SCORE!!

Today I was visiting my mom at Huntington Books, and I was describing more of my concept for Café Ink. (my future coffee shop)
I was telling her that I wanted a full wall of books – preferably classics, and hardcover, if possible; and that I want an old turntable with a wide variety of music to which customers can listen.
She jumped.
"Oh! Say! Do you want a record player? There's one for free over in Bismarck!"
She gave me directions, and I drove over as fast as I could safely drive. After talking with the owner, and allowing him to show me everything else that he had failed to sell at his garage sail, we forced it into the back seat of my car.
"Now you can tell people you have a 1920s record player."
"Oh, I will. I will"

I feel abstract.

I feel illogical.

I want to create without structure.
I want to build without tools.
I want to fly without wings.
I want to swim out of water.
I want to drink the air.
I want to taste sound.
I want to hear colour.
I want to laugh in pain.
I want to cry in pleasure.
I want to scream.

I want to do something I've never done.
Go somewhere I've never been.
See something I've never seen.
Meet someone I've never met.
Fight a battle I've never won.
Without thought.
Without warning.

I speak too much.
I say too little.

I must act.

Ten thousand words swarm 'round my head, ten million more in books writ-ten beneath my bed.

I wrote or read them all when searchin' in the swarms,
still can't find out how to hold my hands.



And I know you need me in the next room over,
but I am stuck in here all paralyzed.
For months I got myself in ruts. 
Too much time spent in mirrors framed in yellow walls.

Ain't it like most people? I'm no different,

we love to talk on things we don't know about.

And everyone around me shakes their head in disbelief

and says I'm too caught up.

They say "Young is good, and old is fine,

and truth is cool, but all that matters

is you have your good times."

But their good times come with prices,

and I can't believe it when I hear the jokes they make

at anyone's expense except their own.

Would they laugh if they knew who paid?

Ain't it like most people? I'm no different,

we love to talk on things we don't know about.

And after we are through ten years

of making it to be the most of glorious debuts,

I'll come back home without my things

'cause the clothes I wore out there I will not wear 'round you.

And they'll be quick to point out our shortcomings,

and how the experts all have had their doubts.

Ain't it like most people? I'm no different,

we love to talk on things we don't know about.

Thinking outrageously I write in cursive, I hide in my bed with the lights on the floor.

Oh, I am not quite sleeping,
Oh, I am fast in bed.

Sufjan Stevens' "Illinoise" albums (Illinois + The Avalanche) 

are the perfect soundtrack for a sleepless night.

Insomniac : Sapphire and Ice

I see a treasure. Bright sapphires that shine like the sun, glisten like the ocean, rage like a mighty river, swallow me like a whirlpool, and freeze me like a glacier.
But they are set in a treasure far greater. An immaculate Sculpture, too beautiful for human eyes, too flawless to be carved by human hands.
The sapphires are bait, and the stones have lead me into the Sculpture's snare.
I am trapped and cannot move, I cannot run, I am frozen, gazing into the sapphires. But I wish to stay frozen in the presence of the Sculpture.
But It grows more distant, and the sapphires dim. It leaves me frozen, ensnared by Its beauty.
I do not fear. The Sculpture will return. It must return.

Insomniac : Dreams

It may seem odd to write an "Insomniac" post based on my dreams, but I believe my insomnia contributes to how vivid my dreams feel, and to my ability to remember more of them, because I sleep mostly in short bursts.
My dreams are a significant inspiration for much of my creativity; whether it's writing, drawing, or any kind of art.

---

I was traveling with a group of guys in a camper of some kind. They were not men I know in reality, but they were all my closest of friends in this dream. Most nights we slept in the camper or on the grass under the stars, but on a rare occasion we would stop at some old road-side motel.
One night we had decided to crowd into a room with a single bed. We were all standing around watching television and eating pizza when one of the group decided he was going to go bathe.
After some time, I and another of the group decided to go in and see why the water had been running for so long. When we entered we found that the tub had filled to the ceiling, as if there were some invisible force holding in the water, and our friend had sunk, immobile, to the bottom.
I dove through the wall of water into an infinite sea. My friend looked like a tiny pebble at the bottom of an endless ocean. The harder I swam to save him, the smaller he became. But the smaller he became, the more clearly I could see his eyes. I could feel his eyes. I could feel the growing, chilling, paralyzing terror in his eyes.

---

I sat in a corner booth of a lounge. The room was filled with every woman I have ever known, or ever will know. One-by-one they walked to the table at which I sat, stood before me, presented me with all of their grievances, with all of my sins, my mistakes, and my offenses, turned away, and stood with their backs facing me. Even my mother.
One approached and expressed in vivid detail everything I had ever done to hurt her, every word that had cut her to her core, every action that had broken her heart. My offenses against her were worse than any of the other women. I could feel every pain I had caused her and began to cry.
But instead of turning from me, she sat at my side, took my hand, looked me in the eye, and smiled. While the each plaintiff took turns presenting their case and proving my guilt, she sat with me clutching my hand, gripping tighter when the offenses were greatest.

Song of the day.

This is the story of your red right ankle.

and how it came to meet your leg.

And how the muscle, bone, and sinews tangled,

and how the skin was softly shed.

And how it whispered “Oh, adhere to me!

For we are bound by symmetry.

And whatever differences our lives have been,

We together make a limb.” 

This is the story of your red right ankle. 

This is the story of your gypsy uncle 

you never knew ‘cause he was dead.

And how his face was carved and rife with wrinkles 

in the picture in your head. 

And remember how you found the key

to his hide-out in the Pyrenees.

But you wanted to keep his secret safe

so you threw the key away. 

This is the story of your gypsy uncle. 

This is the story of the boys who loved you,

who love you now and loved you then.

And some were sweet, some were cold and snuffed you,

and some just laid around in bed.

Some had crumbled you straight to your knees.

Did it cruel, did it tenderly.

Some had crawled their way into your heart 

to rend your ventricles apart.

This is the story of the boys who loved you.

This is the story of your red right ankle.