I've been tended to, honestly and with heart. I don't think it's that difficult, just: making me interested in speech, fitting into my spectrum--mostly late nite, when everything has always refused to shut down. I could be more verbose, but: thank you, it was a pleasure, you're truly kind, a joy. When I'm talking to you, I don't have to ask myself who ARE these people?--at least not in a way that frustrates, makes me shell myself. Stayed up until five in the morning last night with peppermint tea and cookies, talking about Ian Curtis's stillborn art, songs part of childhood sleep, spaces between stairs that allow you to lie flat on your belly and look at the action bellow, the nature of siblings, the nature of flipping. I went to bed with an open window, and there were wind chimes, somewhere in the centre of the building, my only view, a storm well on its way to stepping inside, walking in on me as I took puns seriously by shifting context on the page under the orange glow of the duck lamp's illuminated wings. Stormy weather, it stayed during morning, my too strong coffee, my gratitude, selection of songs. Nights like that don't come often, though they used to happen more, with desperate, though quiet, regularity. What I mean by that is: clarity, sitting on my tailbone again, the days at hand:
Mother, I tried, please believe me
I'm doing the best that I can
I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through
I'm ashamed of the person I am
Isolation, isolation, isolation
But if you could just see the beauty
These things I could never describe
These pleasures a wayward distraction
This is my one lucky prize
Isolation, isolation, isolation, isolation, isolation. [J.D.]
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ps,
so, apparently, a few nights ago, at four-thirty in the morning: THERE WAS AN EARTHQUAKE IN THIS CITY AND I WAS TOO BUSY WRITING LUNATIC POETRY WITH THEMES TOUCHING UPON THE INCREASING ASSIMILATION OF PRACTICALITY THROUGH HISTORY & PHYSICAL GRAVITY//THE GRAVITY OF A SITUATION=THE NON-EXISTENCE OF CENTRIFUGAL FORCE TO EVEN NOTICE. Holy shit, NEWS TO ME. EARTH TO CAROLINE, EARTH TO CAROLINE, WE'RE SO NOT GETTING THROUGH HERE. Jaxon says the imagery in my poem means: your wounds will go unclean, your body will turn to scurvy. That's where all the animals come from, rebirth of the natural earth, the central point of origin. There really is no other past. ok. ok. He's been reading too much Schopenhauer. ok.