That Bolt bus. With an old Chinese woman singing some eastern version of Greensleeves. It was all the same notes I thought I knew from kindergarten Christmas talent shows, just more falling acoustic cliffs and quick raises between a mix of major and minor chords. It sounded good but strange like first loves; like a mom's melodies to kids that don't promise anything but just talk of a future; it was quiet but constant like the air conditioning. When we got off the bus I found her and thanked her. She was dismissive, "that was a pretty boring bus ride."
Earlier in the day I had seen my dad for about one and a half hours; it was father's day. My sister and I helped unload things from his car (he had driven down in his truck with my mom; a few days of remodels ahead of him.) And we ate pb&j in their kitchen. Afterwards we went to a corner cafe for coffee and iced tea. I told my dad I loved him and that he was a good dad. He told me a sculpture I was working on had turned out well. I think part of getting older is seeing love in digressional conversation and no eye contact; large gaps can be like enclosed arms. Something where the boys that always persist in men are complete.
I can't help but think of what my possible, future children can become.
Even in my laziness I have become something that my dad isn't, he who
soars above in clouds not made of air or water.
He is a stone carving.
He is a shelter.
He is the beginning of my history.
We played tic-tac-toe in silence, but with soft strokes of x's and o's I could say how deeply I love you.
The last year or so was obviously a blur. Everyone talks about it: blur, blur, blur. The lobes of my brain feel like the carcasses of frogs run over by tanks driving side-by-side to some far off artillery range.
I haven’t read anything in most of this time and I feel this is in direct connection to the feeling that art has left me; I’ll never make it again and, even worse, the ability to write about this lost lover also feels forever gone.
Then something happened today in the fog of a very fucked travel plan that extended a 10 hour trip to 41 hours: I casually started reading through some technical things, some interesting things, some things of pure fiction. What I stayed away from was the internet. And shows. And endless chumbuckets.
I haven’t read anything in most of this time and I feel this is in direct connection to the feeling that art has left me; I’ll never make it again and, even worse, the ability to write about this lost lover also feels forever gone.
Then something happened today in the fog of a very fucked travel plan that extended a 10 hour trip to 41 hours: I casually started reading through some technical things, some interesting things, some things of pure fiction. What I stayed away from was the internet. And shows. And endless chumbuckets.
I can feel a small ribbit in my brain, and I wonder how easy it is to let culture be a school that only teaches something like mathematics by rote: forgetting the army of ones that make up a prime like 7.
If not approached carefully, YouTube will take all nuance out of my day.
