While waiting for the water to boil, I notice the date. The 13th of June. A Friday.
Not that I would care -- why should I care -- but my heart was beating in huge, choking gulps this morning, bulging against my ribcage and I have no explanation: do 23-year-olds die of heart attacks? Jesus, I'm not that fat am I, and I'm not dying like that, not in some middleschool fucking
Goosebumps version of a horror story.
Thirty minutes later I'm thinking about my own funeral like a heartbroken 14 year old playing with his dad's shotgun in his little sister's bedroom.
I mix oil and milk, crushed black pepper curls between them in perfect sequence. These spirals are everywhere, I obsess over them, the branching of trees, the patterns of clouds, a whorl of water, a curdling of milk, the unfathomable limbs stretching from a supernova's heat. And I wonder about the pattern of my heart and all the deaths and masterpieces and if I listen to Conor, he says it's all a "still life posed. Like a bowl of o-oranges."
Somewhere, I can see his point. Complexity isn't chaos -- it's order. Manufactured simplicity is the only chaos I've found. Our 6-sided structures, brick and beam construction, disposable architecture, flat rolled and oiled parking lots, the monotone songs of our motors, our horns, un-undulating, desperate and lacking the lungs to howl. That great white hum of energy: the universe's pitch-less grave marker.
So I was smoking with Yurie at the pond the other day, letting the ripples of wind and water and dragonflies mess me back to a little less machine when this girl, maybe 18, walks in all paranoid, puffing on her glass little pipe and telling me she's like, so, over college and she's part of this new theatre group, have you heard of it, and then she tells me that film's like a dream. I write her off, mostly because she sounds like every other wannabe hippy I've ever met and I kind of want to tell her I went to Bible College just so she'll leave, but later that night, I'm dreaming and realize she's right. My dreams cut.
And lately, I can't trust them. When I cut back to Kate, she's an old woman and I wake up sweating and locking eyes with her in bed. Jesus.
Anyway, it's the Friday the Thirteenth. It would be ironic, to be sure, if I died today, but I kind of doubt I will if for no other reason that I've written this little mumbling attempt at an entry here and I think God hates emo deaths just as much as the next guy.
My heart, it's probably just caffeine. And the waiting to hear back about this internship and all the being alone in my cafe all day. I'm taking a shower, I'm getting out of here.
My soul isn't where my heart is... it's six inches to the right.
Comments (7)
Yes, but better looking.
I think mainly I want to write life without the established "later that day" or "after that". I hate writing after that. and express what your talking about here, that what we call order is actually chaos and vise versa. we make things do things that those things dont do without our influence.
sammuel, for some reason today i was walking down the street and thought, "i have completely stopped posting on xanga. when i posted on xanga back in the day i used to be a much better writer. i should do that again." so i signed on tonight and read this. and because your writing always inspires me, i am confirmed that i need to indeed write more often. about those things distant and impersonal, because it's true, learning to write those things makes writing about "feelings" and real thoughts a lot easier. i had one of my girls tell me not too long ago that she thinks i articulate myself so well, and it must be because i read a lot. who would've thought.
so, how are you and kate? still in that little garden apt. on state street? i'm headed to chicago in about 2 weeks to visit the old stomping grounds again and fill upon inspiration from the big city. i miss it so much. if you're still around, perhaps we should chat. i would love to see you two.
Dude, this piece sucks more balls than orlando bloom. Do humanity a favor and please choke to death on your own writing before you gag me or everyone else again.
No, I just wanted to keep you humble or something. Good work.
did you hear anything about the internship?
btw that was sarah
ahhh, the whole idea wasn't so much that you were a bastard, it was more about the invisible chains of outside awareness that make you feel self conscious etc.
I'm into the idea. I have this potential opportunity to study abroad next semester with the head of the english department at city college, in London no less. Taking Shakespeare, writing short stories. Problem is, it's expensive as hell. I'm talking to the international aid office tommorrow, to see if it's feasible. And if I do that, i'll probably spend the next six months in my room, not eating to save money.
Pittsburgh does sound interesting. Getting to freelance, that's priceless. Dream job, dream job. Anyway, I'll probably end up coming.
I think your right, at being more relaxed. I cut some huge swaths out of that pill story (as much as it hurt me to delete any of those hard-earned nine pages) and I think it's much better now.