Lulled to sleep,
the warm breeze allowed inside,
so I can hear the rain on the front of the house.

My legs starting to stick to the sheets,
I keep my eyes shut against the light.
I can remember being able to sleep better during the day.

I focus everything on the black behind my lids,
Turning the absence of color into dark reds, blues, and purples.

Tiny stars form just outside of my view,
I try following them,
reaching outward towards the one closest to my hand.
My focus is weak.

Drifting back to my room, i sit up.
Angered that my nap is over.

In last june I arrived at the library ten minutes early. There was no reason for me being there early. I had misjudged the amount of time it would take me to pull of I12 and get a cup of coffee from the McDonalds in Gonzales, and pulled up just as my coffee was getting cool enough to take my first sip without causing white flashes of pain that stayed on my tongue like your shadows on the wall under artificial lighting.
Arriving before Salina, I opened up the doors and flipped on all the lights. I turned on our computers, secretly praying that the one fault one had been ripped and cleaned since I had taken my vacation. Sometimes things move slow down here, from the local government, to the tech guy at the local library.
It was after I turned on the lights in the computer room that I first heard the silent squealing sound coming from the Non Fiction row: the 741's...graphic novels. The hair on my arms stretched towards my sweater, creating tiny pathways for electric current.
"Who," I half shouted out, just as the lights went off with a loud CRACK!

It was summer, so the sun was out well before the 7:15 that I found myself in. But it was the dark gray June clouds that held back the light from the windows lining the upper part of the wall, just behind the shelves of paper backs and romance novels. The only trace of light now came from the lightening storm, miles away, but close enough to spare traces of white hot purple glows surrounding the walls.
CRACK!

Again! The lights were already off! What was causing the sound! Walking quickly towards the door, I felt a heavy grasp onto my leg, stumbling!
"Ayye," but before the sound could come out of my mouth the lights came on brightly!

Harold woke with a start exactly 15 minutes before is alarm had to go off.
"Well, I am still here," he said to himself. Just three years ago, Harold would sleep until 9:14 a.m. every morning, no matter how late he stayed up. This was the perfect time. It allowed him to stay up to at least 1 a.m., or even later, while still waking up for what he considered morning. Morning now consisted of 6:30 a.m. at the latest.
Harold wasn't sure how he felt about this, but its what he did.
"Ok, lets get up," he though, reaching over to make sure Susan was still there, happily asleep. Harold rolled over onto her and started kissing her cheeks and forehead, lovingly, but looking for a reaction.
Susan stirred, kicked a leg, and rolled over with an astute "hmpph," followed by a long sigh.
"Are you sleeping?" Harold asked.
Susan said nothing.
Harold rose from his bed and walked to his bathroom. Though still theoretically in the run for director at his library, Harold had stopped dressing the part. Until the board decided that they in fact were going make him director, and not keep him forever in the interim, Harold decided that he could still keep with his adolescent notions of both hygiene and dress. Though his outfit was decidedly business casual: khakis, a rumbled polo shirt. Harold pulled his shirt on and squinted in under his bright fluorescent light bulb in his bathroom. There were small white stains near the bottom of his shirt, one the size of a french pea, the other resembled a tiny silhouette of Massachusetts.
Harold turned on the faucet and grabbed a piece of toilet paper. Running the paper under the water, Harold then attempted to gingerly dab at the little stains. His fingers instantly went through the thin paper, spreading tiny fragments of the wet paper onto his black shirt.
"Shit," Harold harked.
Removing his shirt, Harold backed out of the bathroom and into the bed with Susan.
"Move it dear," he said, sliding into the bed next to her.
Susan grunted again and reached out with her warm leg, searching for any spare appendage Harold may have brought with him into the cool bed.
Their legs intertwined, Harold reached over to his telephone.
"Southland Library"
"Dot? Its Harold, hey, tell Penny I am sick, im not going to be in today."
"Ok," Dorothy said, and hung up.


Harold rolled over, and was enveloped in light. He was in school, running hard towards the back of the old playground where he used to play T.V. Freeze Tag. As his arm was almost caught from behind, Harold leaped up, hooking his feet into the frozen air of his youth, climbing higher and higher into the clouds. Explosions bloomed into the cool air, and he was finally free.

Nervously awaiting Vibram Fivefingers i ordered from China or somewhere else weird. They are all sold out in Baton Rouge. Memphis is even sold out of them. Their website is out of stock of most of them. Obviously this little company was not ready for the onslaught of ridiculous collective consciousness... I had an amazing five mile run 11 days ago. I hurt my foot some trying to dick around with foot strike. Like I am more than a fucking weekend warrior 10 minute miler. But whatever. I honestly felt I was approaching something new to running: enjoyment. And I don't really wanna let that go just yet.
When these ridiculous looking shoes come in, I hope they, if nothing else, add a little excitement to my runs. That is my aim anyway. I want to mix up normal runs with these silly little rubber shoe runs.
I am keeping open minded in the sense that I don't expect to suddenly be prefontaine out there.
Reading the literature really does make sense in that when yo land hard on your heel, it should be awkward on your knees and legs. And that when you run barefoot, your foot just does what its supposed to. I took a bike ride last week and parked it and ran around in my toms some, and it felt kinda cool. You are forced to stay slow, but there is a sense of connection or some bullshit, like being a little kid and running around.

mid life crisis

1983 Ronnie James Dio "Man On The Silver Mtn" (Rock Palace)

Outside the sun is just touching the skyline barely, creeping up over the horizon to shine light only on the tops of trees and the occasional water tower. But from here, those same trees have already cast the streets in shadows. By the time you get to open area, it will already be dark.

Its coming down rain in Baton Rouge, as I suppose it should in May.
Lauren and I drove around some, bought some food.
We now and sit in our den as it grows darker outside,
the sound of rain hitting the metal overhang by our door.

Sometimes you want the day to last forever.

I am not reading correctly of late. I mean, I read a book about running in two days. But 2666, a novel I found by Fred Norris, magazines, computer/online newspapers, anything at all: not getting read. I can't really seem to concentrate on anything. Right now, as I type this, I have Metropolis qued up on netflix. I watched 25 seconds and decided to blog about it. Maybe its not the right book? I read half of 2666. The first three stories are good, not the easiest fucking read in the world, but good. The 4th section is almost 300 pages of death. One after another. Its tiresome, saying little of how fucking depressing it is. I skipped ahead to the last section, the part about the writer, but, by then, its almost too late.
I ordered some sonic youth bio, read about 50 pages of that: care.
I did order a Thor graphic novel. I am not familiar with thor, I do not know if i even like thor. I say "order," because i "bought," one the other day at a book store conglomerate only to get home and realize it was volume 2. That is what I get for shopping with the man. I need to stop that. Yes, only small, local book/comicbook stores for now on. Not that I care.
Not that I do all the right shit. That is far, far from real.

I did run yesterday, and the day before that. Today I rode my bike by giant houses and near a lake, which I may add is slowly draining, or at the least turning into mud: draining.
Not sure what thats about, but when you get near its edges you find yourself inhaling smells very similar to toxic waste.
(I would have hoped that by reading half of 2666 that my writing would have gotten better, yet it still seems steeped in grade school rhetoric.

To be fair, i had been playing with my brain chemistry. A "play," that certainly produced zero results. I am not in the awkward position of slowly setting everything back into place. Finding the circle peg, taking it out of the square hole, and moving on.