"because i couldn't find the food I liked"

Today I woke up at 6 to help slow down the progression of me being late to World Literature everyday. I got in and she had no voice. We all left. To say the least I felt defeated. Fuck you rain, I’ll flow like water if I want and when they build a dam in front of me well I’ll stop and smell the roses. To put it mildly I was disappointed.

There is a theme outside; that theme being sunken-ness. Outside its rather crafty with splitting winds cutting into the groups of people I see roaming around. And then I think about what lies ahead. Really though, until 7 O’clock. That’s the point at where the sun is tipping its hat in these times and telling me the night is upon everything. I want to go climb a mountain. I want to slide my feet into boots and go riding into the sunset with that blazing yellow friend of mine. Where does he go? We used to talk like someone flipped a switch and turned it off. Nature has a brilliant fucking light-switch eh?

There is a really neat cut; after you pass through tepid water of rippling tadpoles and bouncing frogs. Sort of like a commercial selling jellybeans you come across the cleanest finest grain sand. Its all red and battered thousands of years by the wind. It’s so nice that the black ants moving across it seem delighted. When you shoot further in and veer to the right scrambling across the ledge of a small elongated boulder you duck beneath a tree and find yourself looking on both sides at sheer fine black-rock. It makes me think of a safe house. If the end of the world were coming that’s probably where I would go. Just leaning against the rock reading a book enjoying a cup of noodle soup and saying the hell with it. If you wanna burn earth, than burn. It’s your fucking planet, I’m just a guest.

You sort of near the cooler parts when you venture inward. There you will probably run into people scaling both sides. Though the funny thing is I either see them sitting or resting on some outcropping of red stone or hanging midair just shouting hi below and dangling like spiders. Maybe if I went sometime and wore a set of eight legs they would laugh. Too often they poke their heads and are surprised; but you wave friendly enough and all is well.

Then the fun begins; near the end of my favorite place comes a favorite climb. Precipice of red stone and loose gravel lead to a summit; the top holds a nice view of the whole city. I always end up going too late so I can never keep…going. Not that the view is the same; and somehow I think I am going to end up finding treasure along the way. I guess it is neat to tackle the whole thing and tell it a story when you reach the top.

Oh the mountain listens.

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Today I plan on removing the prejudices I have against all of this. Instead, look; (laying my hands out as if I want to show you something). I read Kafka’s story about The Investigations of a Dog. It’s not my favorite of his, I am not really an avid fan but he is good and there are a few stories I really enjoy. In the Penal Colony, The Hunger Artist.

The dog made me think that flying; well we all want to fly. And I remark that upon my imaginary partner of conference and she agrees. Let’s fly. But even that tiny dog species in the story comes down and walks for bit. Stretching its legs before shooting off into the sky for more thoughtful meditation. Well come on down she says after biting her lip and holding her index finger between her lips. I mean if you have to, that is. I just sort of nod and say; Hey, I like to stretch my legs from time to time. So here I am just lying sort of low and dreaming about whatever I want. Because down here even amongst the throngs of people I am free to lazily tuck away and just fly in thoughtful silence. There are so many they don’t care; not few enough to engage. Pretty nice in that regard and more so towards a peaceful sort of rest with how tired I am; waking up early and all.

I read some literary theory. The first real theorists that the book states is some Russian guy who wrote a famous essay titled Art as Device. Stating I suppose that art has a purpose, driven by its creator and engaged by whoever wants to take it upon themselves to digest it in a fashion. The formalists or functionalists, I think is what they are labeled as define all the literature as a weird playing and structuring words and language in a non-common way. You, us, in most everyday speech talk commonly; there is your Russian division; commies.

I wonder where it will end up is what I say to myself.

And then the wind blows me away.

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welcome to the Sunrise Room.