my insides are burning. the cold has caught hold and i'm yearning to break free. . . in time i'm told . . . but i'm ever impatient.
spent some cash on gifts for folks, feeling broke. but i'm not. in debt. but i am.
what else can i say?

can't sleep. three something in the morning and i'm wide awake staring at jack, staring at me, like he will open up his unshaven faced mouth and say something like, "jeez girl, you uh, think it's time to hit that bed.." something real awkward like that cause i read, and reread, he was unsure of something deep to say when he needed to say it . . .
but the shadow his brows leave over his eyes, deep brown drooling lust, i'll take it, who needs words when you got action . . . right kurt? ha! stupid asshole that he was.

thought of death earlier. how every december someone can die. or no, begins to die, or is dead, or will die. . . it's the focal month of death.
teddy just before, elliot just before, pa just after, me just before. . . i know i know so pitying huh? my rambling suicidal hey look at me - i'm-miss-sexton-holden-bullshit-bitching-always girl right? well, maybe, but it's true. i'd rather be shut up in the colors of my dreaming on a heavy dose of tylenol pm then be here, swelling up with words i'll probably delete come sun up
ha, and that's a joke, there is no sun here. just gray.

gray and roses. beautiful roses that remind me that life is illustrated.

i am so confused. graduate school? leave? what happens next....?
my last year here. my BA is finally done and i'm standing ... everything is supposed to be one, but it's all fragmented... all.... pieces. non fitting.
the options are so diverse which one can i handle... which will cure or which will create more chaos?

flagstaff, az
bend, or
ny, nyc
nj

it's my decision apparently. mixed with mindfulness & the considersations of more . . .

damn.

today is not a day to be rational. today is a day to leave it to tuesday and sleep.

a thousand hours later . . .

the morning widens it's door for my heavy lids to open . . . look within, and smile, happy friday. snow flurry, everything gray. it's the city of gray. i've never seen it alive with color. and i think, that's the part i like the best. the black and white that exists. in eyes, on building, in sky, in me. here i am just a shade. nothing expected, and nothing to focus on. even me. i go staring into myself, and i dont narrow. not lately. i can fall asleep, and the nightmares seem dim. they too have turned gray. it eases the pains they typically draw, to see them so faded, so shadowed, i can pretend, i can assume, they are still dreams, and not like before - where i felt every color, every sensation that unraveled me in the dreamworld.
i go off to work. again. gray.

awake. not necessarily alive.

so dramatic. and it's Samhain and i'm unfocused. on who i am and where i will be. i'm afraid. i'm always afraid. i can be fine for seconds and then the reality that i'm here, existing, freaks me out. that i have to function and get to the next step scares me.

listening to a jones beach show. randomly added here. and joan, i can kill her. leave my songs alone you imposter. if you think you're jerry play the fucking guitar. do something other then hump bobby's leg.

I'm nearly finished with school. Nearly. 8 classes to go and then i'm free. from the holds of tradition and repetition and stagnation. at least until graduate school. i have a moment to be free. to fly a little ... then turn my wings toward academia. hopefuly to embrace an income that i can save for about ten years and then hide away in a rocky mountain getaway, in a cabin built for one, but fitting the occasional two, and a stack of books, hiding another stack of books, hiding another stack of books, hiding . . .

i can't write. fuck. he just talks. and doesn't understand. doesn't.

wow, i haven't written in so long. i'm just tempted to leave now - and let it all "rest in peace" . . .
so much has happened that i dont even wish to discuss. things that make my mind unravel .... and then hurry itself up and tighten back - like a fist
except in my head.
it hurts to think about too much.

figured out this morning that i need two more classes to graduate . . . fuck. that means staying in albany or commuting a moment longer then intended which isn't horrible - but still not according to original plan.

started new job at an indie bookstore again
i love it.
i miss my old job.

that's all i know.

