Tuesday, March 3, 2009

auto-insomniac (thoughts)

void, Visual Age

i've had the car a while now, it is familiar now. i drive it easily. Russian dolls. increasing in machinery. my soul (1). my body (2). this car (3). one inside the other. Russian dolls.
____ease around a corner, now press gas, 3:30am, yellow lights, blurred road, driving a little like a drunk, swervey-like. it's ok. i did dream of her a few times. some months ago it was now. i know it sounds stupid, but i really think... how can i say this so it doesn't sound lame? (what? okok- basically, i don't know if it was my soul reaching out to her; or hers to me. but for whatever reason, i think we drunk-dialled each other. spiritually. just... to say hey, ya know? we kinda stumbled onto each other. it was weird. random bursts of conversation float through my head.

besides my front door the Black Sea sleeps. like a dog or something like that. it is always there, sometimes purring at me as i come in and out. people like us, it's always around the corner, the next episode or whatever. tonight i avoid it. though i'm tempted to sit besides it for a while in the stale moist air (like tonnes of spit evaporated into the air. it's soo hot and sticky). pretend it's martha's shadow. a cigarette or two. maybe listen to southern bar music. i don't drink or smoke. when i want to destroy myself, i intoxicate myself with unique molecules my brain makes all on its own. it's like a finely powdered glass. i can shred the whole of my insides, all of it, without lifting glass or lighter. it's all me baby. soo clean.

not sleeping. 3:57am. not sleeping. think about it Q, a year ago, it was the worst worst worst time of your life, remember? (i mentally try and avoid remembering, i think away, think away, think of piano keys that's safe, piano keys) and now look! you're much happier, you look soo much happier. look at you, you're actually eating again!

the fan twirls. after the library closed, i walked to get ice-cream. i stopped for a frozen coke instead. and walked around and made small talk. then i rolled past a friend's house and talked to him about a letter we're going to write his wife when his divorce date comes around. "i know what you mean. a pivot point. to mark real history. to curtail the blurring of memory. a requiem" exactly, he nods with red eyes. i feel a little ill talking about it. i send out a text message. coffee? now? it's 2am! she's already in bed. i feel left out. fine fine fine. we go to coffee, but don't talk about his letter anymore.

i'm making a habit of lying on sand in the evenings looking up, bivouacking, bare back and sand so all my clothes are covered in grains. my car. my hair. all the time. i have seen too few shooting stars. in 26 years one. in the last four nights 4. (also two satellites). they move soo fast in their eliptical orbits.

(4:02am) (i'll get breakfast soon, and just sleep sleep sleep forever) (never wake up) (never want to) (never again) (don't know why) (no reason why) (don't need a reason why) (don't undersatnd any of it) (can't) (won't) (are there stories in all this?

the car turns a final corner and i'll be home soon. i notice there are no cars on the road. finally. i have inherited the earth. it is mine. it is mine and no one else's. this new me has finally won the game. last bastard standing. this saliva sky. this toxic light. these empty streets. all mine. (hurrah). all i ever want(ed) was to be a writer. to writer to myself about the few things i like to writer about and it be soo weird and usually no one likes anyway, no one reads anyway, no one gets anyway, no one cares anyway- really wouldn't cause anyone too much trouble ya know? just another night-owl in another dimly lit room trying to exonerate himself from himself. trying to ameliorate everything i've ever said. trying to undo all the decisions. reform my eyebrows into more distinct shapes. sand the cracks out of my forehead. rewritering myself into a form that's more... appropriate. more workable. that's all. a sculptor who doesn't like getting his hands dirty.

(under the stars she shows me another satellite. i'm terrible at spotting them. i stare at the same single spot, the same single dot for half an hour i swear and don't look away. in a few years my glance will reach its surface and someone will feel self-conscious. are you blind! right there! ooohhhh. i have goosebumps. she finds that funny. she pulls me into a spoon and holds my hand on her chest. she smells like girl. i tell her that and she laughs at it. my face is in her hair. i kiss her neck and she giggles softly. still. she doesn't turn to kiss me back so i roll away, pushing aside an ocean of sand. i'm covered in it, i'm white as a cloud. i'm a heroin-piniata. she pulls me back into the spoon. (i'm soo confused right now.
____(at last i ignore her. and the smell of girl that she has. and the feel of her breast which she's holding my hand near. i look back up and wonder about that too-fast moving satellite. stuck. turning around itself. over and over. dark night dark night dark night. unable to sleep. unable to stop. where there is no breath for it to have.

i swear alot nowadays.

f * c k .

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

"to writer to myself about the few things i like to writer about and it be soo weird and usually no one likes anyway, no one reads anyway, no one gets anyway, no one cares anyway- really wouldn't cause anyone too much trouble ya know?"

People likes, people reads, people cares.... this much you can see from the comments in this here l'il blog.... people gets?....well maybe not so much you know, but sometimes there may be a glimmer, and anyone who receives so much as that is truly blessed.

4:00 is a tough time. Spent 4 years watching 4:00 clocks; through that lense, the sleeping person in the next room has as much empathy as your average sponge. Take care o yerself.

All the best with your fast,