you, me, and Big Brother make three
For as long as people are reading, I'll write. Thank you whoever, and thank you Orwell reincarnated one. For I thought that it was only the people I poach internet off of that were able to read what I type. I thought that the government had access to my thoughts. This is new. Comments are welcomed, appreciated. Cheers to me. Cheers for three. Keep 'em coming. I'll try and do better next time.
Latest adventures in Carsonation: A Trip to the Clinic, Imitating Indiana Jones, a run in with a Max Marshall, another female who doesn't want to live with me, and, parting words with my former self.
One month till I'm 26, better get checked out. I went to the doctor. Couldn't have done it without free health care. Might not need it if I didn't earn a wage that kept me up at night, gets me up early, makes me stress. So I go in and have all of my hypochondriac assumptions shot down. Older people in for flu shot. Maybe next time, I think, maybe never. I get shot with a needle and get three vials of blood removed from my right arm. Checking for everything, I assume. Results pending...
Before this, though, there was the last Thursday of the month, something to celebrate here. A new bar, the Mash Tun, has this patio with a garage door separating it from the interior. At exactly 11 p.m. the door starts to shut. I think that means last call or something. From across the patio, I race to the closing door and fling my arm underneath, ala Indy, and reach for something, anything. Amid the slid, I scrap. Now my hand has a mark that looks eerily like the bite Spiderman got before morphing. Change continues...
Not in roommates. Still have the one. Still looking for another. In the meantime I'm paying a ridiculous amount of money for a lonely life. The last potential female to look around the house seemed interested. She e-mails: (I) realized this weekend that I actually have to be on the road most of November (I think I'll be in Portland for only two days). I've decided not to get a new place and just put my stuff in storage. If I were staying, your place would have been my first choice, but I'm going to have to pass on it. I enjoyed meeting you guys and wish you luck finding someone else.
No longer looking for luck, looking for lunch.
And what else? I spoke to someone I used to be. Funny thing about looking at who you were. You see you, and you are thinking different thoughts that you know you couldn't have thought when you were. I sat down with my former self and here's the script.
Current Me: Silly.
Former Me: I am? Why?
CM: So foolish about stuff. Don't you know what matters?
FM: Thought I did. But I guess I don't know as well as you. Why? What's up?
CM: It's too late for you. I'm you later. And I know now what you should by now. Trouble with you is, you're done with. You can't change because I'm now you, and only I can.
FM: So I can't do anything to change the future?
CM: Of course not. Nor the past, so don't try.
FM: Do you hate me for doing the things I did?
CM: I don't. It's okay. I have to admit, though, that things could have worked out better.
FM: Better for who?
CM: Me and you. We're one in the same. There are things I now know that you don't. But, there are still uncertainties that we both might have forever.
FM: Yeah.
CM: Yeah. I'm accepting. I'm willing to work. My bounce is back.
FM: I lost that. I'm sorry. I don't even know how.
CM: That's not what you should worry about. Let's just try to hang onto it.
FM: Deal.
This morning I stepped off the Max (transit system), was met by a marshall and warned to pay next time. A deal's a deal. Done.
One month till I'm 26, better get checked out. I went to the doctor. Couldn't have done it without free health care. Might not need it if I didn't earn a wage that kept me up at night, gets me up early, makes me stress. So I go in and have all of my hypochondriac assumptions shot down. Older people in for flu shot. Maybe next time, I think, maybe never. I get shot with a needle and get three vials of blood removed from my right arm. Checking for everything, I assume. Results pending...
Before this, though, there was the last Thursday of the month, something to celebrate here. A new bar, the Mash Tun, has this patio with a garage door separating it from the interior. At exactly 11 p.m. the door starts to shut. I think that means last call or something. From across the patio, I race to the closing door and fling my arm underneath, ala Indy, and reach for something, anything. Amid the slid, I scrap. Now my hand has a mark that looks eerily like the bite Spiderman got before morphing. Change continues...
Not in roommates. Still have the one. Still looking for another. In the meantime I'm paying a ridiculous amount of money for a lonely life. The last potential female to look around the house seemed interested. She e-mails: (I) realized this weekend that I actually have to be on the road most of November (I think I'll be in Portland for only two days). I've decided not to get a new place and just put my stuff in storage. If I were staying, your place would have been my first choice, but I'm going to have to pass on it. I enjoyed meeting you guys and wish you luck finding someone else.
