tiny soft grains of sand… I am humbled by the genius of these musicians as well as the setting. The beer tastes good.
I’ve prefaced with a pseudo-scientific meandering and we’ve journeyed together to the Point Defiance Zoo & Aquarium for a photography exploration. Sunday night my significant female friend and I went to Zoo Lights to witness the winter festivities of colorful led lighting along railings and through the branches of trees. She hadn’t been; I had. It was very windy and the rain flew around directionless like confused, drunk birds. I popped the caps off two tall boys on a fence post and we sat in the car to discuss the philosophical implications of Cloud Atlas as well as possible plot holes. The wind often interrupted thought. When we walked down to the park the rain stopped. A layer of water over the park added to the soft reflective glow of the lights and shined bright, illuminating dancing molecules in the air with rainbow mists. Luckily, young adulthood has not caused us to abandon our childhood sense of wonder. These artistic renderings of Pacific Northwestern scenes and animals were magic. We basked in the cold lights and the idea of eternal rebirth.
To avoid over thinking the purpose of this post, I’ll exit commentary to display a few more images. Happy Holidays.