I hope
It’s the
iPhone
Itself
Giving me the
Painful squints.
I don’t want
To think
I need
Reading
Glasses
Just
Now.

I’m not a cartoon character. I’m not one-sided. I don’t see it in black and white.

There is this song called “Portland, Oregon” by Loretta Lynn and Jack White that really has nothing to do with Portland at all.  But it always makes me tear up, and that’s dumb.  Because it does not have anything to do with me or the life I have “lived” in Portland.  I have a secret cache of songs like this hiding on the iTunes. It’s sick.

My iTunes tells me I have not heard Little Elf by the Out Crown in over two years.  There was a good year where this song was pretty heavy in my life. Not a good year, the BEST year.  Yeah I associate it with a girl. Well, a couple of them.  The beginning and the end.  The beginning of the  end.  This was an “our song” before this was a my song.

But I am listening to it now, and it’s a no-one’s song.  I have put it on repeat, and the absence of nostalgia is acute. The absence of trips to the Oregon coast, to the middle of America, to New York, to London, to Greece, from the dry warm Mojave desert to rain soaked Avenue A, laughs and screams and twinkle eyed optimism and blood boiling rage and sullen resentment. It’s not there.

Good.

Well, now it’s baseball season, so whatever I was doing before will now go out the window.  Why did I re-re-resign up for Netflix when I know I won’t have time to sit around watching movies anymoregod DAMN it.  Tomorrow is tuesday and the game starts the same time The Best Show starts.  This conflict will happen, oh, nearly every week.  DAMN it. Say good-bye to listening to The Best Show Livenand now whatgod DAMNit – don’t check your who is haunting your Facebook friend requests, just don’t.   I’m not going to like my dreams tonight., that’s all I can say  Though to be fair, though, when do I?  The only time the do not lack the luster of a life I whouldwouldcould lead I am throwing myself down the stairs of sorrow. Thanks for the tip, Brainy. Or TRIP.  Oy.

Though Mid Monster just died. Maybe I will have nightmares about being a junkie.

Oh, it’s been too long, old friend.  Much, much too lo..

Oh, hi.  No, I was talking to this joint. But, I mean, it could mean you, too, ESJ.  Widdle, widdle, ESJ. Koochie!

Someone just asked me what I was good at.

And I did not have an answer.

Because I spend most of my time thinking about all the things I fuck up.  I’ve never stopped to consider what I excel at.

And after a moment…

I went into a bullshit answer about art letting myself fail and whatever, it was total bullshit answer, and the person saw right thru it, and I am an idiot.

Because what can you say.  I’m good at making coffee? I’m good at parallel parking? When so much of your energy goes into etherial aestics, it’s difficult to verbalize just what it is you do. And I in no way consider myself even close to being good.  Being good when oyu are an artist means you are a master and have nothing left to learn. I feel like I don’t know shit.  So though I am competent, I am far from a “good” artist.

Or writer.  I mean, you read how I write.  I’m not being kooky meta, but who writes like this?  There is absolutely no focus! It’s amazing I can ever string this together.  But I guess what you can say positive about that is my writing really makes you feel like you have just been in a room with. Exhaustion and all.

Hey, guess what. I’m watching the Olympics.  And rereading the words below about “not having the power to write” bla bla. Come on.  Power isn’t a fist, it’s a feather. We’re doing this shit.