"Something you can't see or hear or touch or smell: OK. All right. But something you can't even feel? Because that's what he feels when he tries to understand something to really sincerely pray to. Nothingness. He says when he tries to pray he gets this like image in his mind's eye of the brainwaves or whatever of his prayers going out and out, with nothing to stop them, going, going, radiating out into like space and outliving him and still going and never hitting Anything out there, much less Something with an ear. Much much less Something with an ear that could possibly give a rat's ass."

From Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.

Because I've been watching so many videos and having conversations of thoughtfulness

Trying to compile a list of intimate equidistances, somewhere lost between where I found you and where I came from, walking backwards on my hands, which is more like forewards afterall, and all I can do is apologize for not remembering how to love you more. I cant explain what I'm trying to do because I'm not sure that I'm trying to do much of anything, other than try to try my best or something resembling effortless happenings. There's nothing much I can do to adjust the prefixes, adjust my "past" as they keep referring to it as, forgetting that its happening all the time. Do you remember the first time it happened? Crossing over rocky mountain tops and letting the Allman Brothers wake me up first class or last class, or late to class maybe, all I remember is a song of letting things go, moving forward, pushing on. This is the inspiration. This is the poetry. This is the nakedness of everyone I've ever said "I love you" to. I'm never sorry for forgiveness and I'm not sorry for the rest of it either, but words hurt like bee stings that don't happen --- perpetual paranoid and papercut fingers. I remember how proud I was when I could tell my mom how to drive to the library, her pretending she'd forgotten the way just to give me something to do. I remember this and remember poetry and remember pretending like its the only thing, and I dont know how I forgot this before. There's something missing in you now, but I know where to find it. I just don't know how, how to turn left or make an appearance that makes an apparent difference. You grew a beard and I could barely recognize your immense cheerfulness. Given the arithmetic, I am reminded of my inability to cause joy and my lack of bandages. But then I look to the sky, bright blue and pregnant with rainclouds and I am lost in something more apparent that all these problems I had to excavate from my loved ones. I'm not a sorry person, but I'm sorry for being the person I have been--- sometimes. Not today. Today I'm fine. Today is a feeling

because matthew reminded me of carrollton, i reminded me of b.c.

brighted blue skin astringent smells like five weeks in spain and missing perfect teeth. somewhere between locked eyes and me telling my lover lies, i remember what wasn't waiting for me back home, in georgia, where it was probably raining, like it didn't for five weeks--- at least, it wasn't raining to me. but spanish is hard for me to grasp, even harder back then, muffled between locked lips above metro entryways, mapped out in picasso's confusion, or dressed on cream cheese pizza... noise and noise and beautiful noises reminding me that nothing, even a good thing, makes sense. but maybe spanish rain is dry, like the way my eyes were that summer, the summer of refusal, the summer of turning off the lights in order to hear someone else. farah's big brown eyes made me feel loved and understood, even though she is my opposite- how my little cosmo is now. something like understanding the impossibility of this is what made me forget how badly i wanted to forget other things. today, this is what i remember.

i feel like i deserve to be missed more. i know this is selfish, i guess.

Don't go so deep looking for tears - those ones will never matter. The ones that are to worry about will float to the top anyway. He will tell you what the Fear is in this one. And you will talk about how you can't hear about it. And you will realize that what you thought the Fear was isn't quite it at all. And you realize that he is simple, in a wonderful way. And that it's so lovely that his Fear makes sense. And when he is gone, you cry yourself to sleep because you don't know what yours is. And he'll tell you you're looking for something that isn't there. And so you do that, in case you missed something. And suddenly you are shredding journals for cocaine pages and praying to God for big silences and tears in locked closets and under some mechanic's fingernails. But you remember Tom Waits before anyone told you about him... and you remember when he laid in the middle of the road you knew exactly what was going on. And sometimes that is the point. To remember the you without the other and to remember that you aren't the same but that still exists within you. And it is all choice and chance and chaos and coffee and apologies and forgiving yourself for not knowing how to overlook the lookout. But know at the end of the day, the most beautiful thing in the world is knowing that no matter how many times you give it away, it never runs out. And if you don't believe me, ask God next time you're about to eat breakfast.

If I can have a moment of reality here, none of that is necessarily saying something directly about me. If you know me, you know this is how I write, how I go, how I think. One thing to something big to nothing about me. But of course it's all relative. But I did want to say something really straight forward... and that is I would have stayed up just to make you feel better, and I came over just to make you feel a little better, and that somehow even without being in the same room, I felt like that was the most beautiful experience I've ever had in Love, and with you. Just knowing it was a good thing for me to be there... I hope you know what I mean. Contrary to popular belief, I never say what I mean ;)

And on and on...