No longer looking for luck, looking for lunch.
And what else? I spoke to someone I used to be. Funny thing about looking at who you were. You see you, and you are thinking different thoughts that you know you couldn't have thought when you were. I sat down with my former self and here's the script.
Current Me: Silly.
Former Me: I am? Why?
CM: So foolish about stuff. Don't you know what matters?
FM: Thought I did. But I guess I don't know as well as you. Why? What's up?
CM: It's too late for you. I'm you later. And I know now what you should by now. Trouble with you is, you're done with. You can't change because I'm now you, and only I can.
FM: So I can't do anything to change the future?
CM: Of course not. Nor the past, so don't try.
FM: Do you hate me for doing the things I did?
CM: I don't. It's okay. I have to admit, though, that things could have worked out better.
FM: Better for who?
CM: Me and you. We're one in the same. There are things I now know that you don't. But, there are still uncertainties that we both might have forever.
FM: Yeah.
CM: Yeah. I'm accepting. I'm willing to work. My bounce is back.
FM: I lost that. I'm sorry. I don't even know how.
CM: That's not what you should worry about. Let's just try to hang onto it.
FM: Deal.
This morning I stepped off the Max (transit system), was met by a marshall and warned to pay next time. A deal's a deal. Done.
Reconditioning the Recall
Rip.
I should have said something else. When I was sitting there at the bar, looking at my friend and told her that there was a moment between us that I had recalled in my mind, I told her it was comforting. I probably should have said something else. There had to have been something else I could have said, but just didn't.
It was true. An image, a feeling did reoccur in my head after a previous moment took place. But that moment was mine and I let it loose, giving it words, and sharing the thought. When it was mine the cushion was softer. Shared, the feeling faded and becomes less intimate. Blown: the memory is less memorable. And not just mine.
So, what do I do? Keep it all in and share nothing? No. Maybe it's best to share things with people that don't know the other. Bring in an independent third party for feeling interpretation. It might mean something else. Or nothing at all. I'm clueless when it comes to this. Result: the only girl in my life is a four-year old, four legged, fur friend.
F-i-g-u-r-e-s:
F
L
O
P
I should have said something else. When I was sitting there at the bar, looking at my friend and told her that there was a moment between us that I had recalled in my mind, I told her it was comforting. I probably should have said something else. There had to have been something else I could have said, but just didn't.
It was true. An image, a feeling did reoccur in my head after a previous moment took place. But that moment was mine and I let it loose, giving it words, and sharing the thought. When it was mine the cushion was softer. Shared, the feeling faded and becomes less intimate. Blown: the memory is less memorable. And not just mine.
So, what do I do? Keep it all in and share nothing? No. Maybe it's best to share things with people that don't know the other. Bring in an independent third party for feeling interpretation. It might mean something else. Or nothing at all. I'm clueless when it comes to this. Result: the only girl in my life is a four-year old, four legged, fur friend.
F-i-g-u-r-e-s:
F
L
O
P
Growth process
The garage door was open to Rudy's, the the barber shop up the street from my house. This, my day off, seemed like a good day for a haircut.
Judging from haircuts I've been in Portland for sometime, close to a year. As you may or may not recall -- see A haircut buzzed if not -- I've paid for cuts before here. I've paid for several haircuts (3) and I'm not just saying that to make you think I'm not a deadbeat. My last haircut, however, was given to me by a friend, alcohol induced. Me first, then him, in my garage after a barroom discussion.
"Sean, shave my head," I get out as beer runs down my chin.
It was free, and left me feeling loads lighter, ready to become something different. A friend shaving your head when you are drunk is a completely different from visiting a shop. It's cleaner, feels like change is about to occur in your life, and satisfyingly so. You want to change, and are ready for new beginnings. It's a birth with experience to come.
I tell Lindsay, my clipper today, that, "I'm recovering from a shaved head incident." She smiles and goes to work.
