Been a bit since I put something up; just wanted to end my night in a sweater and boxers and a haze, deliciously writing and typing as I find myself doing lately. --Not a sweater, but boxers or nothing, naked and writing, inebriated or wrapped in smoke and curled in blankets spilling and spitting and thinking and writing.
Gotta talk about fall break, about red glows and beers; meaning to talk about poems - have a half-written post with "The Bits" in it, and need to put up the accompanying "Fuck You, Rudy"; need to talk about teaching - about the difference between rapport and respect, about the sexual assaults in the past week, about brain tumors, about inspiration and self-failure versus fucking up because you didn't try, about Seattle and San Diego and KIPP and Portland and Denver and Colorado as a place and Albequerque and Brooklyn and Southern Manhattan as wonderful places, with better salaries and resources and accountability and more fulfilling teaching experiences - and most interestingly, the talks with friends about charter schools and moving to Seattle together or Brooklyn or other amazing places, and laughing over dinner when you find out every carload of people had the same conversation en route, as we are all at similar points of frustration and success and despair and glee and desperation in life; and my most recent musical selections which are rocking my shit: Thrice B-sides, in addition to the Beggars album, which are rocking my world, poetically, thematically, and musically, the Thrice album lyrics remolding my mind in terms of their flow; Them Crooked Vultures, with Dave Grohl on drums, John Paul Jones of Led Zep on bass and keyboards, and Josh Homme of Kyuss and QOTSA and Eagles of Death Metal and whatever else on guitar and lead vocals, with absurd rhythm and melodies, full of massive pulsing purple sexual rhythms and orange-red percussion piercing it in a fabric perfect for oral sex and lyrical inspiration; Michael Buble, Paramore, string remixes of the themes from Requiem for a Dream, jazz funk, metalcore, French angst techno, Citizen Cope - with "Son's Gonna Rise" rocking my car-drive and home existence every ten minutes - all of these songs, a random melange on my current list, along with others, as well as a Thrice Christmas half-mix, with a cover of Carol of the Bells that melts every aspect of my being - all of this shit deserves a writing in this thing, and in my journal perhaps.
It's weird what I pull out a pen for and what I write on here for. Sometimes I think it's completely random (except, of course, when I type out a rhyme on here. It's such a different funk and flow, typing words from finger-taps as opposed to small-motor manipulation a pencil on a page), and other times, I think it's a mathematical progression of what I'm thinking - like this morning, stoned and walking into ASU, ready for flowers to grow from my eyes - and many times, it's just a matter of efficiency: Sometimes, I can manipulate a pen, others, the best I can hope for is hunting-and-pecking letters on a keyboard, and that determines where soemthing gets written.
Anyway, funny how it happens. Typing is faster, but feels less authentic, and is rooted to laptops at the simplest (minus one of those bigassphones), and I prefer more than anything the sweat of things scribed in my current book. As annoying as the moleskine (or whatever this thing is) may be, it's nice to have something new to remind me of the $1.29 notebooks I've burnt through, now piled in my room.
I need to pass out - writing, conversation with good people in other places - that must wait.
Good night, good luck, good love, and god bless - it's a wonderful, cold night, and I can't wait to curl up and enjoy sleep in it.
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