fictorial

We will dream theatrical trailers before anyone even notices.

Start throwing out the bath water, baby, it's going to be a never ending cycle of listen and respond. Wish with all countenance, practice hearing the cuts, watching the balance. Forget to gather all the moments, you have done it again. Listen—

grand inference, darling, mashed perpetuity, spackled scratches and deter.


I want to know the soft of it all. Give the silent ending approved for all audiences and wish in green. Find creation in its cradle and rock it. You have hard cuts and fades tomorrow, but hear the clock tick now and bring in creaking weaves, scattered through a strip of serrate, pure and forgotten

we will dream of half-knowing before anyone ever notices.

March favorably on into the mechanical streets with a nice new suit and tie. Each step will draw strings closer in on the radiant new you. Pad softly as the sand smoothes under your feet, shuffle aimlessly over loose gravel, skip through a garden patch with decor and if you stop to smell the roses, you'll be late, and they'll beat you. Run the race with the finest of ease, picking up speed in the wind, hurtling yourself madly down steeper hills and one day falling,

feet from the ground with no purchase, and only that.

Run straight through the defense. There are no arms held out, no stiff upper lips or failing hearts. There are no rigged contests or dallying beams. There are no contradictions.

The falls create a just reason to leap. See the water crashing on the rocks below?

Tomorrow picks up its things, gets dressed and takes a shower, and now it is waiting for you outside in the car.

time is a burst. every so often it gets up the momentum to make the next step, and so all rolls its dice and moves forward. sometimes the result is, 'go back three spaces'. we see from a construction of these moments, not ever aware of the energy and reality in our own movements. each muscle in our body waits- sometimes we're in slow motion, and sometimes we speed up. everything depends. the quicker you move the longer it takes to do anything. regardless, sometimes matter makes a joke and it goes real quickly, but then it might confuse you, and it could end up in a jumble. for example, you might end up reading without reading- you could even end up believing this.

at some point i wake and find myself with a mission of sorts. usually it's to find more dreamily sweet intoxication. drinking's my only option these days, and you, You. a tenuous uncertain, wishing i knew who, You. there's something quite wrong with how everything floats around in my head. part of this is you, and all the other yous that might be You. i keep thinking i've found the lost bits, but then they just kind of slip away, and i wish i could leave nervousness well enough alone. this is my enemy, this is my fault.

so, let's go have a drink.

keep on saying these things. keep on releasing all your pets, giving away all your possessions. are you really giving things away so you can be temporarily homeless? are you giving it all up for possibility?
make the right things come back, make the wrong things stay behind. do not guide the hands of another if you cannot guide your own. bounce from place to place without desire. run along the streets you keep in your head; you know them so well. they are here and there, north, south, east and west, up and down.
come to a conclusion because it's fun. walk around on your hands and knees looking for that piece of dirt you were keeping on your shoe- it went missing. solve crime, but only on the block two streets over. gather your friends, take them on a tour of your neighborhood. it can only be done through conversation.

misting the dawn is a difficult process.
we sat on station platforms, carried ourselves into passing winds and rode shaky tracks, only to find missing tunnels.
in the bible there are no railroads, only footsteps and dusty feet.
parting your hair leaves just a little too much order, and if life doesn't acknowledge and fight entropy, one might as well just sit down and turn into rocks. at least the stability of that matter rests on time and not passion. do not reproduce yourself until you are ready, because once you go there, you are frozen.
this is fighting words. this is maddening thought.
we spit on early challenges.

I don't know how I didn't realize, or why I didn't try harder. She was, apparently, little aware of how I felt about her. The biggest crush, caring and wishing there was at all a possibility for having the capacity to care more. Only a glimpse at someone can't give room for love. It's like a shot of whiskey, burning but then, of course it was the last of the whiskey your parents were saving for a special occasion. What good that one shot would do baffles, and so, drinking it seemed the only way to eliminate that confusion. Maybe this is a special occasion, alright!? She was always tied up, and in my foolishness, I didn't think to try to untie her. Unreasonable. Stop relinquishing friendships for the sake of petty desire. Of all these people in the world, there has to be the possibility that I've missed out on great friendships for faulty preconceptions. I wish I could forget hope, not because it's a horrible thing, just a distracting one. Hope always just tends to cancel itself out. You have to let it go before it will work for you, otherwise hope is just dressed up for halloween as obsession. Hope is buying vegetables at the supermarket when you've started living your life and someone bumps into you, you get married, but you never went in dressed up for the party, it just happened- here are the pomegranates and the misting gun.