What feels good about a haircut, when you're getting one, is the way a female touches, holds, and trims with gentleness. It helps if her smell is intoxicating, and smile sweet. A paid cut, a scalp sculpture, is the experience. You don't walk away wanting to change, ready to be reborn. The experience seeps into your scalp and leaves you changed.
"Some curls back there," I say to Lindsay.
"Yeah," she says with a that smile. "It's a funny growth process."
A few more snips and she was done. "That was nice," I say, referring to the time in the chair rather than the final outcome. My hair looks good; I feel good, it's as if the haircut cleaned up the inside of my head as well as the outside.
I've been here almost a year, and have had four haircuts. I'm different now, sure. From experiences. Because of haircuts.
Life: "It's a funny growth process," Lindsay voice re-peats in my head.
Judging from haircuts I've been in Portland for sometime, close to a year. As you may or may not recall -- see A haircut buzzed if not -- I've paid for cuts before here. I've paid for several haircuts (3) and I'm not just saying that to make you think I'm not a deadbeat. My last haircut, however, was given to me by a friend, alcohol induced. Me first, then him, in my garage after a barroom discussion.
"Sean, shave my head," I get out as beer runs down my chin.
It was free, and left me feeling loads lighter, ready to become something different. A friend shaving your head when you are drunk is a completely different from visiting a shop. It's cleaner, feels like change is about to occur in your life, and satisfyingly so. You want to change, and are ready for new beginnings. It's a birth with experience to come.
I tell Lindsay, my clipper today, that, "I'm recovering from a shaved head incident." She smiles and goes to work.
What feels good about a haircut, when you're getting one, is the way a female touches, holds, and trims with gentleness. It helps if her smell is intoxicating, and smile sweet. A paid cut, a scalp sculpture, is the experience. You don't walk away wanting to change, ready to be reborn. The experience seeps into your scalp and leaves you changed.
"Some curls back there," I say to Lindsay.
"Yeah," she says with a that smile. "It's a funny growth process."
A few more snips and she was done. "That was nice," I say, referring to the time in the chair rather than the final outcome. My hair looks good; I feel good, it's as if the haircut cleaned up the inside of my head as well as the outside.
I've been here almost a year, and have had four haircuts. I'm different now, sure. From experiences. Because of haircuts.
Life: "It's a funny growth process," Lindsay voice re-peats in my head.
two lists to twelve
Too many know. Don't ask me what. The problem is too many know each other, of each other. This isn't going to work. It couldn't possibly. Unless...
Here's what to do:
1. Run.
2. Change name, facial hair.
3. Be somewhere where girl falls in love with you.
4. Make matters worse, by faking a feeling.
4. Become annoyed.
5. Frustrated.
6. Change mind a bunch.
7. Fall in love with others by looks alone.
8. Make a fool out of yourself in front of them.
9. Piss off the former.
10. Scare the latter.
11. Run back to where you came from.
12. Rest up for the next outing.
Feel free to follow these steps and re-peat if necessary. They'll start to get to know eachother if you don't move fast enough. There's no chance in capturing when you do. Stick around and rick lives. Better yet...
Sip your coffee. Smoke your cigarette. What ever it takes. With the live business: take care of it. Make sure you know where you are. Know who they are and don't get caught up in surreal surroundings. Not when you've had too much to drink. OK good. Now we're getting somewhere. This could be it...
1. Stay where you're at.
2. Let life continue.
3. Watch it carefully at first to prevent sillover.
4. Stir constantly to prevent sticky situations.
5. Breathe deepley, oxygen is best, marijuana substitute in cool climates, alone or with those most comfortable.
6. Think about it.
7. Act upon it.
8. Don't look back.
9. Say what you're thinking.
10. Fa-la-la-la
11. La
12. And be gone.
Good. We've got something here. Maybe not a code. Perhaps a cure. A curse? Shutch jor mouff.
And I'm out.
Here's what to do:
1. Run.
2. Change name, facial hair.
3. Be somewhere where girl falls in love with you.
4. Make matters worse, by faking a feeling.
4. Become annoyed.
5. Frustrated.
6. Change mind a bunch.
7. Fall in love with others by looks alone.
8. Make a fool out of yourself in front of them.
9. Piss off the former.
10. Scare the latter.
11. Run back to where you came from.
12. Rest up for the next outing.
Feel free to follow these steps and re-peat if necessary. They'll start to get to know eachother if you don't move fast enough. There's no chance in capturing when you do. Stick around and rick lives. Better yet...
