Scrap

I deleted another thing I was working on when I found this draft. I don't remember writing but it must have been in Winter when I was desperate for a little sunshine. Anyway I think its incomplete but it's been so long I don't remember how it was meant to end; or even what its called.

Sometime when the rain stops pouring and the wind stops blowing and the clouds stop covering; thats the time when the sun will and the blue sky will emerge. If it doesn't happen now; if it doesn't happen ever. Then I escape to the past; where these things happened. There are jars all over the house and nobody associated them with their previous contents. We keep the labels on saying "Spagetti Sauce" or "Strawberry Jam" but their insides are clean and clear and if not for the labels; transparent. Nobody looks at them as spagetti sauce jars or jam jars they have become the jars for the chocolate biscuits the jars were there is money that I sometimes put in and sometimes take out. There is nothing in this house that gives me indiciation of the previous owner. I sometimes find something of mine; that is old and dusty and mine; and I pretend its the former occupant's. I pretend I've stumbled into something significant of someone else's lives. Better still if the thing I find actually is something significant of mine. Then me and the former occupant have, so much in common.

Umbrellas out but for once "For once it does not look like rain"

You looked at me then the sky and smiled; the past so the sky was turning blue and the sun was emerging from the clouds, and at the same time the cloud as wisping away from the sun. Then you talked but I can't remember of what and then after many hours we departed I decided to walk home and you took the train to meet your old friends. On sunny days like those I wished we had more open train stations old fashioned train stations with old fashioned trains but sometimes, all the time, I want things over sentimentalised.

Despite all my efforts I could never bottle days like that and how wonderful if I could. I tried taking pictures but its magic was limited to the fact that outside the frame things were still wet and grey. The thing I hate most about wet and grey days is that I can't leave the houe on wet and grey days and I'm forced to stay at home, and pretend to find significance in others because I have already fully explored the significant things in me, in my own life. I can bottle rain, and this rain, even on sunny days has a penetrating darkness in it. If I break the bottle of rain its completely likely it will escape all over the white tile floors and change the weather. I feel jealous you and all my friends can leave on grey rainy days.

And the whole mood of the day permeiates into my life faucets. I must, to keep to the occasion, wear dark moody clothes and sit on the coach reading books. Ah summertime, the light airy dresses and shorts and the potato chips and TV shows.

Lomography

There is no greater sport; lomography! Go down to the river, that goes down to the sea; and see everything through a lens with a shutter that clicks. Sometime see things; as if it was seconds away from a polaroid. There is the ocean that you've followed from the river that, has birds swooping over and blends darlingly into the sky, ah what a day. And you see it with white borders equal in length at the two sides and the top; but extended at the bottom like all polaroids are. There is no greater recreation; sometimes go down to the beach when the ocean is calling and shaken of its nervousness and the deepest cleanest blue. There are endless stretches of sand; along with endless stretches of sky. There's a long flat line out there that you can't always see because the sun is sitting flashing in your eye. Go out with a hat and a wicker bag and its so bright you have to put your hand over your eyes.
The sand is completely toasty and deep and it moves aside for you; but gently and only when you ask it too. The water keeps asking you to dip in forever. And when you are in there; when you just get in and your lungs are fill to the top with atmosphere; there is a feeling like jelly is encassing you. But it's not exactly jelly; it adjusts itself perfectly to your shape like jelly; but its not as suffcocating it is light breezy effortless and when you first get down there you lose all clarity of what is wet and dry. When you have to resurface you lose the senseless shapeless escape that is down there; here returns the sensations of soaking and dry; of hot and cold. Then you take 3 steady breaths again; and one big one; then you dive in submerge yourself in the understanding salt.

I Decided To Be

I decided to be a dancer
But I could not move my feet
I decided to be a writer
But I had no words to speak
I decided to be a leader
But revolutions are never easy
I decided to be an ocean
That makes things seasick, quesy.

Dear Me

I'm submitting this for something so I revised it

Dear Me

She sometimes sends me emails in the middle of the night. She never has, set times on anything. They could be short one sentence pieces; they could be 5 miles long. Sometimes I never read them I just, like looking at the number 1 standing there by the word Inbox. And when I do read them I will think of too many too long multiple replies. I couldn't show her I was laughing; a

'hahahahaha'

sometimes just didn't cut it. The obstructive-ness of language; of writing to her and not speaking with her and talking to and her watching her react to me reacting to everything she says. I would think constantly of French philosophers; if I could find some way to make my

'hahahahaha'

come off the screen with the same tone I would use and all those 3 dimensional feelings I had would come through to. I tried so many different variations of smiley faces but this

:D

could never really simulate me laughing and smiling and acting how I do when I talk to her.

