Pompadoured
The Last Part of Writing a Poem:
April 30, 2009
I will start deleting things. Sometimes I just fill text in, because the poem needs something there. Later, I will fill that space in with something. I delete. I listen to music. The world is not predicated on what you will do, but what has been done. I pretend I am important. I think about how unimportant I am. Sometimes, if I think hard enough, I will cry. It is okay. I will stand on a mountain later in life and think "I fucked up." When the poem is finished, I am almost not ashamed of it. All of the caffeine, all of the sickness of whatever meal I ate will wear off. I read the thing and feel like I haven't fucked it up, for a day or two. I will give it to Jenny, and she will tell me the parts that are not like me. I will send it to a few people I trust that have a mild interest in my writing. I drink lots of water and listen to music. If there is something to eat in the kitchen, I will eat it. Maybe I will drive somewhere unimportant, just to remind myself that I am insignificant. It's fun to be a person, and to sit in front of your computer, and to worry about the past and the future and all of the things you cannot control. It's fun to pretend like you can control your fear of death and of living. Outside, there are things I cannot control. I can pretend to master them. It's easier when you write to think of all of the people that have written things, from all over the planet, over the course of entire human history, and to think about life in 10,000 years, and how little all of those writers will matter. I am usually happy when I finish writing something, like I've accomplished something vital. Like I'll be vindicated in 2042 by a tree growing out of a forest where Jenny has left my ashes. Like it's okay to live in spite of liking to do dumb things.
Being Unproductive:
April 8, 2009
I sit in my office and listen to electronic music, reading gadget blogs and drinking something that is usually not water. I like beer, but not in the morning. I read the blogs of everybody who writes online. When I read something I don't like, I still feel happy and appreciative. I usually put my feet up on something and lean my chair back. I edit a little bit of HTML at a time, nudging DIV tags slightly to the left or right. If I have a few hours, I write a poem. I like Gatorade G2. Twitter updates pop-up in the upper right corner of my screen. Depressing music plays, and I stare out the window, at the back of the large neon building next door.
Gardening:
April 5, 2009
I used a cultivator to open the soil up. Within two minutes, I had broken the cultivator. I forgot that there was a large stump covered-up by mulch in the corner of the bed. I pushed the cultivator into the stump until it broke.
My two-prong cultivator worked okay, opening the rest of the soil up. There was a white fungus that sat under the top layer of mulch. Tiny mushrooms spring up every few weeks in that area of the backyard, after it gets humid. Jenny dug some holes for flowers, and we planted them. We planted vegetables in the opposite bed.
Workspace:
April 2, 2009
I usually use my computer in the Technology Annex lounge. There is a giant window that overlooks a nice section of campus, and for some reason everyone in the Technology Annex lounge sits on the interior of the lounge, away from the windows. The windows get no direct sunlight. They are underneath a giant ash tree. Lots of people walk by, but they are far enough away to not notice me watching them. Right now there is a group of thirty children, all in white shirts, walking by. A man in a red shirt is telling them something. I don't think anyone is interested. They walked off, towards the east. Tiny golf carts are everywhere.