Sip your coffee. Smoke your cigarette. What ever it takes. With the live business: take care of it. Make sure you know where you are. Know who they are and don't get caught up in surreal surroundings. Not when you've had too much to drink. OK good. Now we're getting somewhere. This could be it...
1. Stay where you're at.
2. Let life continue.
3. Watch it carefully at first to prevent sillover.
4. Stir constantly to prevent sticky situations.
5. Breathe deepley, oxygen is best, marijuana substitute in cool climates, alone or with those most comfortable.
6. Think about it.
7. Act upon it.
8. Don't look back.
9. Say what you're thinking.
10. Fa-la-la-la
11. La
12. And be gone.
Good. We've got something here. Maybe not a code. Perhaps a cure. A curse? Shutch jor mouff.
And I'm out.
The devil's a liar
Heres me: I think I have to throw up. Theres a topless girl next to me. And when I say girl I don't mean 12 year old you sick fuck. She's more like 20. She doesn't make me ill. She's good looking. But I think: I'm ill. I run to the bathroom where I'm met by the devil. The smell in the bathroom alone is enough to set me off. Huhhhghh. Followed by other, less productive heaves. Here's the devil: God hates you. Me: Liar. My eyes are red, teary and my skinny, naked chest trembles. I'm not afraid of you, Devil, I think. And I'm not. My throat hurts. The devil has some power, I'm convinced. I'm ill, aren't I? And I am. My throat kills and I can't tell if it's from my short stints with smoking or from hacking up last nights beverages. Either way, the Devil, convinces me that neither could possibly be good from me. Except he places the blame on God. Liar, Devil, I tell him as I flush the toilet and watch him whirl counter-clockwise down the whole. Me, to myself in the mirror: What was I thinking?
There's a girl in my bed, and I'm both glad I wasn't thinking clearly (how else could she have gotten there), and glad I was thinking well enough (I didn't have sex with her). See, here's the deal. I knew her. It wasn't like I just met her at a party and clubbed her over the head and dragged her back to my cave to snuggle up next to her. I'd seen her at my house before. She had slept with my roommate Steve. I liked her, however, he had stopped talking to her. She liked me too, I think, she offered to talk me to the coast. Too bad I just flushed the devil, too bad I felt like I got the death blow.
Yeah, it's strange. But not that surprising. We went to the coast. After another encounter with the devil in the bathroom, I recovered from the death blow and we took off to the coast. Heidi came and kept us sane. We had a great time. It was perhaps my best day on the beach. We enjoyed each other's company. But it was too good to go one again. She's moving; she slept with my roommate. Shit. It'd never work out. Well, maybe. She texts: Are you busy? I'd love to borrow you and Heidi for a little while?...
Here's me to my roommate: Does it make you feel uncomfortable that I want to spend time with girl mentioned above? He says: Kind of. And that's all that really needs to be said. I feel bad for her. I liked spending time with here, but roommate was just going to make her uncomfortable. No, I was never going to sleep with her -- he had done that. We were never going to get married -- she was leaving. But Heidi and I could use some other company right about now. And that doesn't seem like it's going to happen with this one.
Girls: there coming into my life as quickly as they are leaving from it. Awaiting the next.
There's a girl in my bed, and I'm both glad I wasn't thinking clearly (how else could she have gotten there), and glad I was thinking well enough (I didn't have sex with her). See, here's the deal. I knew her. It wasn't like I just met her at a party and clubbed her over the head and dragged her back to my cave to snuggle up next to her. I'd seen her at my house before. She had slept with my roommate Steve. I liked her, however, he had stopped talking to her. She liked me too, I think, she offered to talk me to the coast. Too bad I just flushed the devil, too bad I felt like I got the death blow.
Yeah, it's strange. But not that surprising. We went to the coast. After another encounter with the devil in the bathroom, I recovered from the death blow and we took off to the coast. Heidi came and kept us sane. We had a great time. It was perhaps my best day on the beach. We enjoyed each other's company. But it was too good to go one again. She's moving; she slept with my roommate. Shit. It'd never work out. Well, maybe. She texts: Are you busy? I'd love to borrow you and Heidi for a little while?...
