::11:09:08::

::: July 7, 2007 1:14AM :::

I think of a girl I've never met, who skinned her knee. I think of how that fabrication will become part of my identity. How fictions are stored in the brain, just the same as perceptions.
I think of how we used to be. How art was ingrained in the very breadth of life...how that gap has grown, like a canyon that this river of progress keeps eroding. How can I reconcile this gap? What magic can carry the particles back? I think of how it can… of nomads. I should move to the delta, start a collection in mason jars. Build the gap as a reminder, or keep it hidden in a cellar for an emergency.
Then I think how nature has done it better.
I think of three thoughts that were owned by my mother.
...how everyday I peer through this jail at seagulls. How the I think, "these seagulls are exactly what I should draw."
I think of the colors and how at night they are different. I close my eyes to look again. Again, different; how many colors have I seen? I think of how my brain eliminates so much information, how it discards and generalizes. I wonder what is real.
I took out my earring today, I think of its previous owner. How it sat in her belly-button…I have a photograph of it somewhere. I think of that image...its naivety and attempt to be artistic by an adjustment with a macro lens.
Then I think of Godard's letter to Jane. How it's a deconstruction…I think of his intellect, I admire it. I think: Do I really understand it? Do I know what it means to take a detour to arrive at a theory?
Back to the seagulls…I should capture one…then drag him flapping through life…through a space….across a canvas.
I think what a dumb idea, but a poignant phrase.
I think of interchangeability.
...how I can't give into tradition. How I defy authority just to defy it. I should just paint a seagull…how stupid. I can't paint a seagull! It's not real enough…maybe I should just give into representation.
I think of deconstructing images again.
I think of RED…the film. How the lights in the windows are red. I think of birth; of innocence…now destiny. I felt hope in that film…how we were living to get it right…living for a truth that was beyond us. Then I remember…it is just a film, a celluloid impression, an index of a fabricated and controlled event. An analgesic…an aspirin handed from one sufferer to another out of: responsibility? Passion? Belief? Love? Denial?
Back to interchangeability.
I think of how my brain is film…plastic. I think of taking a film and filming over it…juxtaposing the new film on top of the old film. I think of drawing mustaches and doodles on all of the characters. I think I would like to make a film…then I think I am not smart enough.
Then I think, I am too smart to impose astronomical financial burdens on my art…I think I have enough problem affording the art I am already.
I think of success….I mean suck-cest.
I think of my son. I think of the page above that doesn't mention him. I think of the guilt of such. How he should be everything. I think he is as foreign to me as I to him. I think of how I love him. I think of how I know nothing, and have nothing to give.
I think of how much that nothing has cost.
I wonder how I will explain to him that I have never felt I owned the skin I'm in.
I think of painting…how my explanations are too homestead…too real-estate. I think they aren't proper. I think no one will understand.
I think of translation.
I think how living is really the art. I think of Dewey. I think of how much I really don't understand in that book. I think how I should reread it over and over. I think how two-three times a chapter isn't enough. I think of how I fell asleep with that book in my hand today. I think I don't remember enough; that's what the highlights are for. Maybe I should underline the important things, instead of the things that I liked?
I think of the code of my underlines. How I use a pen and a highlighter to interchange their predestined orders in chaos.
I think how I will never know anything.
I think of living as art…how I am bad at it. How dead I feel sometimes. I think of a person I've never met nor seen. I think of how sound triggers images in my brain. I wonder how much I see is really a fabrication? I think of how I could have put a period there instead of a question mark.
I see the color grey and try to understand how my brain is inventing it. It doesn't feel any different in my brain…then I think of how the brain has no feeling. How you can't feel your brain…how it has no nerves.
I think: What will I write next….my brain is blank, then I think a thought I forgot. I think of how my typing is slow and that is why I sat down to type in the first place.
I wonder if anything has truly been said?
I wish I could wear my insides for people to see. I want to be around people, I just don't want them around me. I think of this prison again. How I never leave. How I am afraid to. How my heart races when I step outside. How I feel secure in here, until I think.
I think of water….maybe I am thirsty. I think of a cigarette. How I want to take a break and delete this file.
I consider posting it online.
I wonder if this has the attachment of the present…I wonder if how he used "unleashed" in that sense was critical or positive.
I think of interchangeability; how everything is the same and different. I think of the noun…of the verb….I lost a thought.
Wonder where it went?
I think that my legs fall asleep to often. I think of the awkwardness of being unable to control your heavy foot. I think of my friend who broke his arm…I think that is how it felt. That is how it looked like it felt. I think of that image every time my foot is asleep. I think of how I will have to spend my old days in a wheelchair…then I remember.
I think of how I was born a writer with no hands.
I think of the pen in that movie.
I think of all of the things that I think of, but don't elaborate…don't explore…don't pause on. I think of something I read about a rock rolling down a hill. I remember it is in the Dewey book…Chapter 3. I was asleep when I read it. I think of how I will re-read it tomorrow.
I think of how I avoid that book. Of how I avoid painting…avoid making art. I think of Seneca….of the shortness of life. I think I will die young.
I think I have to start living first.
I try to think of a time I felt alive. I think of how the chemicals in my brain are atrophying my thoughts. I think of the pains in my chest. I think of a heart attack. I think of rocks where my lungs were...the lava kind. I think I should start taking an aspirin a day. I take a drink and convince myself of a cigarette.
Isn't art my aspirin?

Written by: ~ Jeremiah D. Reeves