I ain't writing no more of these damn reviews about poets and poems I didn't want to read. Get me out of this place where words are turned into something sinister, remind me why we practice writing with our right hands, write only to write off the ones whose writing isn't enough for us to manipulate and turn into something good enough for you. If I've told you once, I've told you a time or two that nothing is ever as confusing as it could potentially, depending on the weather, seem or feel or what is that word on the fifteenth page of the dictionary next to a picture of some Eden fruit that sort of looks like a greener kind of pineapple but with a different hairstyle... Wait... was that a question? Questioning whether or not it qualifies might be the problem in the first place because every good man knows that when you ask a drug addict which was is up, he's going to point to his insides and mumble sorry and i just miss eating birthday cake and tears are just as good as bottled water. There's no point to much of anything except forgiving people who tend to forget to apologize when their anger gets the best of them. We can't help how we feel so we rub each others hands together, press fresh fingertips crimson covered and wet along each others, and apologize for practice because marriage gets boring. There's nothing wrong here, with you or me, or the way things are. All we must do is see things differently they tell us every time. So Lorraine and I raise our hands to the sky and force our legs to defy gravity, scream as the toes dance in the air, return to the ground. Little ones, little ones. It's not normal to feel good. That's a good way to think about things. Another thing to consider is that it's not really garbage if you just bury it behind the sage bushes in the backyard and don't tell anyone about it. I wonder where Jeff is now, and if he's still wandering around Berkeley leaving notes for people he has no intention to meet, if he stopped smoking herb in favor of starting over. It's not like you changed my life - you just changed everything else. My hair turned gray when we met. So I cut it all off and planted it in the middle of People's Park and you can go there to this day and you'll see sage bushes and hummingbirds and homeless humming words to that song we can't remember the tune of exactly. HE WILL REMIND YOU is carved along his shoes, filled in slightly with crimson and birthday cake and little ones, little ones.

Ain't no way I'll ever stop from loving you now...

The second dreamcatcher just doubled all my dreams, can barely sleep from all the visions, all the wild horses and broken handbags, happiness in traffic jams and a calendar's worth of trying too hard reflected back to me in perfection, simple and strong, woven into the chords of a song I'll never learn to play on the blue guitar. I named her Adeline because it reminded me of Berkeley - the idea of my bad voice and something good. I can't explain drunk puppies but I can explain that. That something about Berkeley breaks my heart some days... but I remember the softness in your eyes and I remember how perfectly the world has tumbled together just for me. I don't know. I'm saying all this because today was a good day.

Birds and words and other floating things, I cannot tell you how long I've had the same headache. I'm trying to keep the good vibrations flowing, but that's not my job. The job of adult bookstores and maybe something like harmony keep me reminded that I have no control over how things feel. There's nothing for me to offer you except my empathy, and only for so long before I don't know how to have a conversation anymore. If my dreams came true, I'd still be at work saying and doing the same things. Don't you see? Where do I see myself in five years is under a bridge stacking rocks next to my friend Pierre the troll. There's something crooked about my mind; it's not violence or hate, but a complete overdose on everything from consumable goods to magical feelings. There's nothing left to believe in when you've absorbed all resources. Give me a break. Breaking is the easy part. Healing is hard. Where am I now is a more important question. Last night's meditations led me to hearing voices of people I don't know and when I woke up I was five pounds lighter. Where is the fine line? What does insanity resemble? Can't we all just... get along?

Maybe I am just not cut out for this.

I don't think you were right. I think I love myself more than to put up with this level of all this.


Or maybe... just maybe... this lil shawty done grown right up.

We'll see.

Sensitivity.

Positives and negatives to every aspect of our selves, who we are in this world, the traits we offer, some lack. Sensitivity flows through me, push it to the side when I have things to get done, save all my vibes and feelings for a time when I feel a little indulgent, let all the feelings consume me.

Telling you there's something good about it all, able to pick up on someone else's problems without asking, not sure how to solve them but I'll listen to you without you talking, read your eyes, read the world, if I look you directly in your eyes, it's me, not you, that might explode. I just have problems, you know? When I get too close, I feel too much of you and that's what holds me back.

You know, I started listening to Drake's Take Care album on vinyl today (unnecessary... but it does sound freakin sick) and I was trying to do things and clean my room and for the first time in months, I stopped what I was doing to JUST listen to the music. And I wasn't thinking about work or things changing or missing anybody or being sad... I just listened to him spitting off his struggles and his love for his team and this insane passion and lyricism that regardless of how you feel about a person is undeniably impressive. What I love about this music is that there are actual words to this album and it kills me, breaks my heart... Then, thoughts start flowing about something I used to share with somebody who is still important to me, but I'm not sad about it. It's just like I feel like I really understand the other side somehow now, like I understand what Drake was saying, like we're talking over coffee, like it's okay to be miserable as long as you're being honest. I have listened to this album a million times and certain songs have hit me a million times, but for some reason when I put it in today, I got put in this really intense mental space. It got bigger than what I thought it was about before, bigger than what things meant to me before. Now it's words based on principle. Too alive. Feel me.

Questions I ask Google...

How do I become more attuned with the prophetic aspects of my mind?

Can I blame recent connections on the second dream catcher?