I VOW TO NEVER EXPRESS / EXPLAIN MY ARTISTIC INTERESTS TO ANYBODY IGNORANT OF IT. ANY FORM OF MUTUAL TRUST MUST BEGIN BY HIS / HER UNDERSTANDING FIRST,
AN EFFORT TO KNOW WHAT I LIKE BECAUSE HE / SHE WOULD LIFE TO FORGE A RELATIONSHIP.
PEOPLE ARE GOLD
BUT SOMETIMES THEY HAVE THIS MAGNETIC FIELD THAT DEVALUES THINGS THROUGH WORDS.
Stay Alive by José González
i’ve been thinking of lost things like missed connections and potentials not spent, or afternoon light that i can’t catch and words that slipped by mere seconds. there was the anger that one could have challenged or risks that one could have taken. at multiple instances, there was you, a city not here where i could have been. time flows but we argue: time is abstract / time is a human construct. and yet, i feel that i’ve lost time the most. like gallons of something liquid; a pail of milk. more than anything, it is this. when we came tumbling down the hill, it was time that spilled.
you read to heal but then you find lines to break your heart (from Nick Lantz’ How to Travel Alone):
Just days without you and I’ve got
that midnight streetlight tan,
that Big Chug Jug caffeine carelessness, that one loose
toll booth tooth, these highway hiccups.
There are only two directions in the map
of my life: the way to you, and the way
fire for fire, we light up.
(i look at sand and the sand is within me. every night, i sink into this restless waiting of something unnamed. instead of undressing and removing the mascara and shedding the wrong kind of skin, tidying the debris of today, i stare and lie in wait. i apply more lipstick. i wait and do not sleep but because nothing happens, a certain vitality ebbs away that now i’m afraid i’m grasping on a connection so thin and frail. i sink. i feel a lack of something essential. i am so incredibly thirsty and in need of something real and heavy, a conversation, a weight, a solidity to keep me here, now and present. if living is living externally then i wish none of it. it does not fill you inside. it demands so much and takes so much that there is no more for reading, for seeking or meditation, for simple, mere dreaming. i do not feel like myself. living should only be about the soul but this soul is no longer breathing but crippled. internally it crawls; it weeps.)