Journal:
I've never been a good journaler. I did it best while I was in Scotland in '08-'09 but it was patchy then, with my scrawly serial killer handwriting cutting observation and nonsense on crumbled pages. I have a whole box now of notebooks that I've started and never finished. Dozens of proclamations of "This time I'm going to keep at it!" and "Here's what I'm going to do everyday FROM NOW ON." Aspiratic pipe-dreams in mania. Each and every one. Some yielded decent results. Most were about itching the scratch until the bat-headed seagulls stopped screeching. That's still what it's about: farting out something I haven't seen before cause it's the purest cut of peace I can get without outside help.
I've decided I'm opening a spa where you can pick from a menu of items to bathe in a tub of, (ex. macaroni, paper clips, marbles, jello, diamonds for the richies) I'm calling it Tub Enigma.
Free Write:
The days burst out like a barrage of cannon fire.
They blast brown, gritty swathes in the hillside,
deep enough to expose the craggy bedrock.
Each trembling blow loosens
the fabric, rope and splintered wood
of my meager encampment.
"Perhaps this will be the last?"
I whisper wearily into my hands.
My fingers are beet-red with cold
and my feeble legs shake from exhaustion.
And the days keep on coming...
I've never been a good journaler. I did it best while I was in Scotland in '08-'09 but it was patchy then, with my scrawly serial killer handwriting cutting observation and nonsense on crumbled pages. I have a whole box now of notebooks that I've started and never finished. Dozens of proclamations of "This time I'm going to keep at it!" and "Here's what I'm going to do everyday FROM NOW ON." Aspiratic pipe-dreams in mania. Each and every one. Some yielded decent results. Most were about itching the scratch until the bat-headed seagulls stopped screeching. That's still what it's about: farting out something I haven't seen before cause it's the purest cut of peace I can get without outside help.
I've decided I'm opening a spa where you can pick from a menu of items to bathe in a tub of, (ex. macaroni, paper clips, marbles, jello, diamonds for the richies) I'm calling it Tub Enigma.
Free Write:
The days burst out like a barrage of cannon fire.
They blast brown, gritty swathes in the hillside,
deep enough to expose the craggy bedrock.
Each trembling blow loosens
the fabric, rope and splintered wood
of my meager encampment.
"Perhaps this will be the last?"
I whisper wearily into my hands.
My fingers are beet-red with cold
and my feeble legs shake from exhaustion.
And the days keep on coming...
Haiku of the Day:
Man mutters "oh shit"
while checking his phone on the
morning train to work
Today's Drawing (inspired by no words today because frankly I'm feeling the free draw vibe now. I'll probs do that for a couple days til I run out of juice for it.)
Today's "365" Project (Turn a piece of furniture into something other than what it was meant for. I turned a trash can into not only NOT a trash can, but an identity crisis and a conversation topic. First on the docket: Is the previously trash can NOT trash can considered furniture? Does my inclusion of it in this segment of the project qualify it for furnituredom? Or am I simply misguided and not to be trusted? Can the NOT trash can be trusted with a declaration of identity? You decide.)
"Magritte's Waste Basket"
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"Magritte's Waste Basket"
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