pt. 2

Or, you know, we could talk now. I guess this happens more than seldom, less than sometimes. I need to be awake for tomorrow, I need to be effective and functional. I may very well be because last night I slept for some time and I've read that you react to how much sleep you get from the night before last.

I'm tired. I've been laying for a handful of hours now but my head is actually starting to hurt. Without trying to, while trying to stop actually, I'm hearing a lot of music in my head. Well, it's not music yet. I'm hearing a lot of melodies and lyrics in my head, rushing about. Most of them are bad, all of them are fragments. And then I imagine spending the summer in the city - a tiny, horrible apartment with several friends and spending alone time panhandling. And I think about my guitar, inches from where I lay my head to sleep. Also singing parts of The National's Apartment Story and Ben Fold's Landed, from time to time. I'm an infrequent guitar player - I don't make time for it. But I just spent the last two hours putting together chord progressions and verses, bad ones, in my head.

And I didn't even watch any music videos tonight. They play the same ones over and over again anyway - maybe in another week or so, they'll switch up their routine and I'll see what else is on.

I spoke with a friend today who felt both the longing to spend time by herself and the delicate, looming feeling of loneliness. Loneliness, maybe, in the universal/romantic sense but, when we spoke, I think she meant loneliness in the "Well, maybe sitting here, doing homework in quiet would be bearable if someone else were sitting quietly with me." Maybe it was both. Maybe it's like how we check our mailboxes, hoping it isn't empty, hoping that, yes!, there are missed calls on our phones and new, unread emails waiting on our computers. And, yet, I cried out in anger when my phone rang earlier tonight, before checking to see who was calling (it was a necessary call - I answered it). I might honestly be happier when I see Denis tell me that I have 0 new messages and... well, I either get magazines or letters in the mail so those are always welcome. Contact? From specific people - there are things she wasn't telling me, there are always things we don't say. But I believe that, generally, she was expressing some sort of constant truth about herself. Does she have what she's looking for? Are the right people missing? Are the wrong people too present and too en masse?

I'm not lonely. Well, okay fine. Maybe in the universal/romantic sense when it's night and my thoughts are constipated with bad parts of potential music and, well, who the hell am I/where the heck is God/what does forever really mean?

No, it's not really one of those nights.

Most songs, lyrically, just start going.
"Please stop for a second while I try and try to pin your flowers on. Lalalalala."
"We'd hit the bottom. I thought it was my fault. And, in a way, I guess it was."

I guess I'm on brainstorm tonight. Which is good but really, really not the time. I know, I know. Muse and creativity cannot be controlled. And, really, I'm arguing with myself for wanting to sleep so I can be prepared for tomorrow instead of scribbling down every phrase and moment of thought-turned-word that enters my consciousness.

I guess here I am, though. Staring at my computer screen. My eyes have adjusted to light reflecting off my fluttering knuckles. It's a gorgeous image. Can I say that? Can I be distracted by this too, just for a moment? My hands are dry, not hard worked or calloused. Dry if only because of cold weather and the glow from the screen emphasizes the cracks and texture of my skin. Every line and fold of skin from where my fingers bend is quite clearly visible. And they move pretty fast.

I type this sentence and my fingers move, one letter at a time. Like a machine. Pow! Pow! Pow! Incredible. Incredible. Incredible. Incredible. Are you watching this? Incredible. Incredible. It's not the same as a typewriter, but the macbook's keys are very satisfying and smooth to clickity-clack about. Clickity-clack. "And it rained all night."

It's late. It's 5 AM. Shit, what the... how?
I hope to start running around soon. Maybe tomorrow even, if the evening weather permits, before capturing seven full(ish) tapes of footage with my team. Oh gosh. I'm going to need some coffee. My mom told me that I looked like an old man today. Usually, she's a very sweet person, assuring me that I am a beautiful, handsome and strapping young lad. (Wouldn't it be great if she actually said the words "strapping young lad?) Also, my jeans looked dirty. Mother's standards, I guess. But how do jeans look dirty unless they have mud streaked across them?