It’s more disruptive not knowing why behavior exists, than sitting down and talking about it, but then how can you just say things? How can you make your tongue do what you don’t want to do, how can you manipulate air when it clearly has the age advantage?I know quite simply that it is my fault. That I look and then get angry about what I see, even though the world and the window is right there for viewing and entry. It’s pretty obvious even if you’re not looking though. Most people are worse liars than they believe themselves to be.
I can’t help but feel inadequate, that there is something that I will never be able to offer because of something that’s already fixed in the situation. Even though I never asked for that fix, even though I ran away from that fix before and before and before, even though I try harder than I am probably remembering now to establish that there is no line when it comes to that issue. I’m frightened about being some kind of resign, making these plans and then when it comes down to it making a cup of tea instead and listening to the rain turn into sleet outside.
In a way, this life is like a positive dream. I bike everywhere, I get paid to write and meet people who are for the most part quite interesting, I go on adventures (frequently/infrequently), I go to the restaurants I choose to go to, I bake pies at midnight, I’m not afraid to say hello to strangers to compliment their eyeglasses or nail polish or how their notebooks don’t have lines but they write so straight anyway. I regret the time I said the last one though, as they moved to the other side of the cafe without even ordering a drink.
After moving, I unearthed a slew of notebooks which I’ve been flipping through every now and again. I still have yet to write about traveling in a way that appeases what it actually means while I am in it versus after, reflecting. But those notebooks that are in the throes, that are written with spotting ink as the pens wore thin against rattling amtrak cars, that are rushed and full of shortened words like hrt and mtng and ok ok ok ok ok ok ok instead of my usual way of spelling it as okay.
Home is both great and terrible. I live with some very petulant people who somehow control aspects of my living situation even though they’re not real yet. Not to name names, but they’re not the person I share my apartment with. There was an offer to leave, which I almost did but not to move somewhere else in Chicago but to just pack as much as possible in the cheapest available car and head out. Still, that romance lingers as a possibility even if I like the romance of hearing the radiator warm up as it fills with water or finding which window is still open and causing a draft or the heinous florescent lights that illuminate the kitchen or thinking about rugs. You can only have so many rugs in a car.
I’m pretty sure I’m the problem here but I don’t know how to fix myself. I can’t simply yell everything I feel into the air, I don’t trust it and I don’t trust you to listen to me accurately while your nose is bleeding and your eyes are strained. Just be straight and form the words that you can, remember what you were taught and tutored; you can force the air with your will if you only remember to do so.
It’s surprising now how much time I end up looking at buildings. It’s not just the physical presence, but how I wind around them on two wheels while also trying to explain how they are created by specific hands and minds. One of my favorite structures is on Elston, decorated with a girl spilling salt which reminds of listening to albums I pretended to wholly understand while only really understanding the unhappiness. But this building serves as what the corporation calls as a terminal, which brings mind to electric currents which would do no good in that building piled high with dry bags full of drier goods. But it’s right next to the river so I often have dreams now of some great quake coming to move the bags into the river, the river becoming something new and more alive and more current containing so much so that it would create newer finishes and sudden sheen to windows I hadn’t noticed before. It’s a dream of a city becoming more naturally electric: some organic business that built itself up and now links down to the ocean which would slowly branch north until the swamp that stank for years belonged beneath just like the regular coasts.
But how do landscapes change themselves? How can I incite volcanic eruptions or a plate shifting or even a rising tide?
Secondly, how do you accept your place in nature as an edible?
I would prefer to have the lemon of pink playing all day in my apartment with blankets and pecans and beers.
I’m getting a lot of work which I chalk up to building up a resume-portfolio-body but the more I do, the less I want to deepen my experience in this industry. Seems a bit wasteful but at least I’m learning.
Time to run again. I have only been writing short things lately, focusing more on consuming my surroundings and dealing with the feelings of unimportance and disdain. I’ve also still been drawing: one line with stems and branches. Organically made with an unnatural continuation of edges. I wish I had more room to paint, to build things.
I miss New York and find myself lingering over bad television shows in order to gloss my own recollections, I’ve been bringing up a lot of undealt cards, cutting decks, putting it all on black.
I’ve never even gambled informally. What’s wrong with me?
Bruce Springsteen photographed by David Gahr, 1986.
Homo Perfectus Immaculately Conceives Himself
To keep his blessed armor hard he ate
lean meat, cruciferous greens, few
grains. He liked his instants
parceled out in reps and sets, and he was glad,
to dangle like an ape from an iron bar, admiring
his bicep bulge (amen): He worked hard
the slant board, the oblique
twist, and his own form
waxed and polished, his house a bleached vault
where he lit votive candles to the clear
persistence of his little self though no one else
showed up. He liked
the slammed door, the map’s red line, to stomp
a clutch, to clutch the black wheel, to wheel
away in steaming rage.
He was a preacher fond
of Revelation. His truth was slant,
his facts oblique. He sought a righteous girl, articulate,
whose slang he could steal
for his soporific sermons—
a girl all clean and bare in her nethers with mouth
of Cupid’s bow—someone
to dress in white and hold
struggling under water, to warp
the iron of, till she melted. To her
he gave and gave. He gave all
the all he had, which wasn’t much.
I just wrote this huge ramble about flødebollers and bites of wrapped yeast bread scented with cardamom but I don’t know what it means. It all stemmed from thinking about how all the cups of coffee I had in Scandinavian countries seemed remarkable in my memory while all the other places tend to blur together in cups to-go containers.
I have such a fondness for those new slivers of plastic that slide into the sipping hole, stopping it from annoyingly pouring over when you tilt your hand this or that way while walking. But lately it hasn’t been that common annoyance with every cup of coffee
Halloween was spent watching mostly heroes and elaborate masks going up and down my parent’s porch while I heaped candy into their bags. Once of them said this was the best house, though I don’t know if I believed him because he had Milano cookies in his bag but I suppose that depends on your perspective.
Pretending to be someone else today probably is what I should have done.
Bored with my life, repetition, waiting for the situation, select problems impair decision, fearful living, nothing given, Can you rewrite history?