a beer. cold. full. stomach.
watching the lamp post
in the corner of my room
as though
like the street lights
it to
will flicker
and make me feel
part of something
dark
and shadowed
who would i be
if pink floyd was not here tonight
invading my privacy
and licking my wounds
in the most erotic
yet subtle way

not sure anything feels amazing
in fact, i can say, everything doesnt
but isn't it how september always feels

tired. have a few papers to write. can't focus.

away from home.

at my old home.

going to new hampshire. debb & nick getting hitched. excited to go and have a crazy family time.

no more to say.

really.

morning. he made me breakfast. eggs, pancakes, bacon . . . coffee has yet to be acknowledged but i'll be doing that when i leave here. listening to responses in the form of the feminine.... listing a to-do list that never gets done . . .
tongue tied, when it comes to writing a five page paper on guilty pleasures.
i have too many to write about. and in other words as well, i am not ashamed, i savor the things that set me apart, so the assignment is kind of hard . . . . why should i make reasons why i love the golden girls, or why i can still rock out to old madonna (true blue style), or that i have 15 copies of the great gatsby - it's not a difference to be ashamed, but a difference to feel amazing in.

Read the communist manifesto- what a fucking joke. The utopia is just too far away – and who wants to share and give over what they have “fought so hard for”? I know my Uncle Roger and Aunt Lee would prefer not to, and a few others on the list as well.
Trying to read frakenstein and not hate it – but I do – it’s so ridiculously dry and unforgiving to the mind. Just on and on with topsy-turvy words that describe but never amount. I don’t know why it’s so great, I feel nothing from it. Screw Mary Shelley and fuck the stein, give me back my beats. Also started poems for the millennium, and it’s damn good, at least one out of three books for class haven’t turned me off . . . .
Work tomorrow for which I am not pleased, I hate it there. I’ve worked I think now – 23 hours, or 25 something, who knows? But it’s so mundane I feel like I’m dying. Every minute passes slowly and upon my nerves like cement, tick the clock clicks, and I’m still there. I do however have an interview with Hallmark, and the bookstore on Lark is hiring so I’m hoping to satiate the wallet by means not of the school bookstore. This week I am scheduled to work over 45 hours, that’s murder on the mind, and on my heart. To hell with them. They can suck my dick.
Reckoning is tonight. In new paltz, so close, and I am not there. Sad, would have loved to see them, hear them, dance to them, and laugh with friends. But here I be. In Albany. which I have grown to love.
Called my mother today. The machine voice, stroke caused, and I wanted to hold her. She sounded so little, so unlike her callous, quick self. . . the voice of the mother I remember was hasty, pulling us around by just her tongue, quick lip and laugh so loud the smoke flew around her mouth, her fake teeth browning as the sun rose and set. I don’t know if I’ll call her again, maybe. She scares me . . . . well, no, she doesn’t. But the idea of her scares me. What she was to me. Who she is now to me. Where she will be to me. She sounded non-chalant, “okay honey, love you” . . . as though just yesterday and the 15 years between she was coddling me with her love love love you’s but she wasn’t, she hasn’t, and I won’t be fooled by her, I won’t fall for her again.

written:
August 29, 2003
7:56 p.m.

And I’m so fucking dry . . . every ink well, dream well, thought well has gone and dried itself out, leaving me parched and confused . . .. Misusing the common verb, and shoving adjectives where they don’t belong just to make myself amused. Smothering myself with the moaning fits of a hypocritical Adam duritz; on and on he eases me in such a way I feel like I should feel ashamed. Using someone else’s outlet as my own, when I know full well I have the capacity to create a path that could save myself. I wouldn’t have to climb upon his lifeboat and shove him over, whining and wailing beside him. And who am I to say he is? When it is me here, using him. He isn’t up all night, beating down my door, sliding under the windowpane, to catch a glimpse of my strength, begging me for answers on how to carry on. So why am I there . . . waiting for him. Because, I answer myself, I am dry. Fucking dry.

