get some ointment, there's a rash coming
just about no one and nothing could ruin my mood right now. for days and weeks and months even I have be stewing and boiling over an undeserving provender... rest assured this rascal was not known to be undeserving at the time of the initial misstep -- rather the vagabond made it quite clear that pursuit would be fruitful. hélas! la fille qui sans regarder avance à sa chute. no more, however... and enough with these silly epithets, except to say that the time has passed, the time has passed for my little phoebus to play my heartstrings like some goddamn guitar that he can simply pick up and put down as he pleases.
no, readers who might or might not be out there, my path aims straight for the moon -- she is hanging low these days, after all, just low enough to allow me to prop a ladder up against her belly and climb aboard. what brought her down so far? it is hard to say, verily. first off, this past weekend was one of those slap in the face liberations, the only kind of liberation that can make a clean and thorough incision and recovery. cut clean, heal clean -- that kind of thing. let me perhaps state that Saturday night was the moment when I knew it was time to stop my wallowing and jump around instead... so I did. and I seem still to be jumping (I'm sorry, but I like to split my infinitives, so vas te faire foutre) all over the place, bouncing really, and rebounding every time for a change. this has mostly been happening as of today, or perhaps as of last night when I wrote that last entry (as I said, beware the advancing rash), or perhaps I don't remember when I slowly began gathering ballone but now it is finally noticeable. it was strange seeing so many black-haired mops on top of familiar faces from sonoma county at that show, but it made me sort of joyous, even though I really know none of them and have talked to even fewer...they're just all so single-minded, so in a tangle over music, that it reminded me to be stubborn and single-minded in the best of ways. so, I'm trying that out... and caring less and less about this currently enduring occupation called the academic spring semester. creating phrase structure rules for hours is fun in a mathematical way, but i'd rather type and scribble my way to tendonitis, in all honesty.
many things have been happening, both inside my head and out. say you were stumbling around the bowls of my mind, looking for hints or artifacts. well, lately you would find little bashful wishes to write songs and sing them, and play them with someone, though I know not whom. for once this has manifested itself outside the mensch cavern, as I have been singing everywhere, and playing my guitar a little here and there, and generally been mulling over potential 'lyrics' (ha) in my head for the last week... yes, a wistful and cliché desire, to be sure, but lately it has seemed more and more possible, even probable.
à propos, lately I have come under scrutiny for withholding personal adventures I have experienced. allow me to redeem myself by relating, in better words, the lovely aspects of one tuesday evening last week (the only one, really). I found myself over on Euclid, rather, I drove myself there, and found myself in a living room watching DONT LOOK BACK and laughing with a kindred spirit (the shared love of bobby dylan is enough to warrant 'kindred' in my mind, at least usually). after this most enjoyable experience we headed to the rooftop, your author armed in a coat large enough to be considered a furry smock. there, listening to yet more dylan dylan dylan, he smoked a cigarette and we talked about everything we could think to say under an apocalyptic pink sky that offset the anomalous palm trees lining Ridge like exploded fireworks. oh, and that coppery street light! staining everything, the hill sides and the next-door rooftops, our eyes and faces, the bob dylan floating from that blessed little laptop on the table below. and that was our evening -- how calm was our evening, and without that wretched tenseness, the bastard child of fear of expectation and previous failure. may I just state for the record that bob dylan is the single most magical sound that exists in my narrow little world, my umvelt... i love much other music, but it isn't simply a part of me in the same way that his music is. truth be told, tvt often chugs (most elegantly and eloquently) up along side him, nearly coming flush, but no one can play my heartstrings like the former robert zimmerman. he just oozes rooftop sojourns, cold easterly winds that blow into your eyes and force them to water as you try to open the shutters long enough to get a good exposure of all the blurred pinhole lights surrounding you. yes, he does that, and trains and aeroplanes and the MTA heading into Manhattan. he does many things.
finally, those visions of something sometime long ago are still haunting me all over the place. walking up or down cedar, crossing campus, staring blankly ahead in Valley LSB I can seem to feel or at least smell them, and get a glimpse of that country light, the golden kind that you only find in a good valley or sitting on a good hillside. the rain has brought on all this comfort and nostalgia, though, not the sunlight... and I am sorry to all you poor and soggy californians who must endure this weather, but I am loving it to pieces. in fact, nothing makes me happier right now than to sit in a bitty café (with the grace of overhead heat lamps) and watch a silvery drizzle of uneven droplets soak and saturate everything it manages to touch, and then look down and scribble in my little black book. i have loved rain since I can remember -- I think I was just lucky enough when i was young to be perfectly happy in wet seasons, and it has stayed with me ever since.
the moral of all these stories is that there has been a lot in front of my fully dilated eyes these last few weeks ... i couldn't focus them, really, and there was so much right before them, just waiting to be refracted. i have all the hack saw necessary to shear off all remaining traces of that fifties hoodlum and his east coast charm and shining eyes. he left you in the gutter, dont you remember? and now this boy is on his back with you, look up at the pink night sky. the black palm trees like exploded fireworks are waving their ominous silhouettes against that roseate glow. a change is coming on but will you let it?
in final news (yes, I promise I am coming to an end, some day), tomorrow will mark my completion of twenty-one years of life. it will also introduce a level of freedom previously unknown... pretending to be really cool and hip by 'getting drinks' and 'going out for a few,' watch out -- ima comin.