Taste the air
Remember when I stalled and said that Epstein's scar had been opened once again?
I hardly recalled more than my snark remark about the culling of dreams and the trussing of bodies... these images that rose out of sleep deprivation, out of drugged dysphoria and ill-mind.
I know that you are no longer listening, and at some point I began to shout for myself as much as anyone else. It's not that I want you to hear me or want you to ignore me either. I am keeping the records, taking the exam and hiding the question sheet in my jacket pocket for later. Later, when I doodle across the margins.
Yet, I surely am curious. Everytime I throw out some banal greeting, I'm fishing for human chromosomes. What would you think if you looked back a few pages, or into the scrambled chronology I've gradually constructed? I'm not feeding myself on this trip, I'm doing it to learn the craft, nothing more.
And being marginalized is something my doodles became accustomed to until college. That's when the pictures got out of hand, took up whole pages, contained full harmonic phrases, proofs and derivations, all in the doodles that filled in the space between some crusty professors' sparse thoughts about trivial relationships between chemicals, data, formulae, authors, literary periods... I suppose I rejected the invitation to join the intellectual elite as soon as I went to community college and chose to prioritize my humanity, which I have so conveniently hid from you since.
But it's not as hidden as you think, when a few mouse clicks could turn your stomach, or reveal the vulnerabilities of a sparrow-minded musician. I'll never be a vocalist, but in my mind I sing so much more beautifully than you did each eve. I convinced myself it wasn't delusional, because I was entirely aware that it was a fantasy at that moment. I'm not really holding on, I'm unpeeling, and the adhesive is rendered senseless by the frosty air around you.
I never meant to write this much. I just remember when being concise led me to make notably absurd statements about things none of you will ever see. Also, in my limited experience, it is my unconstrained ranting which brings about the most congition. Occasionally it instills thought. This time I wish it'd instill pleasure. I know it won't mean anything. It's just record keeping. Accounting. Reclaiming.
I vainly withhold my desire for an audience. I save my favourite pieces, refusing to lay them in the stone of a digital recording that will be less than enthralling.
I'm filling in details that you'll surely neglect, and I have an audience in mind. But I'll silence myself before I ever step out
I hardly recalled more than my snark remark about the culling of dreams and the trussing of bodies... these images that rose out of sleep deprivation, out of drugged dysphoria and ill-mind.
I know that you are no longer listening, and at some point I began to shout for myself as much as anyone else. It's not that I want you to hear me or want you to ignore me either. I am keeping the records, taking the exam and hiding the question sheet in my jacket pocket for later. Later, when I doodle across the margins.
Yet, I surely am curious. Everytime I throw out some banal greeting, I'm fishing for human chromosomes. What would you think if you looked back a few pages, or into the scrambled chronology I've gradually constructed? I'm not feeding myself on this trip, I'm doing it to learn the craft, nothing more.
And being marginalized is something my doodles became accustomed to until college. That's when the pictures got out of hand, took up whole pages, contained full harmonic phrases, proofs and derivations, all in the doodles that filled in the space between some crusty professors' sparse thoughts about trivial relationships between chemicals, data, formulae, authors, literary periods... I suppose I rejected the invitation to join the intellectual elite as soon as I went to community college and chose to prioritize my humanity, which I have so conveniently hid from you since.
But it's not as hidden as you think, when a few mouse clicks could turn your stomach, or reveal the vulnerabilities of a sparrow-minded musician. I'll never be a vocalist, but in my mind I sing so much more beautifully than you did each eve. I convinced myself it wasn't delusional, because I was entirely aware that it was a fantasy at that moment. I'm not really holding on, I'm unpeeling, and the adhesive is rendered senseless by the frosty air around you.
I never meant to write this much. I just remember when being concise led me to make notably absurd statements about things none of you will ever see. Also, in my limited experience, it is my unconstrained ranting which brings about the most congition. Occasionally it instills thought. This time I wish it'd instill pleasure. I know it won't mean anything. It's just record keeping. Accounting. Reclaiming.
I vainly withhold my desire for an audience. I save my favourite pieces, refusing to lay them in the stone of a digital recording that will be less than enthralling.
I'm filling in details that you'll surely neglect, and I have an audience in mind. But I'll silence myself before I ever step out