poor Noah, he stepped out of his Ark and God laughed and sent the rains again!
��������� �����you might like the gypsy life / you judge your progress by the phases of the moon / get your compass and your sharpest knife / people love you when they know you're leaving soonso i went home for a few days. images:
touching the outside of my old room, now my sister's. the rough unsanded wood, stained in a hurry,
the basement with peculiar smell and piles of my books.
the backyard, seeming to get smaller every time i visit. the garden, fenced off. the pool's deck on its side, and a giant sandy circle where the pool used to be. some digging evidence. tall, weedy grass,
grandmother's house. the pear tree is huge. the other maple sapling has enormous leaves twice the size of my hand. rain, but not full rain, the kind that will drench you, but drizzle and drab.
[interval: jason just rushed in and rushed out. singing 'a little bit of good'.]
right now i would really like to be drunk. coming back always disorients me. i wish i had an instant-compass to point me in the right direction. kristin seems subdued, and jason seems slightly off-kilter. not .. news, really. everything has progressed, i just feel as though i've been in the presence of a singularity and everyone is lightyears behind me right now. staring out the windows at some guys walking up the path smoking. two guys who always seem to be in the presence of one another. they seem to always be playing hacky-sack.
there is nothing in my head today / nothing awful there to ponder or confuse me / go ahead in what you have to say / i will listen as i listen to the news
i drove fast on the highway. oh, another image:
'standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand' by the primitive radio gods playing as i drive south on I-95. ahead, white clouds and the Endless Horizon. i imagined for a minute i was in tennessee or virginia or .. Elsewhere.
driving back, on the maine turnpike, flashed at by signs that say "TURN HEADLIGHTS ON. FOG CONDITIONS." but there's no fog. coming up on exit 6. a strong urge to just keep going, and going, faster and faster until the car breaks down and it's just me going past all the exits, whipping by in a numbered frenzy, and landing somewhere past exit 9, which i think is the boothbay region. little white manicured boats. i need therapy. small houses and repaired roofs. fishermen and the sunset are constant, judging each other with silent squared-off shoulders and impeturbable nods.
agave wet on your cheek, o cactus, and you are a flexible green woman, with arms that won't move and eyes cleverly hidden by the folds of your prickly skin - i am thinking of the desert again, and how this trip is an inspiration of despairing wanderlust and a reminder of the iron-clad bounds on me. or how easy it is to forget four hours of driving simply by pulling into an exit. it's like a docking bay of amnesia - forget what else lies out there and concentrate on the smaller road ahead. stupid smiles on the guys outside. thick jaws and thick torsos.
i'll never take up smoking but i'll always think it looks good. i hate the smell of burning cigarettes. is it wrong of me to have such strong hatred for people one moment and then lukewarm the next? to know that this is just paranoia, nothing more? you know how horrible that is? to be aware that people -do- care but to still feel like they don't?
maybe it's like dan says. enamoured of your own sadness. how nice it must be. how nice.
i think i'd like to love someone now. but is it only because i need someone who i know will care about me regardless? maybe i'm just sexually frustrated. i need therapy.
i like names. sebastian, dan, jules, jacob, jared, enoch, harper, leon, liam, polk, craig, aaron, ian,
a split-mind tonight, hemispherically challenged. needing. needing. oh how a homeless man i become when my emotions are stunted.
not a sound.