I sometimes think that maybe; I only love her because she loves me. I only love her because I am delusional and I will accept anyone who told me anything with the letter L in it. But then I’ll remember that she doesn’t love me that way; and I just imagined and wished; that she loved me that way. I must love her then I guess.

Come pull me closer to the walls so I can feel how you have an instant pull that flows through concrete. After all; there are no after all's in a world where you're gravity's everlasting.

How many times do I have to write things down until they lift themselves off the table? I don't think it could ever actually happen. Jump into me for god’s sake; jump into me the ability to fly to her or at least; to write to her a little more three dimensionally.

Sometimes we plot 3 dimensional graphs on our calculator because we have nothing better to do in maths class and we sit there in the sun seeping through the window and everything is warm and sleepy and she’s next to me and she’s warm and sleepy.

Television taught me how life could never be so wonderfully edited with the perfect soundtrack and perfect timing and the perfect punch lines over hovering sunsets; she taught me life does not have to be like that to be perfect.

Sometimes we listen to Chopin nocturne in C minor but then she says that it upsets her. It upsets me a little bit too. Should we be more impressed by Mozart the boy genies or Beethoven the deaf wonder god? It doesn't matter they are both dead; when I close my eyes and when I can't see the titles on the CD I cannot tell them apart. Except I know Beethoven made

tun tun tun tun TUN TUN TUN TUN

and Mozart didn't. I can't tell the difference between Italian and French either.

Dear You

There are no, actual borders, that separate countries from countries; your country from my country. And that disappoints me; there are no thick black lines between countries that might have, at least slowed down the Nazi's approach to Poland. There is no equator or Capricorn or Cancer and there is no compass that points North. I can't ever remember where North point is; let’s see if the sun rises; in the east; and sets; in the west then I should be able to pinpoint North but I look up and its midday. The sun is dead centre and my eyes hurt from looking. Sometimes you tie up your hair real tight in a bun cause it's so hot. And we walk around pretending like nobody else lives here and that its only you and me and the dead centre sun. My hair is always on my neck and there's nothing I can do about it I suffer. You walk in such a way that you stay in my shadow so you stay cool and I don’t know how you do it with the dead centre sun but if anyone can do it it’s you and anyone did do it and it was You.

Maybe I use my commas and semi colons in all the wrong ways.

'There is no wrong way it’s just grammar you're not in high school anymore'

But we are wrong grammar counts in every aspect of your life you can never shake of its importance. You can shake off the importance of drawing 3D graphs on your calculator but you can't shake off grammar. The only thing that is constant is change, one thing is certain in life and that is uncertainty; when I was younger my parents owned a Foucault book and I never read it.

Don't over analyse things you tell me. I'm not; I'm just stating what some bald gay philosopher said years ago. Is it certain then; that my love for you is uncertain? And; movable, changeable, unsteady? If the only certainty is uncertainty then the certainty that my love is uncertain must be uncertain itself. I don't want it to be though, I want certainty that this; this inner chest motion this contraction in my ribcage when I think about; that this will go away because it’s almost annoying like hiccups.

I feel like it’s been 500 days; and sometimes I have the feeling it’s been more. You are so infuriatingly spectacular in my mind; yet so modestly yet confidently amazing; so very contradictory in my head. You're so contradictory, that I feel like you are fragmented; I hate your giggle. That way that you giggle and you look at everyone and you tilt your head down with your eyes to the table, and at them you smile and with their jokes you laugh and I sit there shuffling my feet feeling terrible down in the depths of my gut. That is the most annoying giggle I've ever heard. But I remember that you don’t smile at me that way and you don’t laugh with me that way because with me you look up and you look right at me burning your eyes in my cornea and you laugh big cucumber triangle shaped sandwich laughs and you smile lemonade on a summer day. And you never say anything that I hate when you’re with me because with me you say everything that is you, everything that is you from its centre to its core everything that you emulate when you wake up in the morning and I could never hate anything that was so you in that way. And with them you say everything that you can just form with your tongue and you stare at the table and you shuffle your feet. Once you told me that you felt terrible down in the depths of your gut and we went walking around town pretending we were alone and you paced in my shadow in the noonday heat.

