Sketchbook fragments

Condensed first half of a writing journal

December 2001 – July 2004

Compiled September 2004

crowds are open to judgement

(waking began

so i can live

we liberated our coffee grounds

coffee cup

the 29^th of june

i could sit here painting fences

and we're sorry

in progress, barreling downhill

i mean, calm and dirty, sleepy

rolling my eyes

biting my nails

to the sea—everything

every type of horse

how this imagery functions

the clean white background

the surface, scarred

burning the earth underneath our feet

how it fools us

every fragment of the city

hallways stretch forever

i close my eyes again and crash this car

away from the associations of the suburban-kid mentality

i live here too

our freedom

lives in progress

there'd be birds that don't know the difference

walls with their exposed studs

DIY flyers and underground zines

a pointless errand run

i'll couch-hop and live in my car

if we are american

a life in the default

singing inside my head

the kitchen smells like the sound of a weight

asleep but underneath the eyelid

throwing the spectacle mechanism

the effect was minimal

like another phase

i don't know how

writing can steal your soul if you don't also take time to read

Untitleds

crossing the intersection in my car, listening to talk radio about supreme court nominations, I hear

my brakes squeak a high pitched noise. The sun shines through the clouds. I'm on my way to

breakfast. People pass me on foot, bike or by car. I pass buildings which hold people sleeping,

businesses or the belongings of people who have left for the day. I light a cigarette. I feel tired. I click

my turn signal to change lanes. I hear the ticking and merge successfully, thinking, “all these normal

things seem so strange, out of place. Everything common seems foreign today.” I drive to the coffee

shop, calmly eat my breakfast and sip my coffee. Getting back into the car, I drive to the highway,

towards United Hospital in St. Paul, to meet my family in the waiting room, where all of us will be

wondering if my brother will live to see the next day.

October 2005

Girls link arms with the boys beside them, sharing umbrellas, and run into the street yelling “wooo!” I

walk inside, music coming through the door to the performance space. I shyly smile at a girl sitting at a

table by the counter, she shoots me a cold look and returns to her homework. I get back to my

notebook. Me, and a pen, and a lot of analyzing thoughts to serve as my own umbrella under everyone

else's sky as I link arms with myself and tip back the rest of my beer, yelling to myself in my head,

“whatever.”

walk aside and miles wide

i found a way to spend my time

and scratched it into stone

threw it off a bridge

watched her smile and walked away

and today, with the tapping in the distance I grab at the air

I gasp for ideas

I pull enough strength together to get out of bed

so i can sit in a chair and stare at the horizon

when these days are over the young ones will still be laughing

and i'll finish up. One last crazy

dream for the road back home

to nothingness

In a way, art is like being married to boredom. You spend all your time together and make children. I

don't know. Maybe not.