I watched "the american" starring clooney last night, and it has inspired me to only speak in short, moody, mostly paranoid declarative sentences for the rest of 2010.
I listened to kanye west's new album this morning, and it has inspired me to insist that all the lights are turned up until it's vegas everywhere that I am for the rest of 2010.
I read GQ this afternoon, and it has inspired me to travel time and space ceaselessly until I find half dead abin sur and convince him to give me the green lantern ring for the rest of 2010.
I downloaded that new facebook movie directed by fincher to watch tonight, and i'm hoping it inspires me to update my status with sad nerdy attempts to sound cool for the rest of 2010.
I inserted this image just a second ago to inspire confidence in you for the next time we play basketball, so that my crossover will continue to break your ankles for the rest of 2010.
i should write something. i should work on the fancifeast octopus story of previous posts- update it. let the spiraling tentacles become a staircase and walk down it into the depths of every imaginative "pop". get down to the boiler room and study the synaptic reaction up close- transcibe it's artful expansion- wonder at it's pathlessness, it's newness- the way it takes random colors from the full spectrum- picks up pebbles but disregards shells- the way it's collection fits together, seamlessly rendering some grand complexity from that "pop"
i'd like to. i'd like to watch that "pop" as a flawless origami gazelle manifested into an Eden- walking from flower to fountain- laying the foundation of it's possibilities- gathering strength, testing the muscles folded in its legs. i'd like to follow it out and see it run, but i can't right now. and i can't let it go on it's own either.
my reality is an earthquake that in shifts leaves me cautious and intimidated or chaotic and careless. it is ever present, underlying.
building a drop of water-
i should put that "pop" under a microscope, into a centrifuge- i should reverse engineer that "pop"- turn it inside out like some cruel hunter- roll its organs in the dirt and pretend i'm learning what makes it work? for what? it spells the same in either direction. there is nothing to learn. there is no chicken there is no egg- it's all just leaf fragments from last fall- whipped up in a dust devil in my mind- going nowhere, just churning and smashing itself, butting up against the same confined eggshell interior. in fifty years it will be fine dust, 15 if i keep drinking like i do.
-with a step backwards to fix the narrative, and the first song-
i had an honest thought last week and it's still warming my frontal lobe like embers that are plugged into the wall.
-which desserts travel well?
-then i suggest you steer clear of the bread pudding.