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2009-06-07 - 10:09 p.m.

You know what Iíve always loved. Going back decades, maybe? Really, itís a torrid affair. Flock of seagulls was relevant the first night we made eyes at each other. Bells rang. The air hung still in honor of the moment. It was beautiful.

And you know what it was? Do the math. Itís fairly simplistic. See, this is me trying to draw an emotion. isnít working is it? Weíre only to the opening, barely a paragraph in. So thereís no drama. Unless I opened with life, the universe and everything, how could the next sentence carry any drama. Or anything other than the number forty-two.

Ah, the classic pop-culture reference as a stall tactic. Honestly, you could chart my strategic moves with the ease of a color-by-number. I always had three sets of crayons and a few pages of a He-Man color book, when I was kid. Without fail.

Ah, the classic nostalgic pop-culture reference as a stall tactic. Honestly, youíd think Iíd be slightly more creative than a greased emo kid, feigning intelligence before his blog. Oh, wait, thatís exactly what Iím doing.

Ah, the classic saying exactly what youíre doing as a self deprecation, so people discount the actual sad-sack self description. Any chance Iíve run this particular structure into the ground, or should I have at it for one more paragraph?

Ah, the semantically self-aware writer Googol's himself into a post modern awareness that renders him both the emotion and the editor, almost beyond reproach, being as he is both sides of the same argument.

The point thatís evaded both telling and feeling is logic. The line that runs from now to then to before in one straight line. A then that makes the now, that will make the soon. Itís a lovely line, and Iíd love to walk it, inebriated as I am, but I seem to keep stumbling.

Iím here, despite the path. And I want so badly to crush something between my fingers. I want my voice to run raw. I want something in me skeleton, my muscles to give out from exhaustion. Iím here, and I donít know why.

I have wine, and I have a phone, and I have my will to disrupt, but tonight, it isnít an evening for that. Tonightís an evening for staring into this screen, into these words, and seeing if anything bends when I beg them to.

I donít know why Iím here, other than the fact that I picked out this spot. I walked the woods for ages, and I made camp here. Then the morning sun came, and someone took my picnic basket. I would have been fine if it were for those damn kids.

Go ahead, and make a dough out of these warblings. Lay it out flat, and cut pieces into it: Stars, snowmen, ginger-men, and Xylophones. Theyíll be nice edible bits, and barely a touch of what they were made of. Though theyíd be better with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Or so Iím told.

Iíve always hated Ezra Pound. He called for those who understood to bask in his grander, and those who didnít to bark desperately at the passing limousine...the one carrying the champagne drinkers. Youíre supposed to let them all see.

If you donít youíre just...masturbating.

So what do you make of an evening like this. Cast in shadows and secrecy. Subtext and vernacular. Is there anything that can come of this, other than the writing of it. Why be, when you canít be seen? Why should the boy-scout walk a grandmother across the street when no one is watching?

I know this: Pilot Speed is a damn good band. Amanda Palmer is insane in the best possible way. I havenít had a thought that made sense in at least twenty four hours. And I donít expect to for some time. Iím here because this is the nest I chose, and I wish I had cigarettes despite, one more time for fun, my own choice.

Iíve condemned myself.

Itís funny.


When you have the right angle.

Try sixty five.

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