oh, just blogging like its 2003

Dreams of felt being run across my face.  In a felt board forest?  The trees; great childish greens and dark browns.  "Autumn" written in great big felt lettering above the sky.  Drone sounds, perhaps old men making Om's?  Old men:  old yogis.  Beards no doubt flowing, white and grey.  Mostly white near the ends, gray around the mouth, the chin.  Maybe inside the Om's sounds, whispers of words.  In the dream they are probably telling me my life objective; what is the meaning of this?  If you try to hard to hear it it just goes away so you focus on the forest.  The sun is a triangle of satsuma; it is Louisiana after all.  All the one's brought in during the fall.  Everyone has a tree, no one knows what to do with all of them.  You can only eat so much citrus.  Juice falling all over your chin, making your keyboard stick to your hands.  Dreams.  Later you try to turn the felt into women.  It is a dream after all.  Rosy lips puckered in rum filled pleasure.  The blush from too much drink; heat.  Their faces turn to demonic grimaces.  Its impossible to hold on.   The grimaces turn to knives. 

We pulled off the side of the road.  Amongst corn fields.  I threw my bottle as far as I could into the deep field.  I want to run through it, I said more to myself than to my brother.  My brother opened a beer. I watched as the vapor flew out of my breath.  Crystal white.  There were no stars, only the light from the car.  I traced my finger on a corn stalk and unzipped my fly.  We should just take off through this shit, I said again.  Just take off running.  There isn't anything at home.  What are we going to do there?  Sit in the heated square?  Flush the toilet?  Take night classes so we can learn French?  Maybe we will get a little older and run off with our kid's third grade teacher.  I zipped up and walked into the deep corn.  Spider webs immediately formed around my head.  I brought up my hand to try to break them.  My brother laid down on the road and started singing Eleanor Rigby horribly out of tune.  You could live out here in this corn, I said, already bored from the scratchy leaves of the corn stalks 

I boarded a plane correctly once; I had my earphones in, sony walkman playing "Nebraska," by Bruce Springsteen.  Somewhere over  Texas I got chills during "Atlantic City."


Never been much of a flyer.  Though sometimes I wonder if I make a deal about it just to have a deal about it.  Once up there I enjoy gazing at the clouds and the fun shapes of the ground. 

I wonder how one indents on here?

Is this a journal of my thoughts?  Who do I write this for?  What time was it, the date, last time I laid on the ground next to my stereo speakers, moved by George Harrison's Rickenbacker?

My cousin has a Rickenbacker.  I have never actually played one; not guitar, not bass.

Running in the cold makes me feel something.  I pretend its a feeling of living.

Cage does Cage

Found this just now, and what a joy.  On the final quarter mile, no, 200 yards of Bolano's 2666.  Can't really say enough how excited I am to have made it as far as I did and too see what a better reader I am now compared to 4 years ago.  For whatever reason Book 4 just stopped me last time.  This time book 4 shaped up to be one of the greatest things ive read...except book 5, which is just amazing.  Ok, enough about me.  For your viewing pleasure:

Was fairy good for laughs while it lasted

Felt a little cold as we lifted up into the airspace north of Baton Rouge.  Touch down Atlanta.  Touch down Indianapolis.  Short trip to Muncie.  From there we drank, watched sports, ran within a trail, ate food, watched sports live, then slept.
Later we drove to Indianapolis.  We had a quick tour by car.  I tried to keep from throwing up.  It was a mixture of car sickness and man made flu (the day before was a mixture of Miller High Life, Jim Beam mixed with diet Pepsi, and various other liquids).  It was a rough stretch I can promise you. 
I started Distant Star by Roberto Bolano, and empathized with the poets hanging around poetry workshops picking at their craft.  I ended up finishing this short novel last night:


"This is my last communique from the planet of the monsters.  Never again will I immerse myself in literature's bottomless cesspools.  I will go back to writing my poems, such as they are, find a job to keep body and soul together, and make no attempt to be published."

Needless to say, after finishing his book, with yet more allusions to labyrinths and dreams,  I had a dream that Peyton Manning was trying to kill me.  No shit.  I almost wished I would have written it all down when I woke up at three in the morning.  His giant forehead loomed ominous as he sought to destroy my life. 

10/2/13