The History Books
I spent my day in solitary confinement; all for my own good. My throat has calmed down a bit, and now all that remains is my innate case of insomnia and a piercing headache that only knocks at the edge of my skull when I stand up. The day was filled with the consumption of water, Patricia Arquette, and bell tones of a 'G' note ringing through my head (no matter how I play that back, I won't be able to find that perfect note I'm looking for). I need casette tape and a cup of coffee. Now.
I tried to put my thoughts on hiatus for today - tried to hold back from letting anything disturb this serene sense of 'nothingness' that has glazed over the pain in my head - but to no avail. I found my tired mind drawn back to here (even though my words are sparse and I feel empty of things to say). My glasses sit precariously on the end of my nose, and my fingers bleed softly from the endless fiddlings of my musical obsessions. I discovered once again that twelve-string guitars are both physically and mentally exhausting.
So, what do I babble now? A senseless list of my invisible scheduling for the next few, uneventful days? I will attempt to regain my head. I will be flying back - Flight 792 - to Denver on December 30th (weather permitting; nature seems to playing a cruel game with the citizens of Colorado). I will either spend an uneventful New Years here in Salem, or I will be spending an uneventful (but probably intoxicated) New Years back home with Locke and Jean. I will attempt to finally finish writing down what's been floating around in my head. I will attempt to find a new four-track. I will wish it into existence! That is my dream!
My thoughts have wandered like jazz - playing hopscotch over the ebony and ivory keys of this seemingly silent piano. I have thought of her. I have not thought of her. I have searched my maps endlessly for the right way out, but I have failed. I have flipped the switch of every light in every room of my house - looking for some warmth or enlightenment in every corner. I have watched my phone ring away - not even bothering to pick it up let alone see who has called. I have planned my attack - placed my troops. I have perfected all the language I need. I have stumbled through the meaning I've once held, but now lost. I'm reading something about a beet.
"Somedays aren't yours at all;
They come and go as if they're someone elses days.
They come and leave you behind someone elses face."
I kept flipping on the computer today for no apparent reason. Every time - wandering with a sense of aimlessness, yet fierce with a sense of programmed action. It's like I was expecting something to happen. I was expecting something horrible - or something fantastical - to find it's way to me via this endless expanse we call the internet. My "friends" are a click away. My memories are recorded in an efficient, time-saving self-recording calendar archive. Our entire world teeters on the edges of our search engines and our news sites; every breath turned into nothing more than: "01110011 01101001 01100111 01101000".
I wanted something drastic to happen. My connections to sever - for those enticing red and blue banners (screaming 'NEW MESSAGES!' and 'NEW FRIEND REQUESTS!') to flash in seizures. I wanted some lost soul - someone living behind a name and a painted face - to sacrifice their pride for their honesty. I wanted something inside these electric light parades - these interconnected expanses of information bubbling over in an ever-boiling melting pot - to become human. To feel the way we feel. To dream the way we dream. I always wonder how I can never get across my thoughts the way I truly mean them - I wonder why the electric impulses in my brain cannot be duplicated and translated into a computer's electric impulses. I wonder how much our mechanics can differ from that which stands before me (recording my fingers and their movements, but never really getting my real message across). When will we discover the possibilities, and watch ourselves be destroyed?
That's one for the history books.
Please God, save us from our digital apocalypse.
I tried to put my thoughts on hiatus for today - tried to hold back from letting anything disturb this serene sense of 'nothingness' that has glazed over the pain in my head - but to no avail. I found my tired mind drawn back to here (even though my words are sparse and I feel empty of things to say). My glasses sit precariously on the end of my nose, and my fingers bleed softly from the endless fiddlings of my musical obsessions. I discovered once again that twelve-string guitars are both physically and mentally exhausting.
So, what do I babble now? A senseless list of my invisible scheduling for the next few, uneventful days? I will attempt to regain my head. I will be flying back - Flight 792 - to Denver on December 30th (weather permitting; nature seems to playing a cruel game with the citizens of Colorado). I will either spend an uneventful New Years here in Salem, or I will be spending an uneventful (but probably intoxicated) New Years back home with Locke and Jean. I will attempt to finally finish writing down what's been floating around in my head. I will attempt to find a new four-track. I will wish it into existence! That is my dream!
My thoughts have wandered like jazz - playing hopscotch over the ebony and ivory keys of this seemingly silent piano. I have thought of her. I have not thought of her. I have searched my maps endlessly for the right way out, but I have failed. I have flipped the switch of every light in every room of my house - looking for some warmth or enlightenment in every corner. I have watched my phone ring away - not even bothering to pick it up let alone see who has called. I have planned my attack - placed my troops. I have perfected all the language I need. I have stumbled through the meaning I've once held, but now lost. I'm reading something about a beet.
"Somedays aren't yours at all;
They come and go as if they're someone elses days.
They come and leave you behind someone elses face."
I kept flipping on the computer today for no apparent reason. Every time - wandering with a sense of aimlessness, yet fierce with a sense of programmed action. It's like I was expecting something to happen. I was expecting something horrible - or something fantastical - to find it's way to me via this endless expanse we call the internet. My "friends" are a click away. My memories are recorded in an efficient, time-saving self-recording calendar archive. Our entire world teeters on the edges of our search engines and our news sites; every breath turned into nothing more than: "01110011 01101001 01100111 01101000".
I wanted something drastic to happen. My connections to sever - for those enticing red and blue banners (screaming 'NEW MESSAGES!' and 'NEW FRIEND REQUESTS!') to flash in seizures. I wanted some lost soul - someone living behind a name and a painted face - to sacrifice their pride for their honesty. I wanted something inside these electric light parades - these interconnected expanses of information bubbling over in an ever-boiling melting pot - to become human. To feel the way we feel. To dream the way we dream. I always wonder how I can never get across my thoughts the way I truly mean them - I wonder why the electric impulses in my brain cannot be duplicated and translated into a computer's electric impulses. I wonder how much our mechanics can differ from that which stands before me (recording my fingers and their movements, but never really getting my real message across). When will we discover the possibilities, and watch ourselves be destroyed?
That's one for the history books.
Please God, save us from our digital apocalypse.
save us from that which matters most, save us from the tidal wave of fear and love, messages and emails, we can't stand to keep going the way we are going but we can't stop now, there is no turning back, we have been consumed by something we thought we could control, something we made
I wish I could spend New Years with you! But with antibiotics you can't drink, and I'll probably either still be in NM or passed out in my apartment. Shit-tasm. :\