She

She

I light a joint instead, and she asks for a hit but then doesn’t give it back until it’s almost finished. I don’t complain.

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Journal Entry, 30 August 2019

Journal Entry, 30 August 2019 

At dinner the family was discussing the concept of beauty in imperfection. I thought of a quote from Chihuly, something along the lines of I like imperfections because that’s the way nature would do it. What does it mean for a thing to be imperfect? Imperfection is on the scale of subjectivity – there is nothing definitive or objective about being perfect or imperfect – these concepts are entirely based upon opinions which are heavily influenced by cultural custom & individual life experience. I live my life & it is what it is. Whether it was written or whether I am writing it all entirely myself. Inexplicability is inevitable. I can’t explain any of this with confidence but I can explain it in a way that makes sense to me – but what makes sense to me does not necessarily make sense to you or anyone else. I need to write more I think to myself every day. How can I call myself a writer if I don’t write? It makes me think of my writer-friend who always said I’m a writer who doesn’t write. Maybe being a writer has a lot more to do with personality, temperament, & interest than actual activity. I aspire to not disappoint. Aspiring to not disappoint is more limiting than helpful or motivating. I turn within for my answers. Certainly I am continuing in confusion in certain contexts. Certainly I am continuing in confidence in certain contexts. I want to write of a character who loves ceiling fans & their consistency in spin. (Maybe that character is me). Is it even possible to write of a character without feeling as though that character is part of you? Yes, you can write both from experience or imagination, but how can we even differentiate between the two? I imagine something – I experience it. Thoughts are only thoughts, yet can a thought be finite? We manifest by thinking of a thing & bringing it into the world. I think I know what I want but I am confused. A continuous theme for humanity at large. Words both confuse & clear. Clear by expression; confuse by overexplanation. Where is the median? Can a center be correctly calculated? Calculations create. I am at the center of my own centrality. Everything is simultaneously so complicated & so simple. Where & how & even why does one locate a correct answer to any type of question & how do we really know it is correct? I am full of questions. I am full of thoughts, relevant & irrelevant, regardless of the subjectivity of relevance. If I was a balloon & you popped me, question marks of all colors & sizes would come flying out from me & float about.

these girls

these girls

these girls are always buying the pink packs of rolling tobacco, and if they don’t have the pink pack, then the white pack, and if they don’t have the white pack, then a pack of Camel Blue and you’d better find a better shop. 

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