Here's me to my roommate: Does it make you feel uncomfortable that I want to spend time with girl mentioned above? He says: Kind of. And that's all that really needs to be said. I feel bad for her. I liked spending time with here, but roommate was just going to make her uncomfortable. No, I was never going to sleep with her -- he had done that. We were never going to get married -- she was leaving. But Heidi and I could use some other company right about now. And that doesn't seem like it's going to happen with this one.
Girls: there coming into my life as quickly as they are leaving from it. Awaiting the next.
"you can't see tits on the radio"
This is a conversation I had in my head with Linda Carter .
"Hi, Linda," I pretend say. "I don't want to come across pushy..."
"But you are pushing," Ms Carter responds. And I removed my imaginary hands from the made-up her.
"OK. This may seem a little psycho."
"This is all psychological," Ms Carter says in my head.
"And I'm not meaning to be desperate."
"But you are," Ms Carter says, stepping back.
"Can we go out," I say, and put towards the end, "sometime."
Ms Carter sort of snorts in my head, but not in a way I hear, in a way that I see and feel.
"I can't stand that you believe I'm wrong for you."
Ms Carter shakes her head. Still no.
"It's you that's right," and I seem to know this.
"Your not ready to impress me," Wonderwoman confesses, and I know better than she that it's true.
"I can't help to think that you've realized I'm..."
"Living in fiction," Ms Carter wonderfully finishes for me.
"Fiction is the only part of me I can look at with conviction," is all I'm saying in no way arguing with her, which in a sense would be myself. I'm just saying.
"Sure. It's sad but true," gift-giving Ms Carter goes.
"I know you," I quickly add.
"Now," Ms Carter says losing patience.
"Love you." I tell this to everyone who comes into my head.
"Not the real me," not-the real Ms Carter says.
"Miss you." I'm down to two-word sentences.
"TV me," she too it seems, with less letters.
"Still want you, but can't have you," I conclude.
"Shouldn't." And I think she's serious.
"But where are you going today?" I say as she goes around the corner and out my ear.
She'll always be Wonderwoman to me.
"Hi, Linda," I pretend say. "I don't want to come across pushy..."
"But you are pushing," Ms Carter responds. And I removed my imaginary hands from the made-up her.
"OK. This may seem a little psycho."
"This is all psychological," Ms Carter says in my head.
"And I'm not meaning to be desperate."
"But you are," Ms Carter says, stepping back.
"Can we go out," I say, and put towards the end, "sometime."
Ms Carter sort of snorts in my head, but not in a way I hear, in a way that I see and feel.
"I can't stand that you believe I'm wrong for you."
Ms Carter shakes her head. Still no.
"It's you that's right," and I seem to know this.
"Your not ready to impress me," Wonderwoman confesses, and I know better than she that it's true.
"I can't help to think that you've realized I'm..."
"Living in fiction," Ms Carter wonderfully finishes for me.
"Fiction is the only part of me I can look at with conviction," is all I'm saying in no way arguing with her, which in a sense would be myself. I'm just saying.
"Sure. It's sad but true," gift-giving Ms Carter goes.
"I know you," I quickly add.
"Now," Ms Carter says losing patience.
"Love you." I tell this to everyone who comes into my head.
"Not the real me," not-the real Ms Carter says.
"Miss you." I'm down to two-word sentences.
"TV me," she too it seems, with less letters.
"Still want you, but can't have you," I conclude.
"Shouldn't." And I think she's serious.
"But where are you going today?" I say as she goes around the corner and out my ear.
She'll always be Wonderwoman to me.
According to those familiar with the situation
There are millions of Smiths out there. There are pages and pages of Smith very close to you, in your local telephone book. Can a Smith date a Smith? A certain surname?
It's a common name, says someone who'd like me to be happy. It's almost as bad a dating a co-worker, though. It sits in your mind every time you see, think, say something to her.
