(no subject)
it is my intention to write. i spend too much time reading, gazing into my own reflection, doubting others and folding my face into various shapes of contempt. while standing bored behind the bar at work, i often pick up a pen and a pad of guest checks. i tell myself to record "the experience." suddenly it seems like there is no "experience." i am just standing there bored.
but really, it's not like there is nothing going on. it's just not what i'd like to be happening, it isn't superficially exciting, it's harder and requires more concentration to be written about. it would probably require me to examine some of my faults, take note of where i've failed.
there is complexity in my relationships with people, but i've either known them so long that it seems impossible to untangle on paper, or it's so complex that i can only view it from above, neat. compressed. innocuous. and most people i know well, i wouldn't have a clue where to begin.
all i have right now are small handfuls of descriptions. just as a stenographer keeps a record of what people say but never what they mean, i may as well be chewing gum in a courtroom, eyeing the illustrator and wishing i had his job, listening and misunderstanding. it is not my wish to understand my life anymore-- i'd just like to be able to go about it.
today i had 4 hours of sleep. today i woke up at 10. today my head was ringing as i walked down woodward avenue, upset with myself for forgetting sunglasses. the sun glared. it seems malicious to me even when i am not hungover. i do not really like the sun, despite appreciating what it does for humans and the planet EARTH and the whole gravitational center of the galaxy thing. i burn easily. i look ridiculous when i squint.
today i apologized to a young girl around my age. she administered a breathalyzer test that i did not pass. she is not a police officer, and i wasn't driving, so failing was okay. she rescheduled our appointment and told me to put 12 hours between any alcohol and our next meeting. maybe i will. maybe i won't. i received ten dollars for blowing a .02, but no one's personal approval i am sure.
i took the long way home and decided to sit at the bar across the road. i had one bloody mary. i had some small talk. there were mardi gras beads hanging from the light fixtures over my head. i thought about lucy. i thought about the story i'd heard the previous night, about the man who owned the bar and my apartment building too, and how he'd dressed like moses and roamed new orleans, paying for the drinks of his staff.
i thought about some things. decisions i have to make, soon and down the road. i didn't seriously consider any of them today though. i took note, upon walking through my apartment door, of how keith sleeps on his face. while he sleeps i never see any part of him but a mousy tuft of messy hair poking out from the blanket. it does tug at me in a strange way. i don't know what it means, but i have an inexorable urge to grab his entire torso and roll him over the mattress. the description is humorless. the experience would include laughter.
the description is humorless, but the rhythm is neat. the repetition is important. the day is not over.
but really, it's not like there is nothing going on. it's just not what i'd like to be happening, it isn't superficially exciting, it's harder and requires more concentration to be written about. it would probably require me to examine some of my faults, take note of where i've failed.
there is complexity in my relationships with people, but i've either known them so long that it seems impossible to untangle on paper, or it's so complex that i can only view it from above, neat. compressed. innocuous. and most people i know well, i wouldn't have a clue where to begin.
all i have right now are small handfuls of descriptions. just as a stenographer keeps a record of what people say but never what they mean, i may as well be chewing gum in a courtroom, eyeing the illustrator and wishing i had his job, listening and misunderstanding. it is not my wish to understand my life anymore-- i'd just like to be able to go about it.
today i had 4 hours of sleep. today i woke up at 10. today my head was ringing as i walked down woodward avenue, upset with myself for forgetting sunglasses. the sun glared. it seems malicious to me even when i am not hungover. i do not really like the sun, despite appreciating what it does for humans and the planet EARTH and the whole gravitational center of the galaxy thing. i burn easily. i look ridiculous when i squint.
today i apologized to a young girl around my age. she administered a breathalyzer test that i did not pass. she is not a police officer, and i wasn't driving, so failing was okay. she rescheduled our appointment and told me to put 12 hours between any alcohol and our next meeting. maybe i will. maybe i won't. i received ten dollars for blowing a .02, but no one's personal approval i am sure.
i took the long way home and decided to sit at the bar across the road. i had one bloody mary. i had some small talk. there were mardi gras beads hanging from the light fixtures over my head. i thought about lucy. i thought about the story i'd heard the previous night, about the man who owned the bar and my apartment building too, and how he'd dressed like moses and roamed new orleans, paying for the drinks of his staff.
i thought about some things. decisions i have to make, soon and down the road. i didn't seriously consider any of them today though. i took note, upon walking through my apartment door, of how keith sleeps on his face. while he sleeps i never see any part of him but a mousy tuft of messy hair poking out from the blanket. it does tug at me in a strange way. i don't know what it means, but i have an inexorable urge to grab his entire torso and roll him over the mattress. the description is humorless. the experience would include laughter.
the description is humorless, but the rhythm is neat. the repetition is important. the day is not over.