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2002-04-17 Behind my eyes overloaded sensory doodling of images creating themselves because they can, moving because they can. Octagons of blues that multiple. A tiptoeing pair of bananas. A proscenium that recognizes itself and expands as far as it can until it recognizes again it is still a proscenium of black. My head's way of recoiling from logic. From structural analysis of Old English. From minimalism. From math tests. Decode. And for now it's alright. Dreams of beige diners that creakingly tilt. And not so dream of a pudgy man in short shorts sunbathing pose in the beautiful greek-like garden with two empty stone benches around him, scaring girls to other places to read. A living statue just like Carver would intend. Details register. Little stories, the stories people choose to tell me when they meet me. That story. Stories of bricks running one direction, feet another. I rub my eye. Someone calls my name and grounds me for a second more. Sometimes, I'm so thankful for that. |