NOTE: I have this paranoia, I guess about everything I write and it never ceases to happen. I’m always reading over whatever just came out and thinking how familiar it sounds and how I probably subconsciously stole it from the book I’m currently reading or lyrics I heard being sung or anything influential. But yet it seems I haven’t stolen anything yet, even through all my doubts, though they still occur. So I’m always feeling guilty like I’m just a borrower of something and everything’s not really mine. But then I think that maybe it’s because it was so me to begin with it and then I wrote me down and then I read me over and after the steps are taken there’s every reason why it should feel so familiar because it’s me. I was talking with Alex about this before he started off in his deranged rant. : ) I guess now that I read this little memory over I’m feeling like every other sentence has already been uttered and published and read and seen. Who cares really though? My point gets across.

3/20/02

Tonight was perfect.

It’s all a nocturnal cycle of intervention. A reciprocal coexistence. We laugh into the sky and the sky welcomes the smiles recognizing a sincerity revealed. Beneath the veil, beneath the pretense of facades and working days is energy gossiping ravenously back and forth conversing of freedom. Then, then, then, then, then! It all slithers up in streams of euphoric verve. Everything contaminated with showering life. And it rises and falls with a captivating consumption. Right then, right now, right ever and ever you’re infected with a brilliant illness. You love it and love is only exhaling out into the world with a new breath to wave complacency across faces and skies.

Things were transcending each other over and over until it all leveled out into this extreme bliss.

Lara and I went out for togetherness at Border’s. She was late and it’s just the norm, so I sat with jazz tea that tasted sweet like music and wrote some poems. Poetry is something to be mastered and even if I don’t have a natural hand for verse, I can still write down nonsense anyway. I was so happy already. The sun was leaning over the streets in this orange crippled wave, just crimping colors into evening, and I watched everything twice.

one of the pretty worthless poems I wrote:

Spherical beauty

spinning perfection

occurs in my eyes

spotted with yellow.

Global immensity beats

off the radiance and

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

I’m pining for a glow.

Finally she came and the sun had wavered into purple. We went upstairs to work on our photography paper, but we didn’t glean a single thing for our paper besides inspiration. Anything I see or read is just a confirmation of my wild desires to travel and photograph and write and love. We sat there for an hour or two and amused this man–who purposely lingered around us–with a continuos commentary on all the books we paged through. He was smiling especially when I was critiquing the nude book. Sad to see us go, as I’m sure the man was, he watched us descend the steps and leave all that lore for new destinations.

We went to the loft for a while and Alex wasn’t there, because he’s off living my dream of wandering and beauty simplified into streets, if he’s not sick that is. Poor sweetheart doomed to codeine. I was disappointed, but I expected it because of the great feel of the air that was everywhere turning. It was just spelling out a journey. I hope he got to go. I ordered green tea chai and Lara the chocolate but they both tasted horrible like polluted water. Talking about photography we diligently finished our drinks and left. It seemed empty inside and I didn’t want to be encased by a building.

Both of us wanted to just drive so terribly and I went mad being out so wonderful like that. We had early seventies tunes steaming out the car windows in gorgeous melodic fog and I was squirming all over the car beating myself crazy with any sort of detectable rhythm, even though I’m terrible at keeping anything consistent. Man, I was demented. Lara couldn’t stop laughing at my limbs going out the window, up through the roof, and back coiled next to me before shivering all over again and snapping. Above through the sun roof all the buildings were crumbling in artful pieces and dusting me over.

And it was just us infusing the city and the city living in this serene blink that was fluttering moments in the eye of everything. A vacancy engulfed the dark scene of tragic skies and solitary street signs and sidewalks where the footsteps of men still lingered in faint imprints. I wondered what magic was cemented to the stars phosphorescently blowing charms past the runic moon. And the lights were red but we were shimmering green and leaping through flashing boundaries. It was incredible because it was us, open and intimate with the night. Unleashed from the day, the day of monotony and treading deep into the shattering darkness that fluctuated with the city lights from beauty to perfection. It didn’t even matter that it wasn’t somewhere else, that it was miles from my house, because it was that universal breathing beating being that voiced ecstasy in dark sighs.

We pulled over ran around deranged and then hopped through the sun roof jumping on the cushions and laying all over the car taking pictures and freezing. I had to pee so bad during it all but the night was too wonderful and we kept driving and taking pictures. We stopped by this drain in the middle of the street and took our last picture. I danced back to the car in these pathetic leaps that only allowed levitation for a split second. Well I had to pee more than ever and we were pretty close to a church. So we parked and got out and I was hopping with my legs crossed like an idiot towards the door, laughing foolishly and praying God let me go! All the while this old man was watching us from inside and I know it must have scared the hell out of him to see me hopping around like some kind of primitive during a tribal urination dance. Hahaha.

Those moments are the only things I remember. I don’t even care if it sounds stupid because it was crazily funny.

Something that made me light up was this simple window that said “artistic asylum.” Some kind of gallery or other I’m sure, but it was so ironic and great that I loved it and felt like seeking admittance. We bopped around some more tuning ourselves in with the sonorous echo that resounded through layers of exhilaration. She had to be home, restrained by curfews as always, but I’m still ready to love everything. I’m still pining for a glow.