Chordant / Tactile Nostalgia
Yesterday: Hung over. Dealing with goopy financial matters. Car stalled out in rush-hour traffic. Late returning to work.
Walk, B movie, early sleep last night.
My mind has fallen mostly silent the past few days.
___
Wake up: Today: 72 degrees. I could smell the trees like they were pushing through the open windows. Chocolate for breakfast. Squared in front of the bathroom mirror, scrubbed my head and face with a hot towel, shaved the head, the neck. Showered: hot water, sharp eucalyptus soap.
Old Sugar Cubes on the player: "Birthday", "Delicious Demon".
Plenty of time to lay back down. Jack off, more hot towel, flipped through a San Francisco travel guide, eyeing only the pictures.
Today reeks poetry: All thoughts only half-formed in their earthy material. Forgiving, for giving. This is the good that comes of hushin'. This is the skin speaking in good bump and sting.
___
Got dressed. Patchouli in the pits, forearms, under the beard. Laughed at myself in the mirror: old-man limp white boxers, stretched and striped white socks, shrunk and pit-ravaged white t-shirt. Covered all that up for work: Short sleeves today! Laced up the boots. Lingered in the house, listening to the end of one last song, not caring exactly if I'm late.
Car: Chugging but working. Window down, arm out. Radio (no player): Black Crowes and "Ruby" (bluegrass; "Rub-y! Honey, are you mad at your man?"). In my mind, I was back in East Tennessee. Thinking about hanging with Alene in her bright-lit apartment, drinking in the afternoon, her cranking up U2 and singing "Who's gonna ride your wild horses?" and her shouting, "I will! I will, Bono! I swear I will!" (Still wish I'd bought her artpiece "Virgo", a mannequin on rollerskates, suspended and turning from the ceiling, covered in ivy and trains of red fire ants.)
Thinking of getting up hung over and going tubing on a Saturday at the Y in the Smokey Mountains, maybe going to the Sinks and jumping from a rock into the deep water.
Taking Sara on her birthday drinking binge, bar-hopping at obscure, small-town dives, ending up watching her sing operatic karaoke to "Rocky Top" in a concrete block bar at 2:30 am and being asked none-too-politely to get the fuck out of the bar.
Driving overnight, over the mountains, with Beth, to get to Cherokee, listening to every tape we had, hearing the radio fade out, choosing every thin and twisted road we could, moving through fog, chipping philosophy.
Back-road car-driving with Buddy (a later-to-be cop, hairy, all-but-albino), getting drive-thru beer in a gallon milk jug, riding in his 70s hoopdie, smoking, watching Smiths videos at his house, videos he'd recorded with a tripod and a camera set up in front of the television.
___
Beer and sun. Road and skin. Talk and rootsiness. Mouth-wide open-ness in the heart of hand-clenched backwardness. Smells and warmth. Spunk with no need of pride. Earnestness and the rattle of old cars. Elemental and inchoate. The glad fact of dirt.
___
Spring has visited today. Don't mind to have busted with it. I am sure to take the next odd day off in the middle of next week. Even if it's cold.
Bump!
Walk, B movie, early sleep last night.
My mind has fallen mostly silent the past few days.
___
Wake up: Today: 72 degrees. I could smell the trees like they were pushing through the open windows. Chocolate for breakfast. Squared in front of the bathroom mirror, scrubbed my head and face with a hot towel, shaved the head, the neck. Showered: hot water, sharp eucalyptus soap.
Old Sugar Cubes on the player: "Birthday", "Delicious Demon".
Plenty of time to lay back down. Jack off, more hot towel, flipped through a San Francisco travel guide, eyeing only the pictures.
Today reeks poetry: All thoughts only half-formed in their earthy material. Forgiving, for giving. This is the good that comes of hushin'. This is the skin speaking in good bump and sting.
___
Got dressed. Patchouli in the pits, forearms, under the beard. Laughed at myself in the mirror: old-man limp white boxers, stretched and striped white socks, shrunk and pit-ravaged white t-shirt. Covered all that up for work: Short sleeves today! Laced up the boots. Lingered in the house, listening to the end of one last song, not caring exactly if I'm late.
Car: Chugging but working. Window down, arm out. Radio (no player): Black Crowes and "Ruby" (bluegrass; "Rub-y! Honey, are you mad at your man?"). In my mind, I was back in East Tennessee. Thinking about hanging with Alene in her bright-lit apartment, drinking in the afternoon, her cranking up U2 and singing "Who's gonna ride your wild horses?" and her shouting, "I will! I will, Bono! I swear I will!" (Still wish I'd bought her artpiece "Virgo", a mannequin on rollerskates, suspended and turning from the ceiling, covered in ivy and trains of red fire ants.)
Thinking of getting up hung over and going tubing on a Saturday at the Y in the Smokey Mountains, maybe going to the Sinks and jumping from a rock into the deep water.
Taking Sara on her birthday drinking binge, bar-hopping at obscure, small-town dives, ending up watching her sing operatic karaoke to "Rocky Top" in a concrete block bar at 2:30 am and being asked none-too-politely to get the fuck out of the bar.
Driving overnight, over the mountains, with Beth, to get to Cherokee, listening to every tape we had, hearing the radio fade out, choosing every thin and twisted road we could, moving through fog, chipping philosophy.
Back-road car-driving with Buddy (a later-to-be cop, hairy, all-but-albino), getting drive-thru beer in a gallon milk jug, riding in his 70s hoopdie, smoking, watching Smiths videos at his house, videos he'd recorded with a tripod and a camera set up in front of the television.
___
Beer and sun. Road and skin. Talk and rootsiness. Mouth-wide open-ness in the heart of hand-clenched backwardness. Smells and warmth. Spunk with no need of pride. Earnestness and the rattle of old cars. Elemental and inchoate. The glad fact of dirt.
___
Spring has visited today. Don't mind to have busted with it. I am sure to take the next odd day off in the middle of next week. Even if it's cold.
Bump!