Tuesday, January 30, 2007

smashing a guitar is the greatest noise it can make

Woke up, showered. Went to class and discussed Julius Caesar, spent my time listening to a language I don’t understand. Not even a little bit. I don’t know for sure how to consider, the things I hear, because they don’t mean anything. But I know I’m not listening to gibberish. They are saying something, it’s just a point of moot with me, I don’t have the concepts in my silly head to deduce any of it.

I think it’s nice anyway. Sitting there, its like all obligation fades away. Gets thrown past and out, even away from my subconscious. There is nothing there, so it’s almost like lying on a beach, in Hawaii. And there are no cares, nothing in the world. That’s exactly what it feels like. Being in an environment that lacks any certain basis for you to exist. I exist, but don’t. I’m wholly separate, and in the separation, I can breathe.

I asked for a Tuna sandwich, but I sound American, am American, and here, my English gets lost very easily with their English, which is Norwegian but all British based. I got a weird spicy meat burrito instead. How is that related to tuna, I have no fucking clue. They put onions in everything. The world would go mad for onions if the world was Norway. And corn. I laugh when they come up to me and I hear about Maize. But that’s Alex’s story, not mine. I’m merely relating it, and thought it was funny. We are Indians. Hooting about. Native Americans. A lost culture. A lost culture, and I am lost. And I am a big place, and misunderstood, and the lack of relevance it has is beautiful. I am nothing. Like I said, the great and powerful oz would have gotten the same fucking thing I had if he asked for Tuna. So were the same, and its enriching. I’ve lingered with nonsense now too long.

I ordered some coffee after class, it was shit. I drank a mouthful, and told myself, why even bother with the rest. I released it upon the world on a table and read the rest of Dance Dance Dance in the drone of language all around me outside one of the auditoriums. Outside the library. Where they obviously want everyone to know, there are no cell phones or food to be had, In there. Who am I to argue. I read and drank out there, and now am In here. Symbolically speaking, I left there, am here, and will return there, but not the same there.

After my book and coffee I sat and wrote for about an hour I think? It took me seconds to find the question mark. The keyboards are different here. I keep hitting æ, when really all I want is the shift key. And the @ sign is an impossible task. Taking even a minute. Email addresses fall apart, and so they shall.

The writing was nice, and pleasant, and everything it always is. I revisited old things, reworked encounters and dialogue to something more real. Or at least to what I write now, away from the past, which was a wonderful starting point. The change apparent is always nice to observe, and I guess its what keeps things going. I can’t stress that strongly. But I suppose only in constant writing would it even be appreciated. Maybe Jake would understand. He has a story in the works you know. A good one I think.

Now I’m in the library, the great glass edifice that is in one of the pictures below. Alex is giving me the finger. So pay attention. It’s smaller than Leid, and lacks the architectural grandeur. But it still has the qualities of a good library, quiet, and full of books. Everything is in language I can’t read. Again, wonderful. I don’t even have to bother with the thought.

I have been putting off Jane Eyre. Maybe soon, after this, I’ll give it another shot. I just can’t stomach the stuff. I am going to buy groceries. My first encounter with trying to buy milk. Hopefully it won’t be full of chunks. The idea of milk from other countries terrifies me. Somehow, after having tried the stuff in Colombia, I live in a perpetual fear of tasting what milk actually tastes like, rather than the watered down, cleaned, and Americanized stuff I have grown up on:

Sliced salmon
Frozen Pizzas
Orange Juice
Fresh Bread

That’s all I can muster. I’m sure when I see it I’ll know. My clothes are dirty. Another day tackling the laundry is in order—another day of staining all my shit and letting it hang, half wet, in my closet. I don’t know what tv is anymore. By that I mean the act of sitting down and relating with a group of people whatever is on television. Its lost to me. The world is huge. And there is always a gap that forms between old and new places. This is reality. But I feel like I only have half my face in it. Or a piece of my voice. Or just a sliver of my eye. The rest is sleeping. And I am sleeping.

I lie in bed thinking about stuff. Watching the sun touch the leaves of my plants briefly. For maybe 15 minutes max. The whole of my orchid is bloomed. It rests on my desk, next to an assortment of sterile technology. The idea of warmth, it all but evaporates out the window, turns into something, and gets swallowed up by the birds that roam outside in the snow. Picking bits of nuts and green off the earth. They shamble along, and look like fat people. Consumed by the desire to live in the extreme cold. They must plunder a lot, and leave the rest, like the past, burning until it all turns and blows away.

I wait until my phone rings, and pick myself up. I showered and checked the news on my computer. Started the rest of the day.

lazer guided melodies


Anonymous said...

i read this entire thing out loud

Julian LaBounty said...

lol. what does that mean?