good god gd

sobriety for only one whole day brought a lot of reading. i finally finished janine's aunt/uncle book, 'a little pregnant', and found it to be quite interesting. they referenced god while not really believing in [it], and one of my favorite parts of the book contains a god [reference], so i'll repeat:

"Dear God, I say to myself, when it is time for you to take me, let it feel like this: suspended in space, enfolded in love, no longer where I've been but not yet where I'm going, the lovely, breathing weight of my sleeping child pressing against me. I will be ready to go then. Please take me then."

the final words of the body of the book, by linda carbone. they made me feel more like a child-positive person than i already am (or, rather, think i will be in the near future, perhaps).

however, they also make me comfortable in the surrender to [god], to drug-induced blankets.

the child of my curiosity was a symbol of rebirth as opposed to birth, as ideas die and die in my head they compose to comeback, and i stopped this finished book to pick up an old unread, a hope to finish. this is on french wine, a narrative of a man traveling through french wine country in the 70's. i think i'm ready to learn about wine again, and expand my knowledge while curtailing my drinking (severe alcoholism is much less rampant in wine drinkers, as opposed to beer and liquor drinkers). i bought a solid yet inexpensive bottle of red recently, and drank some after being drunk. tried to remember noble french grape varietals by region and blanked due to blunk. easiest thing: bordeaux- merlot, cab sauv, cab franc, petit verdot, and

and?

malbec of course, but i had to wikipedia that shit. whta teh fuuk. stupid. i think i'm ready to remember more, and possible even acquire something new.

WTF!

thes tife

stretching muscles, stretching strings.

listening, weakling, dead as dreams.

dreams were not remembered last night. night before they were only me at work, mundane and wasted. simple. each successive night brings confusion at the night post unconscious. the science of sleep is playing a lot on [insert actual nap here] hbo now, so i just watched the end of it again. it put me to a lovely sleep, a nap, where i didn't follow the movie, which made it more like a dream, more like the aim of the movie. i awoke from the nap to my mother calling about pictures, and then i just thought while half asleep (meaning not pessimism but optimism, rather) of myriad friends of old, past girlfriends and the encompassing feelings of fallings. i can't explain that feeling, nor should i be able to, the feeling of loving. i remembered for a second of the movie i watched yesterday, of where the wild things are. it was very beautiful and uneasy yet calming. i daydreamed, spaced out, almost slept but didn't, for about 30-40 minutes. that state is a very interesting and important state to be in. very fleeting. i thought a lot about the actual act of 'sex', where it's been for me, the weight of it from a child-like eye.

the sociology of sound: day one. i say the phrase aloud: "nightmares occur while people drive cars." tell me what that means to you, the actual auditory sounds of it.

the opposite of october

often times we only feel things in relation to what is around us. we are in constant comparison. i am breathing until my hands are warm. i am hating low blood pressure, i think. i am contemplating a fall to winter drinking binge and scheming how to afford it. i've just realized that i love muscle and joint discomfort, and find it to be almost erotic. i've agreed to marry every woman who asks me, with never a question formed from my lips to their ears.

i'm looking forward to the falling of leaves revealing more buildings in the distance. i'm watching too much television and consuming of too much shallow entertainment in general. i'm starting bad habits and picking up old good ones. i'm talking about all this to you. you're wondering, you're watching, reading, you're thinking about going outside. i'm glad it's nice where you live, if only for regional deficit and human weather modification techniques.

women are woven

constructed in clay, feathered in layers of deep texture. thread count high, it always seems. even when it's low, it feels perfect as cashmere on water worn hands and hangnails; when a strangers touch is staunch bleached cotton, her's remains a fresh bath of lotion, painted with worn-in childhood soft. my boyhood blanket and pillow, with matching yellow bird print, can compare in puffiness but not in symmetry the way she's put together. the head moves in cement while the heart sends a postcard, captures her gouache on recycled wood. oil paintings sit on the floor, fallen from nails. her weather pours down upon these arranged and canvassed elements and they start to bleed onto fabric. each fiber moves slightly. once dried, the tiny long flexible cylinders are thus changed, more tense, starched. the differences in localized color and shade forms shape and picture; i can only sense heat and breath, and the differential to which my blood can thus be magnetized.

i peered at a fat baby, at work, yesterday. instead of the usual aloof, the little one looked at me through engaging eyes, omniscient, it sized me better than i it. the father had a funny yet smart mustache, the mother was beaming.

a new october

a slice look at the ComEd bill and a realization that the cost of power will go up soon, not inflation but season. the paper wilts and then crushes, blows away with autumn wind from a secluded coffee table inside a semi-drafty apartment. the uneven floors and tilting walls still keep sound structure, but the elephants within keep wailing their trunks mouths speakers sound, creating drafts all their own. revised draft after revised draft keep piling on the table, covering anything of use from sight. the seasonal time change corrects the lapse from unknown pasts, when we didn't have to change (perceptually).

my notebook. my notebook for writing. my notebook for writing is open with yet another vast blank page facing ceiling through vacant eyes and head. ideas wax floors, but refuse to fall out of pen. the pen is too slow, too outdone by all forms of metaphor and irony, to use it as such in type would only deafen our understandings. so i type on a friday night with lowercase 'f' as a sore throat takes me from sleep to leftovers to a possible stand-in at watering-hole turned sleep-house. not due to any lack of purpose or passion, but mostly caution of circumstance. the writing went to fade out, to thank you, to collapse, in no particular order.

on literature (Women)

my reading list for the past (few?) years has been scant, mostly due to alcohol, social endeavors, vacations, and scholarly pursuits. however, i just noticed that most books in this period have been focused around the women who have caught my attention. i'm currently reading 'a little pregnant' because it was written by Janine's uncle and aunt. before that i read 'franny and zoey' because Janine gave the book to me. 3 years ago i started another such salinger, 'catcher in the rye', because rene gave it to me to read. we broke up and i quit reading it, and still have yet to finish. i read various Willa Cather works, along with various retrospectives of her work, because of Meg's connection and relationship to the specific author. my Mom suggests anything and i usually read it. my latest indulgences have been jeffery brown comic shorts and collections (by Mary J and Dani B, respectively) and the seattle zine 'dreamy vs sucks' from Janine.

to be fair, i'm also reading 'on the wine trail', which was given to me by a man named rick who was a frequent at the wine shop in flagstaff. and i plan to read 'the universal baseball association, inc' from brant.

but all i want is your love.