whiplash & a pair of scissors
��������� �����something in my left eye, and the recent transplant of the stained-glass lightbulb from the big lamp to my desk lamp makes me feel happier - at home somehow.outside, the night winds are prowling around the trees like giant birds with invisible feathers rustling in menace. art supplies are still laid out in reverence around the room - rows of markers & coloured pencils, some tied up in bundles with old elastic bands. glue sticks uncapped, and exacto blades tossed negligently around in their pill-bottle container. scissors, drawing focus nearer to the eye, and a project lying on the bed, half-finished, like a sigh. cut-up magazines, piled neatly in one corner. it was worth cleaning today, organizing the apartment-dorm as well as the innards of my brain. felt irrationally good, as if combing the excess fur from a particularly woolly cat.
and yes, i realize the pictures on this journal have run out. i have had no time to go to the bank and deposit any money. if i had, a collection of the 50 best american plays would be in my grubby hands at this moment, from offline. and maybe i would have the pictures back up. sorry to those of you who use my images account. it'll be up again soon.
i'm half-drunk on thoughts and dreams of a perceived Babylon tonight. the way i imagine things to be, in a influentially introspective sense - the music, the ocean, the people i surround myself with, the slow blue glow of an all-consuming TV at the late hour, silent and at the same time, filled with all the sounds of the programs soon to broadcast. lying half asleep on the couch, one leg on and one leg off, mouth opened in a snore-yawn, like a hesitating buzzsaw. the kitchen nearby, a buzzing fridge filled with beer.
a lawnmower in the garage. right on.
the bottle of "school glue" on the desk reminds me of a bottle of salad dressing. humming idly on the turntable of the computer tonight has been the microphones, mike doughty, and various 80s songs for the completion of aforementioned project - the wedding of one Don King, boxing promoter. i have cheekily married him off to the professor of our class. this is something that i may or may not be forgiven for. i may be pushing the limits of my skag-ridden cheekiness. skag is not a word, but it makes the right noise that i'm looking for. so hththp.
so far, i am chalking out the bareboned skeleton of an idea. a boy meets a girl. and they fall in love, they barely know each other. this is because it is the first day of the year when the sun comes out. the rest of the year is rain. then another day when the sun comes out. festivals.
2) coffee. an abandoned apartment, and a tube of half-used red lipstick. slightly broken, as though someone tried to eat it.
3) the emphasis on cliches being no less true just because they are trite. sadness & melancholy. superfluous and contemporary metaphor line the spaces between the words, pad them if you will, like a mad-room in an insaneing house.
like my head. my car has begun to hiccup, stall, and putter out. i may need a new battery - my folks are coming up this next weekend, to see the show. which is opening in - 8 days.
eight days. that is one week and one day. which is 24 hours plus .. 24 hours 7 times.
the red red blood inside of me is called sadness on another planet and it is a liquor and they drink it up and it does not burn their throats like alcohol does ours, but it coats them like cough syrup -
their hearts are powered by loneliness, and melancholy jumpstarts sickened synapses ... oh i am a misplaced spectre from that flat dimension,
this 3dimensional idea has been forced on me, i am a flatlander repressed by the idea of depth -
grant me shallow waters, o Lord, grant me the tape hiss and the static of the sunlight in a linear world and the calm of idle death which comes upon us like a papercut -