4.10.01 - 4:38

the feeling of it is like running away, effecting some sort of escape before you ever realize what's going on or even that it has anything to do with you when really, it's all about you, i had to leave before you backed me into the corner again, i had to get some fresh air, i had to breathe, ok. and then i'm driving and i pass a sign that says 'we sell boxes,' but what college student buys boxes while there are still liquor stores and dumpsters, we will take what we are given as long as we can, you know. they won't miss it. a difference, a distinction between stealing and stealing from "The Man," but whatever, we'd all like to believe in socialism but the fallacy is that we're all human.

the hunger opens up like a fist unfolding and then one places things in the offered palm, we will start simple, bread, a banana, maybe a glass of milk. then we will whip ourselves into a frenzy and sweep boxes off of shelves, throw open the freezer and knock everything onto the floor. root through the trash for what has already been lost. it's not a fever, ok, it's just that your ambient temperature has gone up. you say, is that the correct use of the term ambient

i'll turn myself off so you can't reach me. leave the phone off the hook. quit checking the mail. but see, there's a lesson to be learned. there's always some way to get through. you just have to find it and make sure it's a door that opens.

look how ignorant and oblivious you are. do you even know where those marks came from? of course not. all you remember is the dark and the light and the hurting and now there's this but you couldn't tell me what this really is if i had a gun to your head. oh god, it's just pathetic. seriously. some days i have to write your name on my hand because otherwise i will forget it (you?).

'i don't care if they eat me alive, i've got better things to do than survive, i've got the memory of your warm skin in my hands, i've got a vision of blue sky and dry land,' do you remember that from the song i taught you months or maybe a year or two ago, see, it's not new, and maybe it's not different but what changes is the way things are applicable or not applicable or maybe the glass you see them through and now we see through the glass darkly and now we are sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought and now we do not go gently into that good night and now we are rising out of the ash, smelling whiskey on his breath, burning, falling, running, fading, forgetting. in the end what does it all mean. in the end what it all means is either 1) unimportant or 2) clear.

we make epiphanies in altered states and now look, we're back to normal, our feet are on the ground, we are among the living, but the epiphanies are still in the air, do you remember how butterflies have thier (sic) mother's toes? and that wasn't even our epiphany. we weren't even there, see, but it sticks like, (here you growl and mutter, 'like something sticky, damn it'). yeah.

are you more real if i name you, if i count your fingers and toes, if i touch your face and make sure you aren't made of smoke. i'm scared. we will use this limited (and inferior) visualization studio why? because the window is skinned. it is of the utmost importance to have the avs window skinned, even if you know that it's not even what you want, and look, that palm is still waiting, that fist relaxed, the fingers spread like a question, no, not a question, like a plea. and you're screaming, god, what do you want from me, what can i put in your hand, oh god, you're thinking about mimosas and the way they fold up when you touch them and now you're out of things to throw and you're out of things to try and see, this is all that's left, just conflict and conjecture and confusion.

one thing you can hold on to is the loudness of it all. my goodness it's loud in here. i turned up this radio to block out the sound of the streets and this television to block out the sound of the air conditioner and this stereo to block out the sound of the television and this other television over here to drown out the sound of the blow dryer but it's not loud enough so i turn on the blender and then it's almost complete and i leave the blender on and pick up my violin (you can't imagine it being a fiddle, even if it is the same thing) and play and maybe i would think about nero if there was anything to think about besides this cacophony inside my head. and see, now it's manifesting itself outside me, too. so i can't be crazy.

so your hand is not open because you want it to be filled. this is the conclusion we have reached. your hand is open because there is so much spilling out, so much that can't be contained within this body of yours. you would sing if you could carry a tune, but you can't so you don't and this is a wise decision. so you just stand there with your hands open (now both of them) and stuff spilling out, stuff. i can't even see it and i don't know if you can or not but i am out of things to fill them with and this seems to be the only logical conclusion but i've forgotten where logic really comes from so you can probably just disregard that statement. you can probably disregard all of the above statements. how do i know what the hell i'm talking about.

is this long enough yet? there's still white space. i guess it can't ever really be long enough. it's like he said while he was lying in the hammock in the sunshine with the sea breeze warm and fresh sweeping across the veranda, you know, it really can't get much worse than this. and we look over and we have question marks on our faces and no one says anything until someone does say something, but isn't that always how it is? and she says, you mean, it can't get any better? oh yes, he says, it can't get any better. that makes a lot more sense now, doesn't it?

well? doesn't it?

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