No. It's strange, says someone familiar with the situation. That's true. But is that the only reason? No. An excuse. It's something you say to yourself. She's four years younger. Age doesn't matter, according to someone familiar with the situation. So I think of other reasons. Can I kiss someone that I know has kissed someone that I know? I'm almost disgusted by it. Yes. But this isn't the real reason either.
You can't be with anyone right now because they are not on your mind at the time, say sources close to home. They don't have your attention. They aren't talking to me, but to someone staring off, looking out the window, contemplating the madness of the world. Or worse. This is unfair to others, assures someone who's been there before. You put yourself in these situations. Sometimes on purpose, I'm told by a by-stander. You make matters worse by making matters that don't really matter matter. I trust this person because of his proximity to me at this time.
Or maybe I'm just not attracted to this girl. Wouldn't come up with excuses, wouldn't look out the window if I was. But how do you tell someone that? Direct them to your blog, an immediate family member mentions.
It's a common name, says someone who'd like me to be happy. It's almost as bad a dating a co-worker, though. It sits in your mind every time you see, think, say something to her.
No. It's strange, says someone familiar with the situation. That's true. But is that the only reason? No. An excuse. It's something you say to yourself. She's four years younger. Age doesn't matter, according to someone familiar with the situation. So I think of other reasons. Can I kiss someone that I know has kissed someone that I know? I'm almost disgusted by it. Yes. But this isn't the real reason either.
You can't be with anyone right now because they are not on your mind at the time, say sources close to home. They don't have your attention. They aren't talking to me, but to someone staring off, looking out the window, contemplating the madness of the world. Or worse. This is unfair to others, assures someone who's been there before. You put yourself in these situations. Sometimes on purpose, I'm told by a by-stander. You make matters worse by making matters that don't really matter matter. I trust this person because of his proximity to me at this time.
Or maybe I'm just not attracted to this girl. Wouldn't come up with excuses, wouldn't look out the window if I was. But how do you tell someone that? Direct them to your blog, an immediate family member mentions.
Just let me know where
There's a ways to go yet.
Way to go, Champ.
There's still a way to go.
The Way? Which way? Stay.
Stay?
That's something.
If anything says, 'do nothing,' it's stay.
So say, nothing does happen? As of today, which way?
I know. Which is what I'm doing.
Then go. If you say you're staying just to stay, go.
I can go. There are placenames.
Place a name: (here).
Yeah, I could do that.
Map 'em.
Well, we covered stay. That's here.
Plotted that point.
There's go...
Direction?
North. To an Alaskan adventure.
Alaska, huh? End of the roads?
No. Anchorage. To live with a Keil.
O.K. Where else?
Home. I could always go home.
To Albuquerque? Already?
Yeah. Home is where I reset.
Regret is more like it. Regress. Retire.
There are more places. That's just an option. A point.
Other directions from here?
Not so far north, but north still, there is a Love.
I thought it was over? You said, 'It's over.'
We say a lot of things. It's what you feel.
Can we get on with this list?
Here's where the map goes gray. Denver's on the map... Some place in Cali... Idaho makes her mark... Santa Fe, maybe?
Gray? More like a light black.
There's no light black. There's Portland.
I see no difference.
There is. I'm looking on the map and see: Stay, Seattle, Anchorage, or Albuquerque.
You need a compass. And a geography refreshment course.
And there's a countdown.
And a clock.
I'll have to think. And work.
Time is of the Menace.
Yes.
So, when will I know? You know, where you go?
As soon as I do.
Just let me know where.
Way to go, Champ.
There's still a way to go.
The Way? Which way? Stay.
Stay?
That's something.
If anything says, 'do nothing,' it's stay.
So say, nothing does happen? As of today, which way?
I know. Which is what I'm doing.
Then go. If you say you're staying just to stay, go.
I can go. There are placenames.
Place a name: (here).
Yeah, I could do that.
Map 'em.
Well, we covered stay. That's here.
Plotted that point.
There's go...
Direction?
North. To an Alaskan adventure.
Alaska, huh? End of the roads?
No. Anchorage. To live with a Keil.
O.K. Where else?
Home. I could always go home.
To Albuquerque? Already?
Yeah. Home is where I reset.
Regret is more like it. Regress. Retire.
There are more places. That's just an option. A point.
