The woman who loves you
is a Woman
through and through
The sensation that arises in you when you remember to close your eyes, and recall that upon opening them again you will experience the best thing that's ever happened to a rock.
Date: June 25, 2006 3:17 AM
where does creativity stop? what happens to the maker of the painting once the painting has been made? when confronted with newness, what becomes of the mind? uncertainty, the most profound of all calamities of the mind, rears ugly in the morning, and what can we do? if we paint in orange today, and reap its benefits, what of tomorrow? we try again orange, but something is different... what is that something? do we have the right to know that difference? do we have the right to paint in orange again? do we have the right to know what other color to paint in? do we have the right to know whether we should paint or not? why isn't painting called sculpture? have we ever looked closely at the surface of a painting? do we have a right to live the subtleties of what we clearly see something being? do we have the right to sculpt and call it a painting? do we have the right to paint forever? do we have the right to never paint again like we painted before? is our life a song? does our life have stages and members and instruments and movements at one time that are different than another? who are the players adding to the song of our life? what should we do to assist them in the song we are making together? what is my instrument? is it a loud momentary clashing cymbal, and if so, how do i make certain that i will play it at the perfect time? is it a wildly involved trap set of an ever more asynchopated drummer oscillating almost invisibly to the tune of a grander scheme? how would i know? do i have the right to know? should i know? who am i playing/painting/scultping for? is it you? who are you? why do i think of you? why when i paint do you cross my mind? why is it that i hear the word vacuum but have never truly experienced one? why is it that when i think i'm painting you're still there? why is it when i'm playing you're still there? why when i'm sculpting are you still there? are you me? am i you? do i have a right to know the answers to any of these questions? are there places that are different from the other? why do i sometimes think there are but sometimes my senses tell me otherwise? is your name mine? what would i feel to be called you? could i do so and still love to paint? to play? to sculpt? to wonder? to ask? to listen? to do? to be? what if i am you? and only one of us hasn't figured it out? how much of fifty percent is required to make half? how much is a whole? could i ever feel what i think? could i ever do what i think and feel? do i have a right to think and feel and do all the same thing at once, in a monumental burst of three? do i have the right to be the living of the breathing instrument playing exquisitely the song called you, and sometimes, me?
March 13th. Wow. Monday morning. 4:37 a.m. Do you know where your birth planets are? hahaha.
after cig, walked inside, saw carolyn and went up to her and thanked her for her hospitality in california. a lot had transpired since last seeing her and my mind then suddenly had access to something very real and unique to communicate.
rushed out door about six thirty three, raining beautifully desert night. passenger finally i got to be in truck, roommate drove, so delicate his day-job-window-roughneck-hands guided Cosmo 4x4'n out the driveway, backwards. i think i counted two minutes while he avoided hitting eisel, tables, and various other hooligan artists scraps left in the narrow driveway. yes and finally we get onto oxford. our guitars in the back of truck. i sort of like having no powersteering in this baby. can't wait to drive her myself. but right now my job is solidly to give up thinking i'm going to make signup by six fourty-five. bluedragon is six minutes away, if i'm riding the gears. roomy here is politely stopping for every grandma between here and girard, and i'm mesmorized by the pork shoulder, mashed potatoes and corn he's just fed to me, and deciding to be right where my meat too is, in the passenger seat of my lovely 4x4 nissan, Cosmo, and let come the footsteps of the evening.
Oxford street. Six oh seven a.m. Let's see, this makes it, when did I wake up last? I was up yesterday at this time, and I had started working on my website at midnight. Wait, that's twenty-four plus six. Thirty hours. What was yesterday? Sunday. What did I do sunday... There was that little issue of getting to the coffee shop on time to see if I could meet that girl that's caught my fancy. And it closes at five, and I couldn't make it because I procrastinated for an hour and that pushed me till four thirty, and the staff at the coffee shop are way closed upstairs by four thirty so it's just not worth it. I woke up at three thirty. Let's see, count backward from midnight until four p.m. That's eight hours. Add thirty minutes. Jesus. I've been up for almost thirty nine hours. Well, time to make something happen. Maybe I'll move the car.