August 28th, 2005
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On this road, for yet another day
I’m tired again. As hard as I tried to keep a regular schedule last week, things have been slowly eroding into that yellow haze of tense-muscled crashing from two until eight, then slapping the alarm for sometime after. My clothes are on the line, and rain is coming, so the bathroom is going to have to ferment for another day or two. It’s strange, how people just do things without thought, mechanically, and it’s called loyality and a sense of duty. Seeing a job through until it’s done, but is it because I’m dedicated or frozen? Either way, it preys upon my health and siphons off my will.
So I subsist on the water that runs down the brick walls in my life. The bitter pleasure of dragging my tongue over porous ground, trickling streams of unnoticed sweetness, out of focus for so much of one’s vision.
A strand of hair, the dirt under a fingernail, the cheap lacquer on my humble studio desk. To run my hands over a household of textures and crawl out the window, collapsing ecstatic and exhausted at the base of a demurely soaking existence, taking each gentle stab with rapture and slow-knowing acceptance.