Sometimes when you ask me to let you listen to my MP3 with me then I give you one earphone for the left ear and I keep one for my right. And I hate how the right ear is so overexposed and I start to get annoyed at you for asking. But you never complain no matter what song I put on you never tell me to change to something else; and you also bought me these headphones when I dropped mine in the fish pond. You watched me drop them in the fishpond, you helped me pull them out, you took me to the repair shop and you bought me new ones, handed them to me and you didn’t say anything, you never wanted anything back for them. And sometimes when we go out you ask me do you have your MP3 player with you? Then I go back to the restaurant because I check at your request and find it not there. And when I get back you look and me and you smile like Lemonade and you day lets go and you don’t say anything that I don’t like to talk about.

When we sat together and we shuffled our feet tired of walking and the sun was moving down the hill we would watch ants swarming around things, food, leaves, and other dead ants. What do they do at night? I don’t know I guess they just sleep. Ants don’t sleep. Oh, well then I don’t know. It’s actually starting to feel cold. Isn’t that funny how that works.

The different parts of you; are so split apart so completely un-whole that I have to split you up in my head; to try and fully understand you; to try and fully understand this. And then there you are all over in ever segment in every sphere of my mind. I fail at trying to understand this; this chest ache this Inbox Impatience; but I want to dive into you and discover you.

Dear Everything

Sometimes I go out and buy a Winnie the Pooh book; I like looking at the original illustrations I like reading the book. If there are never ever any tomorrows, then that must mean by default there must never ever be any today’s. Dear You; sometimes I love you and sometimes I don't love loving you. Often I don't love loving you; but even more often I forget that I do; because I feel like this hiccup annoying but fantastic splendid far from annoying feeling I get; is perfectly natural. Is perfectly expected; by anyone who hangs around you because you have a force that flows through concrete. But the point is I love you all the time whether I notice it or not whether I like it or not. If the only certainty is uncertainty then I'm fine; then you are fine but remember you are better than fine you are beyond expectations you are an A++; because what I feel is so very uncertain in the way it rises and falls. Because you are so very uncertain you have predictable -only predictable to me- wonderful, perfect, broken but perfect, characteristics but when you choose to assert them is random. And if you are so uncertain and if the things you invoke in others- not only me because you have a force that doesn't just flow through concrete it flows through oceans it flows through seas- if you are so uncertain in a definite certain way; it is undeniable your force but when and where it catches me I can never tell; then you are forever. Dear You; I sometimes write to you about my cat I sometimes write to you about my fictitious dog; I sometimes write to you about my friends and I sometimes write to you about MacDonald’s. But dear you I always seem to write to you about you; and I always seem to write to you about me. Dear You, Dear Me; Dear Everything: I love you like some chasm has opened inside me and its all your fault and I love you like some chasm was deep inside me and its all filled up and stuffed and its all your fault. I love you in such a way that my words come out 3 dimensional from the screen. I love you like oh; it is such a relief.

My Wishy Washy Love Affair

Another one of those ones that I wrote a while ago but I never finished. I remember how this go's but it be wrong to finish it. Its quite a good ending for a short story anyway.

Other then my other loves, I loved it when she made decisions for me; honestly I loved it when most anyone would make decisions for me; but she did it best. She would say to me Look What Do You Wanna Do? And - if I just shrugged my shoulders she'd get mad- I'd tell her a few things I'd like to do then she'd say Probably Best You Do This. She didn't make decisions for anyone but me, everyone was grown up to make up their own minds; and sometimes she let others make her mind for her. But she knew what I was like, my absolute irreputable unseparatable love affair with indecisiveness, and she was nice enough to access situations to find the best option -my least favourite part fo decision making- and nice enough to let everyone else think she was bossy.

The Start of My Indecisive Adventure:

She initally decided it would be morally obscure for her to pick which university to go to. I knew what I wanted to do; I wanted to do the subjects I was best at and the subjects I liked more; I just didn't know where to do them. Best one in the country this, most suitable for your corse that; please make the decision for me. She thought it be wrong because for the whole week she'd had people arrange and set her mind for her. Whenever this happened I would be in a state of freefall trying to figure out which way to go; towards the electrons or the protons; towards the North pole or the South. I thought maybe I'd go to the Uni with the big farm on campus, what a trivial reason to base one's future on. I thought maybe I'd go to the Uni with the highest entry requirements; what a nerdy reason to base one's future one. I called her everyday to find her in the same state of decided undecided prearranged despair.

I decided not to tell her when I left; because she was already arranged enough as it was. If I told her, she would just arrange herself more. Best not tell her; best let her figure it out for herself; realize I'm not around anymore; and then come to her own conclusions on what to do. If I told her she'd have no thrill in figuring it out on her own and hence would take no initiative in making her own mind. I knew her well enough to make a few decisions for her benefit; I didn't think I knew myself well enough to make my own decisions when on the road. But there I was on the road. I took a few usefull useless essentials; put it all in a very large very old van I bought. I, with my P liscense went out on the road, a huge decision, to avoid having to stay home, and make other smaller decisions. I brought my ladder with me.

