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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-08-06, 2:51 a.m.

[click]

��������� �����fog, rain, and the imagined, impassioned sounds of dave brubeck, due to inspiration from tara c. but i'm not actually listening to it. travis is here and we have the xfiles playing on the small TV. it's one about an alien, water, and a hurricane. i would like a hurricane right now.

there's a chill sort of sea-breeze minus the salt through the air into the window and an altered perception of reality tonight. no drugs. sharper - a dim headache pulsing like light creeping under a door at each of my temples. i miss living in robie. and tonight, ecstatic in tim horton's with jason & tara. startled at how much fun we had, and how fast the time went. we didn't spend too much time there, but jason paid for my food (since he owes me) and it was .. so good. then we brought tara home, after which i drove back to campus with the vague sounds of dar williams floating - each note like a suncatcher, dazzling and confident, from random points of the car's ceiling.

i wish i'd learned to play guitar like i said i would this summer. but sometimes these things don't happen. i'll keep it, and hope that at some point, a cotton-candy sky and a shadowed in rock jetty. sitting on the end of it in comfortable clothes and bare feet. strumming the guitar to comfortable chords and humming along. oh, and a smile. i smile too infrequently. i must look like a stone mountain most of the time, minus the imposing strength of a mountain. just the craggy impassive face, slightly tilted like a saltine into a cup of melodramatic sad soup.

jason's never had soup. i had some of tara's cafe mocha tonight and decided i liked it a lot. perhaps the next vice i cultivate will be coffee. or a new breed of music - possibly something loud & angsty, like linkin park or something. but i'm content with my eclectic mess of mp3 files right now. i suddenly have an urge to hear coldplay.

earlier, i was stuck. i wanted to write so badly - but i had nothing in my veins to propel. so i drew for awhile, random sketching with a really great pen, and came out with a set design. ahh. i will write a play that takes place in a bathroom. oh the madenning inspiration. i wish i could listen to music. i wish i wasn't so worried about money.

i wish i could see more of the world. i feel terribly tied down to a small little town in maine, when i've barely known all of new england. april, a friend from schoolyear, IMed me from wyoming tonight, where she is apparently working on a ranch with cowboys. .. i don't know why. i get so jealous of people who have wild experiences. especially those who have a tinge of writing. wildly jealous, full of pinks & reds. i want to see punchdrunk love again. i could, too, since it's sitting less than a foot from me. i would like to own a blue suit like the one in that movie.

or maybe just something else. bogged down in the sense of style lately. progressing into the dog days of august, my rabidly unlucky month, or so say the stars.

okkervil is a good word. i think it's the name of a river. it's the name of a band. okkervil river. they sing a song named 'red' which i like very much. indian red clay-mud and gypsy footprints. idiot kings revolving around in dances like chambers in a gun.

i did learn how to tie a bow-tie tonight. this i am proud of.

back to writing and maybe sleeping. like a lightswitch being flicked.

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�SEH