Last night I got up during the wee hours to write the following in my journal, using the glare of my iPhone:
falling to pieces —
the oxford dynamo
in a nutshell.
How long does it take for a flower to bloom? Depends on the flower. I sit down and Rachmaninoff plays. I pour an espresso at dusk and crack open my journal in the hopes of writing.
I am currently reading Alan Watts’ Become What You Are, as well as Allen Ginsberg’s Planet News, Yrsa Daley-Ward’s The Terrible, Gertrude Stein’s Tiny Buttons and the latest issue of Rosebud. I am rereading Wayne Koestenbaum’s The Pink Trance Notebooks, which are essentially like witty tweets.
As I read Watts earlier, I thought that I could die as I’ve already lived this, if you wanted to get technical. Tho I don’t mind eating the same cake over and again. Maybe there is just not enough icing to sicken me.