The great battle between my sapphire and my diamond that will one day occur, bringing the dream-universe to its knees and ending whole physical worlds before anyone (including me) has a chance to realize what’s happening
Hey-yay-yeah, the bedroom kid. I’ve been sitting in here for thirteen hours. I drew painstaking red and black Charlie Brown stripes on the These Hands dude on the desk drawing for what felt like four hours but was probably only forty-five minutes. I am trying to remain focused in humidity, in coffee-mind, in a quagmire of scrambled eggs and tuna sandwiches.
Every light in my apartment burned out during the four days it took me to get back from West Philly.
In an email to Tasneem I suggested that I might try asking the new residents of 4531 Locust whether they might allow me to have a key and crash on their couch and use their shower on an as-needed basis in exchange for some reasonable amount of money. The later it gets and the longer I hang out in my room the more viable this plan becomes. I am so delirious that I keep forgetting what the beginning of the sentences I’m typing are before I get to the ends of them. In a surprising but as yet not-necessarily turn of events, me and Tasneem are hanging out Wednesday night around midnight before I fly to Providence the next morning.
I wonder just how much I need to get done in a day to keep from feeling like I totally wasted my day. Eleven hectares? Twenty two pounds? Seriously, how can I possibly feel like I didn’t do anything today?
I’m working on an audio project that is based around location and time specific recording. It will be serious documentary recording to meta-listeners and it will be noise to regular ones. I am also going to start a band called Homer where the premise is that I blind myself and then tell a story for about eight hours. I mean a band called Socrates where I talk about why I have to drink poison and then I do it. I mean a band called September 11th where a plane crashes into me. I mean a band called blog where I write a blog.
For my birthday my dad emailed me this:
I don’t remember if I told you this one or not, but a few years back Joni Mitchell cut an album entitled “Mingus”. It was a tribute to the legendary jazz musician Charles Mingus. Some of the tracks were prefaced by some live discussion with Mingus himself. One of them was at a birthday celebration in his honor and at the critical ” Happy birthday Dear Charles” part he bellowed out “Happy Birthday MotherF***er”.
Susy brought cake to Mike’s house. Melissa brought five beers in a white plastic bag. All was well. Last night I drank framboise mixed with hoegaarden (a “dirty ho,” our server happily explained) and John told us about word oven and sustainable medicine in Africa. Meghan remembered the Waterworld story and I was baffled. Susy and I had an afterparty of raspberry pancakes and at the hostel this morning I listened to Dopesmoker on maximum volume while I rolled in other people’s mud, was landed on by other people’s flies, squeezed other people’s shit in my bare hands. I live out my bad karma five days each week. Nothing else can go wrong. Every year is better than the last.