Present Tense

A journal entry.

I have difficulty being present. My mind is like a ball of mercury & runs in several different directions swallowing everything around it. I look outside myself for anchors--words, poetry, music. Connections that can at times be tenuous.

Radio static. Listening to Bjork and imagining the appetites of Icelandic volcanoes, wondering at the memories of oceans, the stories that rocks tell.

I enjoy solitary winter walks--nodding at the bare trees, gnarled limbs. I have the strange idea that trees were once people. I think of closed doors and ornate hallways. I feel set adrift & it is hard to remember what shore I departed from pockets full of stars, sad heart & all. I could come pouring out of my skin suddenly. And wouldn't it be a marvel that I was ever here?

A melancholy mood needs raucous punk rock, a sort of defiant dismissiveness that banishes ghosts & makes company for thunder. Something that puts me in my mind of another time---idealistic yearnings sharing the same bed with a healthy cynicism. F**k all the values that left me on the fringe. Hotel Chelsea time. I'd love to stay there and just write, no more odd then anyone else who may one day implode or become immortal.

Reviews

[DF]

Thanks for letting us peek into your mind!