ideas for novel(s) i may(not) oneday write

still, i keep having halfideas. they annoy me because i can't quite delineate what they are. i don't see them clearly as shapes or characters or titles or anything that neat. instead it's a mush of words and phrases in the distance.


(1)
time is a joke. a lost set of keys, so that when they actually are in your pocket- its sharp and scratches your thigh and despite its jutting out of your pant pockets- brings some comfort. and then gone. just when you need them.

people waking up and the names of the week make no sense anymore so yesterday was called Theordore and today is Suwensday. and waking up in parks, and it being last year sometime and watching the sunset waiting for my sister (which only happened a few minutes ago) and then being back in the room with the flourescent lights and then the beach with the girl and freezing cold with my pants half undone (which only happened a few minutes ago).

and then stops.
and you wait for it. and every hour is 14 episodes of southpark long, and you listen to a CD nineteen times in full and it's still only 9am. so you shower. and the sun is stuck at midmorning and everytime you look out your window the white car is still parked there and it's not that you have no friends in this city, it must be that your cellphone reception has been redirected to Mars so some ratlike amphibian is talking to all the totally cool people who are (not)calling for me right now.

i swear a year ago...
i just don't get it.


(2)
__- it's a great thing you're not a rockstar or something.
__- what?, why?
__- you're the kinda guy who'd leave behind a string of dead hookers and black eyes.
[Q, remember to use that line later]


(3)
and my sister one flew too close to the cuckoo's nest or stopped by edge and peeked in and screamed and screamed like some bad-dream that afterwards you can laugh about maybe because your brother can't think of anything else to say but dear lord tell me you've learnt your lesson! and she laughs in sharp stabs Ha!. Ha!. Ha!. Ha!. and her voice i hate and can't stand and yet there's no sound i look forward to more and despite the heaviness of everything i'd die to have lost her. __(it's a story i refuse to stop telling)


(4)
ravers, swaying and stumbling, their thighs barely able to support them into the 4am McDonalds; and me with my unslept unshaven clarity staring and the two gorgeous girls with the barefeet, blackdress and bluedress, walk in and stare at me and make blow-job gestures and laugh to themselves and i smile. and they smile and wave hello and i smile and wave hello and i knew it, life always was just an erotic noir pantomime and i've been imagining everyone's voices.


(5)
i have no idea where she came from or who manufactured her face so that everytime i see it i must kiss a part of it, if not a lip an eyelid, if not that an ear or a hair-covered temple or just stare you stare a lot she says what are you thinking about she asks and i think: freckles will be the death of me , and i think: many dictionary will pay for the price of your blueblue eyes , and i think: i prefer everyone else i don't give a damn either way if they call back or not but you you are different i actually likelike you. and i say i've never known it to be soo quiet. she doesn't know what to say, so i try and kiss her again.


(6)
this never-to-be-written(but maybe once twice attempted to be) novel should be about loudness and silence in heads. whirling noises. not schizophrenia or anything quite so dramatic. i'm thinking more just... overcrowded, undigested thoughts. and all the places we try and stuff them away, like all the clothes hanging over the chair on the floor and couch and coffee table and i pick them up and just stuff them into plastic milk-crates i have in my closet and hope to forget they ever existed. like that. or, that there, that bottle of rum is too full. if it were empty we could hide a few in there. he scratches the back of his ear. what do we do?, seems a waste to spill it all out.


(7)
maybe i'll call it the redemption machine.

she bends over the sink and bleeds. says she never had much patience for grammar or punctuation, but her blood clotting wouldn't be too much to ask for. we text back and forth, and finally i work out it has nothing to do with the purported mountain of blow she claims to have procured, which i still doubt. i imagine little bloody marks on the keypad of her phone. i doubt a lot about her. but then, she said she lived in Moscow and one day i pick her up and she's speaking Russian on the phone, and when i go over to her room the other night there's a yearbook from her school. for now, i imagine the sound of water running, and the blood of her nose staining her lips and rose coloured stains around her sink. but the sound of the water running.

and always, our whole lives, never ceasing, never stopping, the beeps of our cellphones. (and the long silent semicolons in between each one)