And I was talking to mike one day. Smiling into the ideal of having my own space. My place. Where I could be myself, all night, all day…. And it would be the best. Right? Because yes, it would be mine. My walls. My door. My locks. My books. And I read. Two books already. But all I have written is this, and it’s just a bunch of lines that I go back over and eliminate. Nothing stays upon my page without being bludgeoned to death by my fateful mouse, click, drag, delete . . . gone. And such is the life of my writing. To be born from my pen is to die by my pen, never seeing the sun, the sky, the trees, the eyes of the readers all-cowering from my authority that I boast but never prove. Soon they will all laugh, the girl who cried wolf. . . . Err, should I say, writer. Both the same. Preying, pouncing, pounding over the snow in fury looking for food, warmth, love, anger, pain and beauty all in the same second. That’s the point of production. That’s where “the magic happens” . . . but it doesn’t. Not yet. Not for me. Never. Because I do not make it such.

And like that, I leave the topic, and get into my tiny lifeboat leaving the island of thought afraid to complete the sentences, afraid to close the chapter. I am constantly begging the past to come back, let me apologize for that let me forgive it for this.

I have a mantle. Beautiful marble mantle surrounding a black encased fireplace, that once I’m sure, was someone’s delight. Where they would sit in this small room, and gaze inside the flames flickering upward. The snow creating images of ease in the trees that lined the brick streets, rail cars going this way and that, the laughter of a man dressed as Santa ringing his bell on the edge of the car, waving at the window shoppers. And this mantle is mine. Where the incense burns, and bends under the blowing of the fan that stands at the edge of the room. Where the pictures of connection rest, of proms I went to, and love I have, and four leaf clovers packaged into a frame for good luck, and tiny keepsakes gathered over my love and loss of years and years. At the floor, where the logs would have rested, green bottles stand surrounded by candles that I smile at for this winter, when the darkness closes in so early, drawing the depression around my shoulders, I will have these tiny lights to remind me of the nights of beauty and innocence of my youth. Where nothing was a worry, and nothing was ever hurried, and I could lean upon the shoulders of the strongest anytime I wanted. Not right now.

To my right, shelves upon shelves of books I love, and have read. I love them. God, I do. Before anyone, anything, everything I love them. They have been my savior, my world, my all every time I’ve ever felt ashamed, sad, happy, in love, I can’t say enough about them. The cruelest blow to me, in the time of enemies, would be for someone to harm them. I’d rather suffer the fate myself, physically then to have visions of Cody be beaten, or for the bell jar to be thrown into a burning. In this thinking, I wonder, is it my feeling of not measuring up that keeps me from writing? To feel like I’ll never compare, not matter my endeavor. To be a failure is to stand before this shelf and be looked at by those names I know and love, and not be good enough to join them. Why try? Why not just be satisfied by staring at them? Reading them? Sharing them? Why try to join them? I will not ponder the ideas of this anymore tonight; it’s a strange taste of psychology I don’t want to taste.

I have this, my reason for not writing, gone. And still, I am writing about not writing. I am hopeless.


written august 24 @ 815pm

reflections:

