28 October 2007
I miss you, Chicago
My computer died for the first time in October 2006. That was the catalyst for Chocolate Chip Cookies; I still have the handwritten copy in my Harriet the Spy notebook. October 2006 was when I lived in Chicago, with a close group of new friends. The bond between us--in October--felt almost familial, when we lived in the same building, ate at the same times, studied in the same rooms, crashed the same parties; October 2006 was crisp and cool and dark, Chicago was still a beginning, Trail of Dead put on a fucking incredible show, and the people in my life gave me all the words I needed.
But, of course, October 26.
No one writes for themselves
... The stark reality, the frank and the cold and the unembellished, is that everything is painfully obvious from now until then, and what's left to be found is nothing anyone wants to uncover. The great reveal--or the gradual, as it were--is inevitable, with only a simple audience behind the stage to watch it happen. This is the lack of judgment--the bright eyed design--falling in on itself. The safest method is to detach yourself and grasp onto disassociated observation, because things are prettier from the outside. You can't see the details from far away, and when all the dust settles it's so much easier to turn around.
My computer died for the second time in October 2007. Not that it produced a Chocolate Chip Cookies, but I can still taste what's left of Dichotomy. I'm exactly where I've always been, stranded in Cow Town USA, selling shoes full time and waiting for my chance to go back to school. Except now I live with close group of new friends, sharing a building of marijuana and music and aimless nights--"family" isn't the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind. Now I can't tell the difference between poetry and prose, and now McDonald's feels the same as the moon and public restrooms. In October 2007 I am happy, despite September, despite August, but mostly despite October. Because the 26 is long passed, and I spent last night in a top hat and a painted smile.
I don't know what's going to happen in November. I just know right now it's crisp and cool. The air is filled with ideas and possibilities. The words are coming on their own, I have everything around me that I need to say, there's a comfortable stack of books sitting next to my bed. And the bond between us feels almost familial. So I'm not so worried about November. Right now, I'm enjoying October. Posted 4:04 PM by Purple Curtain
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But, of course, October 26.
No one writes for themselves
... The stark reality, the frank and the cold and the unembellished, is that everything is painfully obvious from now until then, and what's left to be found is nothing anyone wants to uncover. The great reveal--or the gradual, as it were--is inevitable, with only a simple audience behind the stage to watch it happen. This is the lack of judgment--the bright eyed design--falling in on itself. The safest method is to detach yourself and grasp onto disassociated observation, because things are prettier from the outside. You can't see the details from far away, and when all the dust settles it's so much easier to turn around.
My computer died for the second time in October 2007. Not that it produced a Chocolate Chip Cookies, but I can still taste what's left of Dichotomy. I'm exactly where I've always been, stranded in Cow Town USA, selling shoes full time and waiting for my chance to go back to school. Except now I live with close group of new friends, sharing a building of marijuana and music and aimless nights--"family" isn't the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind. Now I can't tell the difference between poetry and prose, and now McDonald's feels the same as the moon and public restrooms. In October 2007 I am happy, despite September, despite August, but mostly despite October. Because the 26 is long passed, and I spent last night in a top hat and a painted smile.
I don't know what's going to happen in November. I just know right now it's crisp and cool. The air is filled with ideas and possibilities. The words are coming on their own, I have everything around me that I need to say, there's a comfortable stack of books sitting next to my bed. And the bond between us feels almost familial. So I'm not so worried about November. Right now, I'm enjoying October. Posted 4:04 PM by Purple Curtain
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