an exerpt from my moleskine.
So here I sit on the side of a busy street. Temple Avenue. The atmospherics all around me make me feel as though I am seated at a virtual nexus of activity. Far below I can feel as well as I can hear the constant vibrations emanating from the freeway traffic as the denizens of the cyclic struggle travel on in a constant stream towards destinations unknown. Each passing vehicle throws the wind against my face and lays down the repetitive yet irregular Doppler warcries before them as well as in their wake. Easily habituated into a strangely comforting drone, drowning distractions, creating a kind of microcosm around me - perfect conditions for me to think. Three feet forward and I'd be swept into the tide - my body smashed and ground into pulp... but I am strangely calm, unconcerned and even reassured by my proximity to this potentially dangerous promise. Perhaps this indifferent tranquility is rooted in the fact that I haven't slept yet... I'm running on chemically induced coherency. Nothing new. I am unsure why I felt called to settle in this precarious spot - obviously it wasn't an altogether creative urge as I'm not really attempting to write a poem or express anything interesting or profound... I'm merely writing for writing's sake or perhaps for the purpose of observation. The lighted outline of the cross atop the hill provides an interesting foil to the Shilo Inn, a house of worship for carnal "sin" and the soft wonders of skin upon skin and pleasure... but this is merely a perception as the hotel doesn't intrinsically connote sexuality... for travelers I would presume it signifies much needed rest and comfort, an interposed state of inaction, a stopping point along their journey. The traffic's slowing, I really ought to be going but my back has grown fond of the uncomfortable support of this telephone pole that I'm leaning against. The twinkling of multicolored points of light seem to stand almost in rebellion to the city night. Illuminating the earth below, but also casting synthetic shadows while obscuring the lilting dance of the starlight through the thin film of clouds... Our efforts to extend the day have in a way blinded us to the incredible magic of things natural and beautiful. I feel as though the lives around me seek self definition through constant action, as if the essence of living is to be in motion... but I would argue that at this moment I am just as vital and alive as the masses shifted towards overdrive. I behold the wonders of what remnants of nature persist through the imposing forces of civilization while also intently, quietly listening to the buzzing song of the power lines above me in their tangle of electric strings - a mottled symphony - a tribute to the marvels of human ingenuity. Alright, it's really fucking cold. And I have to pee.