Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Wednesday Window Fall

I remarked rather coldly to myself as I stepped down the stairs. There must be some way to medicate my being. But as I wrote on paper earlier—with pen in hand—that’s pretty terrible. And I sighed and thought about my insides.

There is something inside of me. I know that its what actually got me to get up and come down to school and all that jazz. I want to reach in and squeeze it to death. That’ll be the end of that annoying tidbit.

I’ve taken to walking up to windows and looking out at them for about half hour marks. Half hour marks because usually my classes all let out a half hour early and the only avenue for me to kill with is to use it staring at the things around me; best out of windows. I don’t think I fancy windows much. I mean, I like them fine and all, but I’d rather have it with no glass or thing in front of me. Just the hole in the wall and the outside.

I wrote about the process of a painter. Then I wrote about writing it. And I have a nagging suspicion, like Alvin Lucier and his experiment in the room—where Tom made an analogy about drinking—it has become that with writing. And I am writing what I wrote and it’s a layer over each other to create a drone. I wipe out the past but its still building on it.

Is my writing becoming a drone? Is that even bad. I wonder what all my selves have to say about that. Which, are slowly diminishing and dying with the coming light. That’s fine. It just use to be…it used to be easier to escape.

The failings of not having text messaging. Yet the joy in that lock and chain not existing. The retarded contradictions. And then I read the TV on the Radio interview and they asked the guy about repetition. Which was fascinating how he attributed it to a heartbeat. I am in love with that example. I fall more and more in love with repetition. Oh Gertrude Stein, how I wish to have known. Her repetition exercises are pretty neat, hell she pioneered that modern shite. That modern shite that is so delicious to read.

Do I feel liberated in my actions of an hour and 45 minutes ago? I’ve been tossing that one in my head while I have—instead—been here with that 1 and 45 time. No, honestly I don’t. But I don’t feel too sour or sore about it either. It feels more like it never existed in the first place.

I need a long look into the world I live in, coupled with the world we live in. And then try and consolidate it with approach. How am I approaching this and how are ‘you’ approaching this. Maybe that’s the key, for the gold key-ring and silver key. And its really just a piece of the key.

Then it becomes that I want to drastically drastic myself. And what the hell does that mean? Well I want that drastic thing to push me. I gave a good analogy last night. And its rather fine. All rather fine. Like sunny skies. Like laughing over a good joke. But I should become a terrible misanthrope. Ha. And then I’m a little shit. And a shit throughout most of the day.

I want to sleep well. Not this horrible excuse for sleep that I seem to be living now.

And that’s where Sara comes in.

Where we sat on the edge near her house. And on her porch we smoked while drinking cold beers in the dying autumn light. The cold was coming. The clouds in the sky puckered the sun; checkering it like a tablecloth; a tablecloth covering a wooden table and we are picknicking. Neither of us trembled and she smiled while she flicked ashes my way. When we kissed it was slow like lame tides. It was lame tides and all around us was sand. But really the trees didn’t move and it was quiet; there wasn't sand but grass. I wondered whether I could hold onto everything. Whether I wanted to hold onto everything. There was this idea of self, holding onto self in an uncertain future.


"i'm sorry for not going to your class."

"oh. its okay."

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