11/13/2001
Ambien
11/13/01
I sweat the soundtrack I was going to stay up playing terrible games…obsessive word cubes squared. Tim refuses to stop until he wins, or absolutely loses, hits absolute zero. What game is this? What night is this? the air is not right to type a thing like this…it’s too stuffy, the air too full of stuff. Suddenly the creative potential with laptops hits me. I always thought they were for rich students and self-important business kids. But to be able to work on your creative output----the stuff you create….hereforeto be known as Swath, the stuff you create is swath. no matter what it is, it is swath if it is inspired by aesthetics, by imagination, by splendor. A sweater knit in some anonymous factory, in the blind dark, manipulated by machines, it is exponentially cloned. This is not swath. Skinny white girl crawling to the roof of her porch one night printing a t-shirt with paper adds from sidewalk trash. This is swath. And this music, Nick Drake, w/ a bit of Janice Joplin and Lady Day, it is swath-inducing music. And I want to swath. I want to create something so irrelevant as to require it’s own language. I want a roof hammock macramed of long strengthened strips of old pajama clothes. I want to smell salt-water again, and I think about keeping a jar of it on my desk to remind me….no damn beignets.
Dream weight forces my hand back towards games, dream sight relaxes my confidence. Perhaps I will win this tournament. I hear vodka as well, and I want to spiral down in a slinky cocoon. ¶ 10:17 PM
I sweat the soundtrack I was going to stay up playing terrible games…obsessive word cubes squared. Tim refuses to stop until he wins, or absolutely loses, hits absolute zero. What game is this? What night is this? the air is not right to type a thing like this…it’s too stuffy, the air too full of stuff. Suddenly the creative potential with laptops hits me. I always thought they were for rich students and self-important business kids. But to be able to work on your creative output----the stuff you create….hereforeto be known as Swath, the stuff you create is swath. no matter what it is, it is swath if it is inspired by aesthetics, by imagination, by splendor. A sweater knit in some anonymous factory, in the blind dark, manipulated by machines, it is exponentially cloned. This is not swath. Skinny white girl crawling to the roof of her porch one night printing a t-shirt with paper adds from sidewalk trash. This is swath. And this music, Nick Drake, w/ a bit of Janice Joplin and Lady Day, it is swath-inducing music. And I want to swath. I want to create something so irrelevant as to require it’s own language. I want a roof hammock macramed of long strengthened strips of old pajama clothes. I want to smell salt-water again, and I think about keeping a jar of it on my desk to remind me….no damn beignets.
Dream weight forces my hand back towards games, dream sight relaxes my confidence. Perhaps I will win this tournament. I hear vodka as well, and I want to spiral down in a slinky cocoon. ¶ 10:17 PM