last weekend . . . on 8/8 sean picked me up ~ we trekked out to darien lake(about 4 hours) to find some friends and folks gathered to hear dead/dylan/hunter - and we had lawn seats, and was really happy to hear hunter, as he played terrapin - and oh my - that makes my mood immediately happy. our seats on the lawn were free from others, and was nice to lay down a few times and just listen . . . then dylan went on - and i was just - scared. i miss the man that made me fall in love with poetics in music... the voice of a beast came thru - as he tried to rasp thru a tamborine man - i was really sad. kept looking at sean, like "this isn't good" . . . then he went out - met up with mike and julia - and went down near the soundboards by the rest of the gang . . . . and the dead came on! what a beautiful set. i danced so hard i cleared a huge space for more dancing folks ... and got a few compliments which always makes a grin come, modestly of course :). . . and a stranger even stopped me to take a picture of my BEAT POET tattoo - admiring it for a piece, and i continued on dancing. we missed the encore (from the seats but heard some in parking lot) to beat traffic - and we drove on 6 hours!!!! till 5 a/m to get back to sean's house. sleep till 10a/m ... eat breakfast, and bus into NYC, and train out on the LIRR to freeport, where matt picked us up and housed us and beered us :) till the jones beach show -
wow, what a crazy group of gazebo folks. .. .
jones beach is beautiful and nice, the rippling water on al sides of the stage, but the dance room sucked, and the no re-entry too . ..
but liked that we got a few reprises - one being cassady :) which i had hoped for! and a minglewood too for sean.
went back to todds in the back of lique's van, and did a screened in porch few hours - talking of minotaurs, and visitor and such silliness that kept us laughing for a bit. finally went to bed in the dark dark cellar and slept till 130 the next afternoon!
woke up. dunkin donuts, and hurry - get to beach! and do it all over again - only this time on the screens i saw some amazing visuals - doors. opening in mountains, and in the water . .. thought of aldous huxley and had this really amazing connection (in my head) with the writer and then later with jim morrison - as he felt it too - just a really good vibe. told it to sean when i sat down.
but then i felt an overwhelming sigh of down time - and reflected on friendships... with meg, christy and heather. more female based. Started missing them all. Wishing meg and i were as close as we were. and wondering if christy was good. (glad i got to see her a few days later:) ) and talk to heather - those two felt damn good. my best, oldest friends. they both rock :)
back to lizzards. didnt stay up late, my energy was lost... and losing. sleep. wake and drive back up with kate and dale - got to albany around four.... walked some, and slept. . .
what a dead journey we made . . . . :) dont regret one second.

a crazy moment, to be sure - the reflection of the past year, the biggest time in my being for living and loving the dead . . . more then any year previous. in leiu of his birthday decided on listening to a show and sitting here, midnight special, naked and singing some, random reflection on the attractions made thru the connections, the common handshake turns to hug - when it comes to the celebration over the bridge of music and a man we love, and a man we know loved us. a plane of emotion no one can fathom, but us. family. brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers. . . . home. happy birthday jerry

At home once again. As every day brings another routine – coming home is but todays. Didn’t sleep – we woke up yesterday and drove over a thousand miles without sleep . . . a falcon rv, three crazy heads, and I trekking from Colorado up and over to NY.

Suppose I should get into how we got there. That’s half the fun. In Austin, after bus from Flagstaff, and Jason and his friends picked us up at the bus station. We partook in random jeering, and cheering at Gaelin’s ultimate Frisbee game, and went to sleep to prepare for our july fourth with willie nelson.

Got to Austin picnic – and disappointed to arrive so late – seeing only the last of Leon Russell’s set. But was able to see Ray Price, and what a blessing it was – that old man can surely rock out – but he doesn’t look like he’ll be around too much longer so felt very pleased to get him. The Dead opened for two pop country bands, and ultimately willie later and that was weird. A dead during the early afternoon – and they were only a shrug to typical show power. I questioned their own egos with the lineup and maybe that’s why they sounded so loose and not caring about the energy. Had no alternative so had to leave a little after one to make it to a place to sleep – so missed Willie – hearing some sweet songs carrying over to us as we walked away. A heartbreaking goodbye.

Found a bus to dallas, first plan was to rent a car, but at the budget we met – Doug.

Doug, a 400 show under belt, glass eyed, vagabond, deadhead wharfrat vendor . . . he talked a lot – fast and experienced – a lighter, sober form of Neal Cassady and his Cadillac sped on into the night by sean – who truly did all the driving. So many hours of driving until we reach Camp Hosa, in Denver, Co.

