In the throws of existential nothingness. Nothing will change, although atomically we're changing faster than you can eat a banana. The whole idea that today you can become something you aren't, or start walking towards an otherness you'll eventually become.
Ideally, I'll become productive. Get organized, find a way to slip through the cracks and not pay the bills because a person like me oughtn't involve himself in the routine of such everyday things, for atomically, buzzards swim more importantly than the way a human pays money for something that should be an essential service. Tax.
Further more, on the cusp of reading break. I have a three-day weekend ahead of me, today not being one of them, though technically it's 2pm and I'm done for the week. I have class on Monday, tuesday off, then reading break until next Monday. A road trip needs to happen. In Pete's van. If not a road trip, I'd like to start my novel. But I'd need a road trip to start it. I could be in the throws of an idea right now, an Idea that would put me where I need to be: road-tripping, writing, meeting my characters along the way. Landscape, geography, cartography, flaws. Doing it all. Though I'll probably just sit around drunk, naked, holding a Japanese sword and the pistol I found in the trash, waiting for someone to knock my door or phone, so I could tell them all about it.
Volume. I need to poetry more. I need to fiction more. Music is coming along. I got the old Moonshine Revellers back together for a while. We're going to headline the B.C. Shcizophrenic's Society Christmas dinner in about a month, plus plan a few shows around town. Now that we're all musicians, the songs sound a billion times better. Though I'm still partial to music where I'm involved in the writing, and not some lowly drummer in the back, hailing comments like, "tight drumming." I want to song!
It all starts with one phrase, and each phrase is a mutating call for another phrase. Each stanza can work its way into the middle of a novel. Each novel can be condensed into a line of poetry. Now let's do some drugs and fuck it.
I hate booze these days. It feels negative being drunk. I love a bottle of beer. That's about it. Booze can suck itself dry, as not one person alone can suck booze dry. It's like fitting a cat into a squirrel. It goes the other way around, despite the will of the squirel.
The institutionalization of poetry is a very strange thing. We're all taught that when you write a poem, you are entering into a dialogue with all poets, alive or dead. Doesn't that sound awfully intimidating? Or, along the idea I just thought up: presumptuous. People think as long as they obey the rules, Chaucer will care for them. Without god, a poet turns to poet and goes about the exact same thing. A dialogue with another poet exists as long as that door is open. If not, then not. I can close the door any time. Bunch of freaks anyways. Let's make some money.
Posted by matty-b at November 4, 2004 2:17 PMI hear you on the hating booze and booze-related endeavors at the moment; it's funny to think that drinking ever feels positive.
I guess I'll just start going out for coffee with people again...
I've been contemplating the lack of socializing of late. And then it struck me just how often socializing and boozing go together. I wonder what it all means.
Posted by: michael at November 4, 2004 4:32 PMIt means were all cheap animals pretending that a glass makes a difference. Coffee. . . pshaw!
Maybe because we socialize with others who want to do the same thing, as in, people who drink, drink together, etc. It's less on seeing someone, as seeing someone enjoy what you enjoy, so you can litigate enjoyment out of it.
Posted by: matt at November 4, 2004 6:02 PMI wish I was in a poetry workshop with you, Matt. We could bust out into weird existential prose-poems and defy convention or perpetuate other conventions.
Posted by: ben at November 5, 2004 4:27 PM