It's there. Right. In. Front. Of. My. Face.

Slow. Steady. Patient. Calm. It's one of those days. Everything and nothing at the same time kind of days. Maybe it's the weather. The hours. The mood.

I'm floating today about two inches from the ground, no particular reason.

Everything is beautiful and sad. Our faces especially.

No trouble.

Words are sometimes lost amongst the waves of brain matter in heads.
Then come sounds. Melodies. High hats. Twangs. Then Glances.
My eyes turn green.
The romanticism of everything lost along the sea of invisible particles of nothingness.
Relations made, connecting circumstances that flicker in all the sweetnesses of certain faces I know.
You’re so guarded. The controlled extremes of fun you choose to have seem amazing. Moments of noise in no particular order all planned out ahead of time and semi-conscious - you think you the master. Bravo. I love you the most.
Then silence. Then racing thoughts. I am the freed conductor of the music in vast open spaces where silence is safe and our breaths feed on each other.
The words we wish to say float away from us in sentences we will never verbalize. We laugh instead. Love sick.

I beg you ... to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answers ...

I am sleepy and in love. But it doesn't matter because everything means nothing today. Not in a harsh way, just very matter-of-fact. It needs not to be analyzed, just noted.

A year ago, give or take a day, I probably felt the same. Satisfied and lonely. Happy and longing. I remember. Everything has changed yet things are basically the same.

Amazing.

Always wondering and in a state of waiting. I am too contented. I am in the background, waiting and seeing, but never expecting or really looking.

I'll wrap myself up in my book tonight. I haven't picked it up in a while and tonight is the perfect night for us. I still remember her words. They still flow through my head in their special, sensual way. I am slightly in love with her, but only in a way that I wish I were her and only in a way that she is so satisfying. The sweetest songs remind me of she. But whatever. It's all very soft.

Very wonderful weekend and even though I saw him yesterday, I miss him already. Special. What more can I say about him? I know nothing; it has nothing to do with my brain.

Some books are like songs. Words in these books seem to float around my skull as I say them in my mind and it almost makes me dizzy and drunk with curiousity and anticipation. My heart seems to fill up a bit as I lie back and ponder such liberation.

I enjoy songs that are like books in the same respect. It is possible that all good art would do this. How lucky to come across some some time. How interesting to sense these things from strangers.

I think in another life I'll be a poet and I'll travel on wings and good fortune.

A story about a family of 4, a mother and 3 children who feed off their mother's brain for survival. Her head is encased in an awkward glass and yellowish metal helmet looking contraption. The glass can be raised for access. They pluck pieces of her brain off to chew and swallow and those pieces grow back eventually like a lizard who loses its tail, for which she becomes briefly weak. Or rather, she faints each time they feed becoming weak for brief moments. The children left feeling mixed emotions of guilt from need. Small house about 50 yards off a dirt road amid a mildly thick forest. No father, perhaps he died. They dread when they have to eat, yet they seem surprisingly fit and curiously healthy. It's a story I'm thinking of writing.

Anyway ...

Just some fine music this cloudy afternoon and some coffee. I'd like to replicate those moments when I think of you and I feel bashful and sweet and free. Oh, but it's nothing. Just a little nothing floating around inside my head. And tonight I'll miss you in my bed.

I think that it's been a while, but I can't be sure. I do what I want.

I'm too nonchalant for budgets and diets, but things feel a bit too stagnant to really limit myself (like that) there.

Et ...

I should probably save some money and head to California for a spell. Too nonchalant for plans? Maybe not.

Side note: Doooooo sooooommmmetthhhhinggggg.

I find it peculiar how the word 'impossible' should sound so romantic. And the tapping of feet, the clanking of life, the wind and my nerves. Impossible night, la fete indeed.

One more night. They're all the same even when they're not. This one ends with me in bed and the sound of rain outside which is so welcomed that it's hard to explain. Seems fitting as my cat sniffs my arm inquisitively. Weird smells I'm sure, little kitty.

Nothing terrible. And for a few hours my days-lagging headache was gone. It's back now as I'm restless and awake at this strange hour. The harder I try the harder is seems. I want to be awake longer than is possible for me to function properly. Sleep seems a questionable action. The action of sleep which seems ironic really.

Nonsense. And I'm smiling because it is so. Death and mechanics or whatever. I don't even know.

I don't want to be in love anymore. It tires me in a way that only really feeds me. I'm so tired of feeling the possibilities. They are so tiring. Fuck this life. Fuck these dreams, they're too goddamn precious and I can't take it. It's all so perfect and absurd and wonderful and weird and hectic and new. Everything is new all the time. And I think of old things like they're important and they are and I'm satisfied, but not really.

She tells me yesterday that I should have been born rich. She tells me this all the time, usually when she’s around her friends. But she doesn’t say it in a snide or aggressive way, it’s more matter-of-fact and she’s almost proud. It’s nice that she thinks so I suppose. She’s an enabler, you see, and probably the reason I don’t make any of my own money. But you can’t blame other people for your own shortcomings. You just can’t.

I go to this one bar near my apartment some times. It’s not a bad bar though the music is lacking in a serious way. Everyone agrees; they go there anyway. I’m not real sure of the reasons, but I do too. I meet a lot of interesting people there, but I’m no judge on what’s interesting really. I’m not sure if it’s a fault or a blessing, but I find pretty much everything interesting.

