my larynx is an empty box & a hoarse moth flutters out;
well, my computer caught the Blast. so here i sit in the house on south kelsey st., while amanda & kristin go out for a girl bonding day, tara & dan go working, and jason takes el woody to gorham to work. we have another show tonight.i am sitting here thinking about the aftermath of the "alexandrian quartet" by lawrence durrell. a soft sidebreeze encounters the fabric of my t-shirt. i am sitting here thinking about how awkward i am, with strange silences and stranger sentences. i am the rotund moon, constantly interfering with the special solitude of others, on cliffs and bluffsides.
so much has happened it is impossible to document off hand. i will be staying here this weekend, and then going north to pittsfield with jason for a week. then back here. then to cape cod, in a house on the beach. the blue, blue beach with the white, white sands and the amazing salt air. when i am old, i will have a house on the cape. then back here, and the final weekend of the show before i go to connecticut for a week. school begins the 2nd.
there was a roadtrip, a few days ago, in which we took jeb's car up to camden-rockport. i'd never seen it, never been that far north before. jeb, ryan, amanda, tara, jason and i, i behind the wheel and periodically smoking a cigarette - which i am endeavouring not to do so much lately - and the smooth confines of a dark beach, a small offroad to "beauchamp point" where the sun set majestically and my camera's light metre went wonky. i took many a good picture, and most didn't come out. such is the nature of owing a 1960s-era camera that belonged to your mother in the era of the hippie. camden is a quaint town, a picturesque hallmark of a place. if i turned it over i would expect to find a crown imprinted firmly on the back. perhaps a small trademark symbol.
this bizarre introspection, leaving me in the absurd rockpools of moodiness & shufflestep. i wish so fervently to be able to say something ... "poetic" and then not be greeted with the small silence of consideration, or judgement, or whatever it is. just appreciation, or commiseration, or maybe - god forbid - a followup? is it so strange to compare two things? to string words together to form the inevitable consequence? i hate being labelled as a poet, and alternately, love it. people don't speak their minds often enough. myself included.
i wrote last night: "women love, and become artists in their own mind, sculpting, painting, drawing the man of their affection, and then falling in love with that design!" i also wrote: "i want so badly to be sitting on a lighthouse roof, watching the incising blade of light spin about below me. lighting up the shores. if i am ever rich, i should like to build a gigantic lighthouse in the middle of a field. when the wind blows through the tall grasses, it will look like a green ocean. then cities will incur upon my lighthouse and it will be taken down, or shut off and kept for posterity.
rather slumped shoulders. slept till noon, dazed and mumbled out to the kitchen where amanda sat. i look at things in a different light lately. an estranged light. i think that i fell asleep last night thinking "if i could only be confident and indepedent, i could be a real Man." but i'm not. i'm insecure and co-dependent. i am also in love, and fall in love frequently. i am ruled by my head and my head rules my heart, and i hate those abstract distinctions for a range of emotions which CANNOT BE CATEGORISED.
enough for now. my rage has half-petered out. perhaps you'll see another entry soon - perhaps not. i have to rediscover the art of longhand writing for a time - it's not too bad but my pen can't keep up with my thoughts, so less gets said. i miss the computer and the fond familiarity of the keys, rattletrap and musical. my thoughts are frequently set to the gentle percussion of the keyboard.
till we meet again. (isn't it funny how you stray away from writing about the one you think the most of?)