Half of a Whole
<< 9:50 p.m. - Thursday, Nov. 10, 2005 >>
Sometimes I�d like not to look at what I�m writing. I�d like to do this as if I didn�t have an eye on the horizon. I wish I needn�t go back and edit, but just let what is lay itself out clear in the first draft, like some nude sunbather of past times. But I tend toward fractured sentences and fade off lines. That�s just how my life is. I haven�t got street signs or maps or definitions of where this piece stops and the other begins.

I don�t want to be a writer. But here I am staring at this lit screen with a need.
I don�t want to be a painter or the self perceived artist because I�d rather have experiences than mimed acts.
I want to know. And silently, I�d like to be known.
I want so badly to speak clearly and all I find tumbling from my mouth is bullshit, is clich�. Things my parents said, the headlines rather than the article, and the gossip rather than the fact. I want to be suspended above my insignificant daily struggles. All these tired attempts for false friendships. There is never enough to say and explain in the warmth of my own bed. Out there in rain soaked streets I lose all the things I had to say. I want miles of word here. I want you to know me.

My arms can only reach so far. This is what I see. This is what I retain. The smack of my worn shoes on wet pavement. The street light behind the maple tree in front of my house. The roll in my step. Never tiring. I swim some days back and forth across the surface of chlorinated water and forget there is a beginning and end to this fluid movement.

I will never sit still. I will play the wild horse none of my friends were able to tame. The family of wolves in your closet. Running around in circles, tripping over my words, tripping over my sentences. But here I am. Bound by cycles. Bound by the trappings of this existence.

Yes. I want knowledge and experience wildly. Fuck this boycott of things. Fuck the pretending open mind. I will be passionate. I want to be true. Oh my.