I usually meet men. I suppose it’s easier for a woman to meet men at those places. I don’t mind really, but it’d be nice to meet a lady some time, a smart one though. And it’d be nice if she were funny. I usually end up ‘getting to know’ these men. Usually they’re pretty nice and cute and some times I don’t even care if they’re cute as long as they hold my attention. Some times I just sit there and I don’t talk to anybody. But the second I think of something funny and make myself laugh a little, some dude usually smiles and engages. It’s not so bad. I'm lonely too and I like conversation.

I’ve got this word in my head. Slender. I like words that sound like they should. I want it all to be slender.

I feel so goddamn romantic these days. Like a lip biting, heart fluttering, corn-dogging, smiling vomit monster of the softest dusty wind. I’m holding on to my rage though. Don’t you go thinking that I’d ever let that go. It’s so very dear to me. If I didn’t have my rage, I’d be a blob. My rage is the extreme excellence of my nervousness and wonder.

Where are the poets? I want to let them in.

Everyone must be so silent. I think we learn that as far back as children. Silence is peace. Peace and quiet. Oh, but please, nothing can be so black and white. The possibilities are killing me.

I don’t care that you pretend to be the ways you think you are not. I try to pretend, but I end up believing every time. I’m so gullible. And the bottom line is that I don’t care what you are much anyway. I like what's in your eyes the most. And when you sing to me, well, there isn't much that's better than that now is there?

This introspection lacks perspective. My vices these days are coffee and Woody Allen films. I am a lazy soul. Or am I just content with nothingnesses? I want to read all the right books. I am contemplating resources, the concept of tools. I feel trite and ordinary, but not in a horrible way.

I will never be satisfied. It’s kind of annoying. I opt for quiet moments rather than busy times which seems to accomplish little.

I feel soft today. And soft to me feels like love. I’m motherfucking bursting with that shit.

Everyone scoffed at me when I decided on Lucy as my confirmation name. I didn’t care. We take up hobbies and I find out I like mechanics, but not the messy kind. Meh, go figure.
And the mornings when you call at 8am to say how disappointed you are in me, that doesn’t matter.
Sometimes I’m so far in the future that nothing really bothers me. It’s safe there. Nothing has happened yet and it’s so full of promise. It’s a dream world.

Why do I seem to think everything is ironic and why do I get philosophical when I’m bored? If I could escape into a mathematical world, imagine that. Everything needs figuring out and pretty much all the questions have answers. How logical.

Please do not call me in the early mornings when you are feeling badly and all you want to do is make someone else feel as badly as you do. I know why you do this, but it still gets to me. Please do not expect me to know what you want or need. Please do not harsh my mellow with your absurd and rather rude neediness. One day I won’t be able to stand it any longer. One day it will be too much and I will probably end up harming you in a way that I will only regret on family Holidays. If you are not careful, I will tell you exactly what I’m thinking and we’ll never be able to take these things back or chalk them up to silly emotions.

There's truth to what they say about summer - the smell in the air. The warmth of the season heats everything up and leaves the pungency of what's really around. Luckily for me, outside my door it's sweet and natural. Surprisingly sweet. And warm. The summer days are usually unbearable, but the nights, like a kid again.

Moments after I walk back inside and shut my door, I hear noises out there. It's rain and I almost can't believe it. Gorgeous really, the tapping. And I am in love again (with the utter thought of it all).

This is for the next time I forget. When things are so weird and I forget the flow, the amazingnesses of whatever because I am clouded by my self inflicted lonesomenesses. Because essentially life is good.

Fucking A.

And if I fill my mind with beautiful lullabies. And maybe the words disappear and instead, all the sounds meld together and in my head there is a symphony of delight and flight and wonder.

And if I start to walk and I do not stop. And if I do not stop and instead of tornadoes there are seas. All the sky turns that golden pinkish hue. And the night is sure to bring warm, delicate, slight touches of hands and flowing hair.

And yesterday I was a child and had no cares. And today I am a child again. Sometimes your hands look like aliens. And sometimes they are the most magical things I can imagine. They glow like sun showers. They do.

And my scattered head. And you give me that look and I blush because I can only know what I know.

What we think, we become.

I often recall this one image of skin. It is soft, light, brownish pink skin. There are holes in this skin, burrowed holes. I only know they are burrowed because out of these holes are soft, darkly colored worms and they are not still. Sometimes I can't get this image out of my head. I wish I were a painter and I could paint this absurdly morbid image from my mind. They may have made a movie about this called Bugs. Brilliant.

ps. I may be utterly in love with Steven Colbert. I know, I know, he's married. Poop.

Dauntless birds that fly so low on the whimsical surface of the haughty sea.

The exploitation of sins as a means to share a little charm.

All in an orderly manner. All to promote the solutions.

And a softness in the eyes like the fluffiest clouds on the bluest days.

I just watched Pink Floyd The Wall. I'd never seen this movie until tonight. I kept wanting to cry, but I don't think I felt as sad as I thought I was feeling. Very strange thing there. I can't seem to shake the feeling that a good cry might still be nice, it's just not happening.

Henry Miller