Monday, December 23, 2002

December 23, 2002
Wet and soggy out. Still dark (7:23 a.m.). Great day yesterday. Had the staff Christmas party at the Daiss spread. Abby went horseback riding. Cowboy Dan and Christina came. It was fun to see them. Gus and Patty were the only no shows. Played games, told lies, laughed, came home around 7:30.

Had a rough morning. Wanted to get some things accomplished in studio but it was cold and I wanted to flee, go back to bed. I forced myself to stay. Thought about some scenes I want to do, of snow, cold, rain. Grabbed a stool and plopped it in front of the stove and started culling cartoons and snippets of dialogue from The New Yorker. That felt somewhat productive.

Also, put the head phones on and listened to T’s CD and using free thought association wrote down words and thoughts that came into my mind as I listened to the music. Of course the lyrics had the most sway, but some inspiration came from the instrumental passages. A few of my random ravings, cleaned up for publication, of course:

Shotgun wedding at a desert crossing, niteclub venting, beefcake daunting, burn down the trailer park, don’t dare be shot in that Bozo nightmare, cocaine nose ring, body heat bren-a-dore stinkin’ up the highway, cycle goin’ sideways on a oil slick highway, fast track thumping, get a grip grab on your fake ID, come upstairs honey, so scared of hangin’, flag bending iguana, do what I wanna, don’t ry to stop me, cause I’m gonna, grinding, groveling, grabbing all the loin cloths, all the nos and nods spare my life, can you see me later? leave it on my window sill, empty homescape, white boy pain in a European brain drain, turn the lights down, in the days of my youth, what does it mean to be a man? brown-eyed-man, T-minus five, so hard to see, what we could be, double G stupid, black man’s cupid, rollin’ down Rodeo’s main drag, born on a slit-eyed pony, doin’ bar-b-que roasted, howlin’ down gasoline, slappin’ up a soft machine, tryin’ to keep my motor clean, saintless eyes, fightin’ for a fair shake, quakin’ like an earthquake, don’t you dare die down, eradicate that seduction line, take another live round, fakin’ all the honey down, all night shootin’ match, lay the mutha downtown, ridin’ on a meltdown, jump daddy, pump pappy, get off of that divorc—aye, tell me what I wanna hear, cuz it’s true, I like you true stop, go dot, run down battlefield. Blow by gimme thigh, driving down every damn useless road, stoppin’ at the juice joint, they tell me no gas or lubrication, no highway rest stop, laughin in the sunshine, a bullet in the brain pan, hairline fracture, this town is fuckin’ crazy, just like a loony bin tracers after me, I’m tired of fighting, wanna flee over that last ridge, lost cause, anti-freeze, I warn you, that’s some shoes I can’t wear...

Is there a thread of narrative in there? Is there a juiced up story to tell? Probably. It’s up to me to dig it out. Like a crevice of gold dust, hidden in a bank of rock (or a dry hole). But I never know when these thought fragments will come landing in the middle of a problem, a concept, or a story idea. I call it reticulated retention (I stole this from Kathy’s psychiatry vocab). I never know when it will coagulate or masterbate. Ha. Listen to Rappin’ Bozeman.

I like to read your diary. It makes me feel normal.”
—Allen Fossenkemper

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