Immediately found friends, and we all just relaxed for the afternoon . . . . . later on had an amazing first night of Dead at Red Rocks ~ an amazing venue, the weather was perfect, and the band was sounding so tight I forgot all about the rust I felt from the previous show.
Second night of Red Rock dead – was my birthday – felt elated being surrounded by 12 friends, all hugging and loving me on my day . . . . and sharing visions on the rocks, while the dead played magically – “come together” even played for Ringo . . . . or so I believe. After show walked and wandered with sean around the campground definitely finding a humorous spark among my own need to be in company of someone who really did care.
And finally the third night ~ yes! Got a looks like rain!!!!!! A little late for the birthday but still just as amazing. All three shows were the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. And more over felt. An energy indescribable surging thru me at all I felt and feel about the music. So healthy and good for the soul.

Leaving was hard. . . . goodbyes awkward and no glances back. In the heat of noon – drove east toward home with 20 bucks in pocket, a sleeping bag and a bookbag – sang a lot and read two books on the RV journey.

Thought a lot about things, where I am with my bills, and my responsibilities and I’m hoping I can get all straightened out.

A quick list of folks I met as not to forget : Dusty, his girlfriend “the puker”, Gonzo(a sweet brother), John, Tara, Gaelin, Doug, Doug’s vendor friends Jerry, Pip, Rafael, Life, Zagah, njtrader, and the random bus drivers, and those folks who made the movement interesting . . .

last night at hostel met stefan ~ played pool, listened to jukebox, foozeball - and a losing streak. a full kitchen of wanderers and the smell of food tempting . . . wishing now i brought my long hand journal in to recite what i wrote inside - but all can wait.
pictures should be posted soon and i'm happy for that . . .. let others see the things i've seen

this morning woke to chris taking us to the bank to finalize the exchange of my car to his hands, and leaving me with a bus ticket . . .

monsoon season starts today. the wind already has begun. . . . slightly.

finishing thoughts and going to go find lunch

making necklaces for my birthday - going all out to be really intense night - beads, dress, hair piece, color - can't wait to have that night come ~ love and comfort in the change

later on that day . . .

feeling really happy. smiled a lot today. met a lot of interesting interested people. called home and talked to christy, makes me miss home - hanging out with her - seeing friends and family - but i'm adopting another family too - the randoms. . .

the cave woman, the lou reed woman, henry the cigarette man, the skinny hostel clerk boy, zagah, chris-biff's boy, the truckers, and the dogs, the road, the sun rising - i could go on -
and i'm meeting myself in every day
which makes me nervous
and amazed at the same second
becoming who i am
wrote a few 50 pages of diary - and filling books of thought
creative things started yesterday while we ate spaghetti in a park - offering our food to the homeless passers
feeling good to give, and wondering if they would give if we were feeling empty

bought greyhound tickets to austin
but hosteling now here
in flagstaff
a good place to be
found a band
railroad earth to sooth us
and zagah a girl with a furious knack for trying
met henry, mexican man with a need to bum another smoke
and please tell him hello when you see him - that's his last request
as he coughs up a heart
the town moves easily
beneath feet
as we seek to sell the car
sent all belongings home - over 60 bucks - so i'm broke
but oh well - can't be secure every day
smiling though
i'm eating a bagel the way i like it and ready to lay down for a nap

sad.
to be expected.
transmission hates me
and i´m not sure i blame it
too bad i´m here and not at home
i could at least have a bed.
or some form of sanity i´m not finding today in the swell of heat
old feelings turn to new melancholy
and billy knows best because the tremor of the inevitable
infinite sadness
compounds me
astounds me
and turns me loose on the wolves of my own

drifting

into bakersfield
found a puppy
took her
named her
PEARL
scruffy joplin mama doggy
small and cuddle
in lap and on the floor
into LA
and cant see it
nothing but air
and fog
and heat
heat
rising in the street
like love or something more
asphalt~esq
right?
as though i had a choice
smuggle dog in
bar at night
puppet show strange but mooodooo do you do?
i did.
and laughed
then laughed again
left though
no re-entry and a puppy passing time in the car
keeping the betsytoo busy
with cherry limp in the back waiting for water
that i just dont keep up on
because my mind is busy with writing, i wrote.
yes.
i did.
late night
insomnia
no paper easy
so in the margins of a novel i was supposed to read for self need
and didnt
for fear of boredom in but another literary classic
moved out of LA
north into the playground of lucifer
watching the sun ripple up off the motor
and my eyes burning
yearning for green

