I like conversation best when one implores another to speak, and the cycle continues.

couples walk into wal-mart with blank faces, perhaps a hint of disgust.  it's like when you were in elementary school, pushing the opposite poles of magnets together; you can hold them close, and yet the tension is there.  what are they looking for on these shelves, on this thursday afternoon?  has this replaced a quiet conversation or the simple pleasure of company one and the other?  some are young, some are older into their 50s, and they all have guts (and presumably multiple prescriptions).  their clothes are disinterested like their expressions.  browsing I suppose.  as if "browsing" at wal-mart were some sort of justification.

just divorce already.

it's not adhd, learned sir, and i don't want your coke either.

i can't sit down for a long time.

meditation comes only in sleep.

the tv is an overwhelming,

incoherent march, like soldiers

without a war.

i can't focus for a long time.

i spend time thinking about time,

how it escapes me, or more rarely,

how i might escape it.

i'm a product of a productive place.

it's replaced everything.

i'll never write a fucking novel...

verklarte nacht

it takes six instruments to create an ocean of angst, melodies close to the surface, gleaming with the twinkle of sunlight, accompanied by harmonies of a deeper texture, dark and unknowable to affected ears, requiring full attention and yet spinning listeners into daydreams.  

(how is it...)

the rise and fall of lines converging-diverging, the trails of sonorities making for a colorful track, authentic and transcending music into a pure form of expression, liberating to ears numbed by modern shit, the adagio begins with unexpected warmth, the radiance of a courageous-unjealous man.

(how is it even...)

the resolution rushes in like chemicals or oxygen to a deprived brain, words into music and music into atmosphere, the sounds dissolve like a 1950s coke into my ears, dripping with sugar-sweet satisfaction in the knowledge that one of our own species could contain such undeniable genius, such truth in art.

(how is it even conceivable that someone could write that?)

curled up, insulated in a comforter with the rest of the sheets tossed about, sweating everything out of my body until I wake up sick with thirst, I start the day.  I like to say that my immune system is so efficient that I never find out exactly what "sickness" I've contracted.  But damn, I am feeling this one.  

later in the night, I'm downhill toward the fields for football, avoiding Jona for once.  We play for a long time, and I become more sick.  An hour and a half later, I step into the Strom for basketball -- two more hours.

At last, after swallows of water at the fountain, fingers shaking along with my legs, torso in such pain that I need to stoop a little bit, I flip the lever so the water will pour out.  Cold at first, then warmish.  It has a hold on me, I feeling like a shell of a human being.  Shampoo, conditioner, the little steps of hygiene.  By now, the warmish water feels cold to my shivering, goosebumped skin.  I look down at my little phallus, surrounded as he is by hair, but experience no impulses.  The same impulses that drive middle-aged men onto "Predator" are absent from me in this moment.  Not entirely physical, this is somewhat of an intellectual transcendence, so I tell myself.  But yes, it truly is.  Sex?  ....and?

There is you, up on the screen in pseud0-hazy film with false friends and a false smile, captions betraying a juvenile sense of grammar and of thought, hands clasping the collar of a revealing blouse, eyes lined in dark crayon to reflect a wild-lustful heart.  Innocent and yet your innocence so long shattered by a weak man of a father and the erosion of wild first love, you catch the lens of a distasteful snapshot.  The pixels that make up your soft lips and cat smile reflect on my half-closed eyes, imagining passionate love with this woman again, years and memories removed from our last intimate moment.  Thoughts are only thoughts, fantasy fleeting into airy daydreams, however.  I remove myself, check out, into a world ago, states away and memories fresh and raw.  Here is the night we lay embraced beneath stars.  Here is the day we named for ourselves.  Here is the day you asked me to keep you.  I play Takk like a scarf of velvet tingling the beautiful neck of a woman, running endlessly like a slice of infinity through soft-tender memories.  I can still see the shape of your hip as you lay naked, smiling with tearful eyes -- I can live with you through memories, moments full of love in the past, bitter and frustrating in the tedious now.

cinematography is the most important part of a movie.

see what i see.  cameras on and then i'll avoid little distractions with the big drawbacks, the densensitizing elements.  

in ears is the 3rd piano concerto of rachmaninoff.  such genius is always an inspiration to me.  the beauty of it.  i can compose events into an elaborate collage of breathtaking images and moments.  

i can be a composer when i focus.  

portsmouth, virginia.  portsmouth, virginia.  I miss you, anne.