Stranglegasp wide-eyed shock awakening, crying for mommy. It's three in the morning. You are asleep next to me, but as I wake from these dreams I'd rather you weren't. You were there, and so was she, harboring something I couldn't identify for so much more than a grappling hook. It isn't how I want to imagine you as we prepare for tomorrow's trip, but I suppose this is how things come full circle. Sitting up in the dark I try to imagine how playtime will go. She stands there in her white apron, serving us fake eggs with thick plastic utensils, I know what you're thinking, and it's far from nap time. The moment you yell out for her, I wake, and no one is there to see my embarrassment except the darkness. I like it better this way. Tomorrow I don't see it in such reassuring fashion. Then I won't be sleeping. Tomorrow I will have no other world in which to wake up alone, sitting in blind reaction to scenery that will not disappear even if closing my eyes changed a thing I could see. Maybe tomorrow night, once you're sleeping in her bed and I'm finally alone with my regrets, the world will come back to me, I'll get on with my dreaming, right where I left off, and this time there will be no you to get in the way. This time I will only have my own feet for tripping over. No! My road. My road!

John and I walk along the edge of the pool, holding hands. It is a bright day. It is a short day. Being in Alaska in winter means hour long days, lingering in the space of many mere moments in the lives of the rest of the nation, clinging to a television somewhere in the hopes that each episode will bring them closer to understanding. Or at least universal dismissal. Either way. They both do the same thing on a primitive level. They both calm, one just tends toward organic structure, while the other tends toward chaos. John's hand is soft in mine. He doesn't know that today will be our last together. In less than 20 hours I will be gone, and I've been avoiding talking to him about it for months. I hope he understands when I finally go.

Today John and I decided to use our brief daylight hours to go swimming in the outdoor pool. Yes, I know you're saying, "Isn't that freezing?" but you need to remember that when one is used to the cold, being just a little colder is just as relative as a splash in the river and some lemonade on a hot summer day in Alabama. We all have our preferences, John's and mine are just based on a different set of premises. And for that matter, John's premises aren't all that similar to mine either. He's something of a recluse, you see, and I had to drag him out here. Being raised here doesn't help his complexion.

I've been sitting around today attempting to get myself to write. I've had minimal success, find myself leaning in too far on grammar and structure and ultimately second guessing the skills that I know I have developed to an innate level. This has been hindering me for a while. I really want to write fluidly again. I need something that can make me brainstorm, generate my conceptual ideas and then follow through with it in my usual gestural manner. When I have a confident notion before I start working I find that I'm much more satisfied with my output. I also need to utilize the aid that editing brought to my work, which I recognize, but still find myself struggling to put into effect. I also have made the realization that this room is too small. I need more space so I can go more easily from one task to another, run with my instincts, and utilize energy for a project when I have it which is ultimately how I am the most productive. I need to be able to have my tools and materials at hand rather than put away to save space so I will see them and be willing to pick them up and do work spontaneously. I also need to accept that sometimes these small works don't need to be a final product. This goes for writing, drawing, photography, painting, digital work, etc, etc. This is analogous to the editing process, and while I enjoy the gestural work that I do, and am generally pleased with these things as final products, both conceptually and physically, often I could learn from my own critiques more and not throw away things that don't work at first just because I'm not fully satisfied. Not being fully satisfied is good, because at least then I'm able to identify that there are missing ingredients and usually I'm able to isolate them pretty well if I just let myself approach my own work as if it weren't my own. I need to learn to step back if I'm going to be successful in my artistic endeavors.

"Change the channel back Marge! I'm getting sick of you always taking the remote when I'm watching a program. Don't you respect my desire for completion? I hate watching half a program- even if the show's terrible it's hard for me to stop watching, it just irritates me not to know what happens next, even if I think I can predict it. Do you think Ryan is going to find his creative edge again? I've been watching that show for over 3 hours now and it just seems to fluctuate but never really go anywhere. God damn, maybe I am bored of that show...I guess we can watch this. What is this anyhow?"

'Bobby, I want you to do something for me.'
'What's that Annie Sue?'
'Would you, uh, drive me to the store?'
'Um, sure. That was a pretty heavy lead up though, are you sure that's what you wanted to ask me for?'
'Yeah. What else would I have asked you for?'
'Well, since I'm the handy man, well, you know how the bad plotlines go...'

Goddamnit Marge, what in tarnation is this? Gimme that. No porn in this house. You may be interested in that sort of thing, but I'm a good church goin' fella. You bet, yessiree. I'd much rather listen to Ryan complain about his inability to write anything worth writing lately.

All I've been able to do lately is mock the work of others. I see fault everywhere, despite my inability to actually create very prolifically. It has gotten to the point where I am having difficulty sustaining my steady aloofness. I am quite confident in my awareness of quality in stylistic choices, or lack thereof, but it grates when I don't feel appreciated very well for those awarenesses. I always feel as if my work goes partially unnoticed. Perhaps I should begin to develop a concept for my NaNoWriMo novel. Getting a bit of a head start on some of the framework might make the actual writing go a lot quicker. I'm currently considering doing this sort of thought journaling more often. LiveJournal is fun but I don't feel right creating a huge distinction between posts people might be interested in reading and this sort of writing, which ultimately is a chronicling of my thoughts. Maybe this could go in the 8 journal, as a sort of distinct entity from my manic and depressed private journal rantings and from my main journal which usually captures things I want to remember or that seem possibly pertinent to or enjoyable by others. In fact, let this ranting be my first entry.

infinity

this will live on no matter what you do.