wake up san francisco it's lou fuckin reed
says the woman
with the pipe
and the cane
swinging around her touseled head
as lou
fucking
reed
plays
sweet jane
and i celebrate
in my mind
the weary warhol hatred
that fades in his appreciation

san francisco cold
and the ocean fog layers my toes
like love
or something salty
similiar

miss home
the abilities i know
of being there
and in love
and inspired in the quiet
the road here is endless
and that breeds some fear
that is listless
with the need to overcome
and build my mansion of self
over it
a community of empowerment

bought a kerouac book
at city lights bookstore
fell in love there
that was amazing
to be
where they
be
was being
had be - en
his little book
inspired me to bring myself here
and write something more
about this LEG of this TRIP

on southward
the city of angels
and the angels of pity
all sighing for the show

pip and crew meeting at a rest stop near cold grants pass
tea and chess
puppy that i fell for
and some tall tall taller trees
this morning
trek down the coast
and into redwood . . .
and waiting to hug them harder
the fat beautiful turns of the bends

up up up elevation-you-can't-make-it . . . . reach the top and sputter out - cough cough cough - car on the side of the road - cowboy crash course "whatcha needta do is" - and a tow truck carrying me far far away into the land of a waitress that takes 45 minutes to take the order, and a thunder storm goosebumping my arms - hank & squeater keep the weary wanderers company, fat dog, and the skinny rowdy one. . . . get fixed up - and let me add "Screw You Idaho!" (giving me f-d up gas). . . . and ((((((sam's garage - i love you))))))) ~four hours later, on the road again - just can't wait to get on the - - - - - BEND . . . . hello three sisters tall powering, still and covered in snow and threatening my transmission with tempting, taunting laughter - "come, climb me" . . . . clean city here, in bend - in love with it. . . . coming back.

haven't written anything yet. feeling shitty about that - my eye feels alive - but my spirit and heart - murmuring - trying to recreate things i have no words for - sometimes i wish i never even mentioned anything at all - "writer" - blah to me and the chances i dont take - to make myself bigger then i am . . . more then i feel - and i just smile and nod and aren't you glad you know me?

oh well.

redwood forests - here i come. cradle me please. i'm thorough in the enjoying of this time, but i miss my bed, i worry about grandma, i want to dance more . . . . i want to write more.

be well.

wyoming. took so long to find a computer. but loved the drive. wide fields. so much is flat. and reminded me of things i dreamt of when i was a child. the badlands were amazing. . . huge, and colorful . . .. hot - but worthy. black hills and mt. rushmore were striking - so intense - stone. on long back road drive to wyoming last night the lightning surrounded us - every field, every cloud pierced with long white bursts of perfection - god, it was incredible . . . .

wildlife i haven't seen before - deergoatcows - - which i found out today were antelope of a breed i cant remember . . .

and the squirrel creatures that look like ferrets and rats - but aren't . . . . Just in love -
in love with the movement - and in love with not being situated anywhere too long.

rest stop rendevous to sleep each night - it's interesting - a "lot scene" of a very unique kind. . . .

moving on to boise, then bend oregon, then san francisco . . . ..