Other directions from here?
Not so far north, but north still, there is a Love.
I thought it was over? You said, 'It's over.'
We say a lot of things. It's what you feel.
Can we get on with this list?
Here's where the map goes gray. Denver's on the map... Some place in Cali... Idaho makes her mark... Santa Fe, maybe?
Gray? More like a light black.
There's no light black. There's Portland.
I see no difference.
There is. I'm looking on the map and see: Stay, Seattle, Anchorage, or Albuquerque.
You need a compass. And a geography refreshment course.
And there's a countdown.
And a clock.
I'll have to think. And work.
Time is of the Menace.
Yes.
So, when will I know? You know, where you go?
As soon as I do.
Just let me know where.
I'll have some coffee and a potato please
Even when I'm in need of sleep -- well, after some coffee -- I get these sentences. Ideas. Lines. Sparks of light. Then, that's it. It's no idea, really. Nothing that would changes my life. Nothing big enough to form a story around. A spark that goes back to black. I can't complain. Their fun things usually. I Keep 'em for a while. Dwell. Spill. I forget them but not before thinking about what it all means. I guess, then, that they do mean something. They are little moments that change my life. When added up. When compiled into a log, I'll have something.
When I drink the coffee my hearts starts beating faster. When I think thoughts, my heart beats. I feel it and don't think it's that normal. I worry that it's working harder than it needs to be. That I'm pumping too much blood. And don't need to be doing that. I rest and try to breathe. Slow it down. Sometimes it works. Most times I worry about it, and that usually makes my heart start beating faster. Worry waits as I consider fate. Fuck it. Fate's no fun. So I start to think about things not-yet done. And I don't know what to do. So, like the environmentalist, when you don't know what to do, do nothing. I drink coffee to sharpen my mind. It works and I once thought of my conscious like a screw. Loose, it's tired and capable of going dark -- to sleep. Tighten, I'm bright. Have insight. Can type.
I can't think of it like that anymore. Because I've counteracted. I'm loosened on purpose. Tighten just to get back to where I was. So, now, I'm thinking of it this way:
My head is a potato. Seeking a rebirth, I unearth it. It's dirty, so I hold it under cool, running water. I rub it with my hands and feel it's character. I try it off and get the peeler. I go beneath the surface, open up the pores. It's bright. The skin is off. It's clean. It's white and alive. I look in the sink and see the skins. The catcher has trapped them, not allowing them down the sink.
There's regret. There's a past and mistakes. There are episodes in my head play and rerun. There are moments that I can't take back. Words that I've spoken too soon, with too little thought. There's time wasted and wishes worried. There are dark spots and depressing thoughts. But there's this:
These things, all of them, I can mash like a potato.
When I drink the coffee my hearts starts beating faster. When I think thoughts, my heart beats. I feel it and don't think it's that normal. I worry that it's working harder than it needs to be. That I'm pumping too much blood. And don't need to be doing that. I rest and try to breathe. Slow it down. Sometimes it works. Most times I worry about it, and that usually makes my heart start beating faster. Worry waits as I consider fate. Fuck it. Fate's no fun. So I start to think about things not-yet done. And I don't know what to do. So, like the environmentalist, when you don't know what to do, do nothing. I drink coffee to sharpen my mind. It works and I once thought of my conscious like a screw. Loose, it's tired and capable of going dark -- to sleep. Tighten, I'm bright. Have insight. Can type.
I can't think of it like that anymore. Because I've counteracted. I'm loosened on purpose. Tighten just to get back to where I was. So, now, I'm thinking of it this way:
My head is a potato. Seeking a rebirth, I unearth it. It's dirty, so I hold it under cool, running water. I rub it with my hands and feel it's character. I try it off and get the peeler. I go beneath the surface, open up the pores. It's bright. The skin is off. It's clean. It's white and alive. I look in the sink and see the skins. The catcher has trapped them, not allowing them down the sink.
There's regret. There's a past and mistakes. There are episodes in my head play and rerun. There are moments that I can't take back. Words that I've spoken too soon, with too little thought. There's time wasted and wishes worried. There are dark spots and depressing thoughts. But there's this:
These things, all of them, I can mash like a potato.
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