Another stream of consciousness.
Release. No boundaries.
In my dream ieri notte I had my sexual zing back; I was with a man in a black leather jacket on a motorcycle. Vroom, vroom.
I see an apartment window, warm with light above a city street that is dark at night. If I could have my own living space, I would have: windows, light, music, flowers, simplicity, coziness, no dogs, lots of pillows, photographs & art on the walls, an interesting fridge front, magazines, separate work & play spaces, fresh veggies, spices, a comfy couch, plants, weird zany eye-catching things, a computer with a modem, and much more.
Drip, drip. What are the antibiotics that are now in my system actually doing? Am I killing vital living cells in order to get rid of il mio tonselite?
Deep in the woods. Green lush plants and huge-trunked trees. Clicks of bugs and birds. Smell of wet growing life. Air is awake here.
Every time life gets hard, take a step back and see the big picture. That's what Mom says. "It's life," I say to myself. Worse comes to worse, and I still have my future, my potential, my family, Ashland, risks, comfort.
What's that weight on my shoulders right now? Three papers I haven't written, two of which are already late, the other one late domani. How many pages total? 7 + 7 + 7 = 21. Manageable. No problem. Do 'em domani and mercoledý, before Roma.
What else is causing that weight on my shoulders? My role in this dear host family. I can't let down my guard. I'm not totally myself in this house. Language. Aarrgh. I sit there listening but not listening. Not understanding. It has become a pattern. I'm too damn polite, when I really should just take the plunge and open up and step out.
This kinda rubs me the wrong way to think about it. Hey, isn't this supposed to be a creative release? A healthy break from having to deal with reality. Just like when I use sleep, food, dreams, TV, writing letters, or shopping to escape for a moment or two into that space of avoidance. A comfortable time to not completely activate all my neurons nor look ahead at what's facing me. Do some people never escape? What did Jesus do, I wonder? And the Buddha?
I'm ready to ascend into a creative escape. I'll come back down to reality later.
How connected are my body, spirit and mind? Do I put gaps between them when I escape? Or do I just focus in on one while avoiding the others?
Va bene, I won't let my pen stop moving for 5 minutes. Go:
The water laps up against the edge of the cliff. Climb it, get to the top and jump back in. The center of your eye's pupil is not black. It is red.
A bowl of steaming beans. Stick your spoon in it and stir it around. You can smell the fresh garlic.
A vast field of golden corn. Is America too American? I hear a multitude of languages here in Europa, whereas the U.S. seems to only have English some days. Does place define me? Nobody can appreciate or know Ashland as well as me, I sometimes think to myself.
She flicks the booger from her finger.
Count to 20 and your breath will slow a little. You'll get over that urge to slap him. Or the urge to eat a whole pint of frozen sugary cream by yourself. Or the urge to drive off the edge of the mountain.
He is not the man he used to be.
Golden and moving. Swirling and bubbling. Hold yourself in it, and the warmth will keep you happpppy.
Garbage reveals a lot. How much have I produced in my 20 years and 5 months? I want to dig through yours. What would I see?
Where is Khi Christian?
Take off. Either clothes fall at your feet, or the jet glides above the clouds.
Twinkle Twinkle. My pen hasn't stopped. A place on my mid-back itches. I took care of it. I can still feel the pressure and scrape of my nails in that one spot, but the feeling is fading.
Run until your lungs are heaving and you feel like you're about to implode.
Trying to gain others' approval gets so damn tedious, even when the whole process is subconscious.
Acupuncture. Wanna try it.
What is Jordan Gans-Morse doing at this moment?
What does "languid" mean again?
I don't talk about some things with other people. I'm assuming that no one is ever going to read this. So it doesn't matter how my pen forms different letters to form words to express ideas. Only I will see them. Here in Italy: Plucking eyebrow hair. Stealing cigarettes. Buying focaccia. Kissing women. Never exercising.
I don't want to think about these things right now. What am I doing? If I can direct this play, I can focus on the pleasantries.
A's going to write a book on body hair. Fascinating subject. I tasted her pubic hair when I went down on her in Florence.
I want to be a Buddhist nun. Or is that just another escape? No, it's my first chance at cutting out all the superfluities to find myself.
Full body massage. Touch my muscles til they are relaxed.
Hanging from a bar, gripping it with my hands. Look down and see the ground far, far, far below my dangling feet.
A bowl the size of this king-sized bed. Only the bowl is round. And deep. Full of warm white mashed potatoes, with butter, salt and pepper. I recline in it, occasionally taking bites of the stuff.
I can't even believe that Mom "burns or tosses" her journal writings every few years. That ruffles my feathers. Hard to believe. If she really does it, what's her true motivation? What if they were all sitting in front of me, and I could read 'em? Is anyone ever going to read my pile of diaries?
I think I hear the tiptoe steps of depression creeping up on me. Just when life felt so incredibly good. Maybe facing reality would be a buono way of getting back on track.
Irving Stone has a way of describing marble (through Michelangelo's perspective) that makes it seem like a very intoxicating substance. Rich, milky, glistening, full of its own character, with the potential for life to emerge in the form of sculptural art. I want to chisel some marble.
That artist... Bruce. Lived in Ashland. Had a marble studio. Died last spring. Mark D'O. had to deal with some of his things. I think I know who he was, although the picture of his face isn't clear in my mind. What was his relationship with marble?
Lots of people have died this year. Mark McInteer. Nancy Peterson. Mother Teresa. Princess Diana. John Denver. Who's next?