9.01.2015

Journal

End of summer thinking, planning, trying to wring the most out of each weekend. Yesterday I wrote 330 words in my journal and thought this could be a target to aim for. Must alternate between written bitchlog and digital bitchlog. I wonder what I ever could get out clearly typing. Fifty words right there!

I won’t look back. Things won’t connect, or they will.

Raina dreamed I had a son named Aziz Hudson. I dreamed of touching a man’s beard, and he said it felt nice, and he leaned into my hand like Jade does when I pet her neck. I dreamed of cats that don’t pee on the bed. I dreamed of doing things in fall. I planned most weekends, but not the wedding. I don’t dream of perfect vision, only glasses free of smudges.

It’s sad to think about how you sometimes need to leave your usual just to think. I went to L.A., and while maybe that was mixed, I had above-average dread of the return trip. Like how you can only think at 30,000 feet, or how in any given day you will push thinking off just to check off your To Do List. That Bored and Brilliant woman may be on to something.

Eliot dreamed of Halloween costumes. I dreamed of dinosaur notebooks. I spent money online. I try not to repeat myself. It is a crutch.

I read Hannah on the train. I am inspired! I get a text message from Ro with my name spelled wrong on a Coke bottle, she says I’m the only Brian she knows/cares for. I steal that slash from her. It is dear to me. I send a text to Yvonne.

My mother fights with her sisters. She scatters her uncle’s ashes at sea. Left to our own devices the rest of us drink.

I saw Matt play guitar at Bowery Electric. He sings of break-ups and not wanting to grow up. It reminds me of a poet who says something about all the past being grist for the mill, because his singing and my writing and that Chabon line about writing the same damn thing over and over. Then I have to go search for it. (“Afternoon Happiness,” Carolyn Kizer: “All life’s awfulness has been grist to me.”) I don’t want to take time to look up the link but then suppose it is good. Then I send the poem to JP.

I grasp at blueberries. I devour the coffee ice cream.

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