Smoke Bone Salt

Yesterday I went to the ocean. And they were all right, she was right, one feels like a real being, invisible, an amoeba that rides in spit. We can disappear so completely in it, it's like a heavy wing, a great hand of undoing.

Dumb

One week ago I was happy to find myself sitting cross-legged eating a pancake. I take them plain, mostly, without butter or syrup. This one was grainy and had chopped almonds in it, the color was a warm barkish brown and I did not make it. Then I drove and drove for a while--apparently through the town where Stephen King found his bearings in the 1950s and learned to identify hard woman and had the whole echo chamber inside his head blown out more than once.

I can be incredibly interior; which is why during that drive where I imagined Stephen King, yes he, with his penchant for developing characters across and between the thresholds of life and death, the living and dying, it is why I thought that that man understands what it can really feel like to hear the dipteran humming of maine in the summer. And I sat almost completely silent headed towards Portland, my interiors collapsing and reconstructing themselves like living buildings, architectural species transforming corridors and stairwells based on some intrinsic impulse. Similar to this, only more fantastic. Less hydraulics.

Regardless, it's not that I'm oblivious to my surroundings and the company I keep while deliberating intercourse between beetles, but one week ago I was particularly wordless in the morning and would have been happy to lie down, fully conscious, all day, beneath a fan. Not alone, but curled up and bent this way and that. Sometimes I keep the characters in my entries unseen because it feels selfish and too forward to also describe how I appreciated their heavy look while our road matched up with the river and they stretched on for a while, side by side, looking quite similar and neither caring anything of it.

Bear, Bore

This isn't self-deprecating but: I'm a bore. At least as an inter-text. My seldom yet lofty submissions are usually entirely self-absorbed and esoteric. I'm constantly rehashing and reminding myself of the goals I have in maintaining a blog. I want(ed) to:

1. make comments on my surroundings that may be appreciated/cerebrally encouraging to my 1.5 readers, perhaps leading to discussions or exchanges that will allow me to be an even more thorough and informed critical onlooker.

2. allow myself a space for deliberations and communication that didn't have the pressures or standards of academic writing. Exercises in writing that left room for error in a cosmetic sense while stilling helping to keep the chops up.

3. maybe, just maybe, click with other pensive furrow-browed twentysomething cutes.

So I say I'm a bore but most random blogs I read are just as tedious as mine. My friends write clever, engaging, and completely accessible blogs that always offer something easily relatable. I'm thoroughly amused by their commentaries and often hysterical observations. Their links are there --->

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I've been overwhelmed with the word Bear. It started in March when I read Faulkner's The Old People and then immediately jumped into The Bear. I enjoyed becoming so tiny a figure in his old semi-infiltrated landscapes. I'd close the book feeling damp and musty. But the image of the Bear kept on. Soon after I kept seeing images of Bears at random. And then I watched a Joanna Newsom video of her performing Monkey and Bear, and then there's always the verbs. To bear, bore. A bear, a bore, my bare, my boar. It's amazing. Sounds, letters, tenses, all changing and mixing, a rubik's cube of meanings. How gorgeous.