haven't written anything yet - but feeling closer
read a few books though - one i can't stop until i finish -

peace

sun is shining in nashville - arrived on the sunday morning - the 8th at 530 a/m - eek - CHECK ENGINE light loves me - and the car drives still - so i'm not too worried - who can be? that's my fate - my way of being . . . . always a chaotic sky - last night though found a dive . . . a wading in the midst of nashville - old station in - a bluegrass jam - locals flocking on mandolin, and banjo, and guitar, stand up bass, and harmonica- singing sad sweet mountain songs .. . . cried once - this beautiful tall red-shirted man, his instrument - his voice, reminded me of Pa . . . and I just wanted to rewind and be existing there with him - and letting him know that we have now a connection ~ music i didnt love when he was alive - but do now . . . . sad that our "in common"wasn't around when he was with me in the flesh - but the spirit takes hold and I still savor. Bill Monroe says hello.
tomorrow morning car is looked at in hopes it's fixed and traveling resumes. memphis sings, "come along down, come along down" . . . .

my room is still full. boxes scattered, and brimming to the top with books - more books then i thought i had - and books still on the shelves - obsessive - and a bit compulsive - to own so many copies - who really needs 13 copies of the great gatsby? . . . . or a dozen bell jars? . . . . i laugh at the future when someone enters my space - and one entire corner is just full of the same copy - and i wont know what to say - but shrug and grin - because it is who i am - that pile - is me. inside. a pile of thought and reflection - and growth - god i cant forget growth . . . .

two more nights to get it all together - and fixed - dont know if i can do it - but going to attempt.

tonight is the partying with the friends of albatoga . . . . . dancing to the deadbeats, drinking, loving, i'm going to miss them all ~ i'm excited to party with them one last time before i go . . .

it's raining out but i'm feeling all right

everything's been packed. the car. my clothes in a bin, food bought and packed. . . a bed made of blanket and sheet - it's home - the explorer home. i'm really happy - for my spirit and my eyes - to embark upon this - to move me in ways i've yet to be moved. i am scared though - have to pack up rest of my house - because upon my return - there will be no place for me to just go to and call "home" - must find a'new - which is exciting and such - but new and worrying.

found a slight schedule for summer - slight - because things change - so i'd rather not jinx the slight i do have and just go as is -
bringing only one kerouac -which surprised me but i hope to find new things to spark me - and not depend on jack for all the searching - i've used him enough.

off now to finish the tasks of detailing . . ..

another day. finally putting the odds & ends together. packing clothes. finishing off the bills (remind me again i need insurance to drive my car) . . . got addresses all written out and ready, phone numbers, this site sent to those i care for. . . .
a few days left and then .. . .. i'll be gone

i'm confused about life, and such that goes with it. need to get away. feeling pressure on every angle to be more - unlike me - and i suppose i am pressuring myself for that too -
to reform myself into something i can swallow.
but here i am.
reflected
as is.

another day ~ more time to dedicate to the thoughts.
with gram moving out into her home, and me being homeless in a few weeks - i'm not concerned much ~
i will be im sure upon my return. if i return. i am sure i will - but have made this half assed promise to heather and others that i wont come back until a novel is finished - the fucked up version of the ideal - "i'm going to write the great american..." blah blah blah - as though it is just going to happen - and we'll be all set for the rest of our literary lives - and i use "our" cause i suppose i'm just too damn scared to say "I" ~ i always have been.
I leave in two weeks. from today. excitement. confusion.
i miss sal.
i miss myself.
run run run.
discover.
experiment.
was talking to some and they compared it to kerouac, for which i smile soft, but dont feel it - i'm nothing like that - he had a need - i just have a want. . . .
i've never really been pushed too much by a need. nothing is ever inspiring enough to motivate. maybe that's where my in-accomplishments lay bed ridden - what am i yammering about.
but i'm here -
and real
and alive
packing.
clothes, ramen, rice, water, blankets, and a journal. a lot of music. enough to last 80+ days - and endless nights of driving insomnia - to and away
cradle it and beat it
enjoy the day

I leave on June 5th. . . . after a night of debuchary and chaos with boardie lovies - onto nyc for gov't mule and robert randolph in the central park mayhem - then embarking on two months or more of existing - seeking something bigger then i am

inspired to let everyone i know and love what i am doing while... on the road... began here to journal my summer