Or Beast of Man Left Wantin'

I've been thinking about posting something for some time now without actually doing it. I've been listening to Rob's new songs and I've been wishing I was able to just make something and have it whole so quickly. George Barnes has been alive for so long without being finished that it makes me think I don't even know who he is. We trudged through so few sentences but they were such full sentences. I sit here, still, with my fingers on the letters, hoovering, waiting. The words simmer beneath my consciousness and I wonder if I've been thinking them all day or if they just found their way to the tip of my tongue, the tip of my fingers.

I dreamed of running last night, that I ran from some unknown source, from some scary someone who I didn't understand. They knew me, the both of them, and they cornered me. I sunk into the seat of the car I had stolen and I waited for them to get me. I had tried to hotwire the car but I realized, once I had the flap open, that I didn't have any idea how. And I woke up confused.

And I dreamed I swam frantically from an angry Orca through the flooded hospital halls. And the Orca saw me but didn't seem to mind my presence. I sat in my bed and wrote pages and pages of my dreams this morning, my fingers feeling that they had long ago been finished. My head was full of the deep, colorful things I had witnessed in the night and I pushed the words onto the page in illegible early morning scrawls. And I felt beside me the warmth of someone I believe so much in. And I heard beneath me the sounds of someone I believe so much in. And today I looked up from a fancy dinner into the eyes of someone I wish I could help but she can help herself. And I'm so glad she can.

I spoke to a friend last night who was so sad and so silly. I wished I could whack him once or twice in his head. He spoke of the selfish nature of art and his desire to engage in humanitarian deeds and I laughed because he would never do such a thing. He would only wish he could. I haven't seen him in so long and we just started talking out of nowhere. He's not as different as I think I am. I feel like he knows me now just as much as he ever did, which is not so much at all.

And I felt, beneath the surface of my skin, the person waiting to emerge, winking. She looked up from the place I always knew she would wait, and she showed me that the person I wish to be has always been there, waiting. I think of how I work so much that I don't get to sit through these times, these smooth surfaces and soft transitions from one moment to the next. I've been pushing the moments past for so long now, just hoping for their end, just begging for the time to pass so that new time could begin. I've spent so long asking people what they want and not thinking, seriously, what it is that I want. Can I bring you anything else, I ask. And really, can I bring myself anything to start with?

This is, likely, just a bunch of nonsense. Just a bunch of babble, but I bet some of it lives outside things. And I bet I sit and hear the best songwriting I've ever heard and I grin giddily because he made it. And now he makes absurd noises.

I won't be a while.