A Wife

Maybe if I had a wife she'd make all my decisions for me. Back home my friend would make all the decisions for me and she knew me well enough to make the best ones. So a wife should, a wife would do the same thing. I wondered where I could find a wife; as if they wandered around wearing veils and holding bouquets. I gave my friend a phonecall

"I think I wanna get married"

"Big life choice there"

"My wife could make all my decisions for me you see"

"Try a bar?"

I drove but didn'd find any bars that looked like they had women in them . It was getting dark. Other then fieldtrips for school, I'd never spent a night away from my matress with my two pillows and digital alarm clock with taped down snooze button. I had a matress in the back; not my mattress but a mattress from one of the guests room. If my friend found my matress missing she'd catch on to early and the thrill would be lost. I left the house at 9am it was 7. I wondered how long I could keep driving.

Breakfast Lunch and Dinner

I brought a hotplate but I didn't have any plugs in my van so its relevance seemed futile to me. I brought boxes of bread; that would expire in a few days. And so much peanut butter. I never understood how well of I was until I saw how much peanutbutter I managed to get. Only a rich kid could get so much peanutbutter. I forgot to bring a knife. I didn't want to stop driving, the closer I got to; the pointed end of the road sitting on the horizon; the better I would feel. How long can a person go without food? A week without water a month without food; I had brought lots of water. More water then peanutbutter. I didn't need any kitchen utensils to drink water. I very often needed to stop and piss. When I pissed in the wind I constantly feared the wind would blow it back onto my jeans. I'd forgotten to pack more jeans. I packed 12 pairs of boxers and two more shirts but no jeans. I tried pissing when there was no wind; but there was always wind. I learned to pee with my back to the wind; so the wind would help blow my piss further and further away from my solitary jeans. I wondered if anybody would pass by and stare at me taking a leak; but nobody passed by. I ate bread and sometimes crammed my fingers in the peanutbutter jars and licked them clean. I saw lots of stores as I drove by; but I refused to stop. I had to take shits in the bushes but it was ok. The sight of the sun rising and the wind rustlng through made it; a relaxing experience. I didn't see any hitchhikers so far and I wondered whether; if I did; should I pick them up. A hitch hiker might have a knife for my peanutbutter. As a guy old enough to get a P Liscencse for a manual car I didn't have to worry about a knife wielding hitch hikers. What if the hitchiker was a girl? Are hitch hikers marrying material. My friend called me as I was pulling over somewhere to sleep.

"Did you try a bar?" She started listing local bars in our neighbourhood; that we sometimes went to to get chocolate milk.

"No. Hey"

"?"

"Are hitch hikers marrying material?"

"Did you see one today?"

"No"

"They can be. But girls don't hitch hike"

"Rapists?"

"Rapists. Rapists are the reason we don't do anything anymore. There were loads of rapists in the old days but; back then a stranger was just as likely to rape you as your uncle was. It was better to be away from home back then."

"Lots of Oedipus complexes"

No More Bush Shitting

Early in the morning; around 9. Driving I wondered if eating peanutbutter of the same hands that I used to touch the steering wheel and clutch of this mysterious old van was the alriight thing to do. I saw a few people walking by and pulled over to ask them if they had butter knifes they could give me. Nobody ever did. Did nobody leave the house with butter knifes anymore; how many people now compared to the amount of people back then had Oedipus complexes. I knew I didn't have one but those aren't the things that are very obvious; it might rise up from the dark suddenly. All the better I was leaving home. I was taking a piss in the sand and just as I was zipping up my jeans somebody approached the van. I saw the person from a distance; had to run all the way back to the van; back to the main road. Luckily that person hadn't seen me taking a leak. It was a girl; she was wearing sunglasses eventhough It wasn't particularly sunny. She looked at me and it was if she didn't see me; she had to take of her sunglasses and put on a pair of ridicolously large almost Dumbledore glasses from her pocket. When she did; and when she looked at me; then I finally felt recognized; ah she see's me now. I did the only thing I could think to do; I pulled out my hand stretched it towards her big framed face. She grasped it firmly; we shook hands, one shake looking each other in the eye.

"Is this your van" She was absolutely casual as if the handshake had elminated the formailty required in the conversation. That was the objective of the handshake.

"Yeah; hey do you..."

"?"

"Have a knife?"

She pulled out from her pocket a very small cracked here and there plactic knife that you get from fast food joints as well as a napkin. I liked her instantly.