I found some writing I had done, journaling sort of, that was saved on my computer from a year and a half ago or so. Kind of funny. Thought I'd share a little bit.
About a really strange day I had: "Example B: I head to my favorite coffee shop (which I happen to be sitting in right now). I plan to sit, have a cup of coffee, and read some Bukowski. Perhaps write a little, or draw a little. When I walk up, there is a bunch of fancy film equipment outside, and the main windows are blocked by big, black sheets. They must be filming inside.
I open the door, and enter into a whole lot of quiet. They’re still open for business, but the main seating area is now a film-set. A man in a chocolate-chip cookie suit is playing the guitar. I begrudgingly order my coffee for to go, and head back to Orono."
About my acid trip: "There is a chill in the air today, and a misty rain blanketing the city of Minneapolis. The greens stand out like silver in the sun, but they seem so natural and thick, earthy, the greens today feel like rolling in thick, black, earthy, dirt-mud. Even the very artificial welcome mat of my ex-boyfriend’s apartment building, saturated with water, feels like rolling in thick, black, earthy, dirt-mud. I take off my pointy black flats and feel the gritty texture of the mat, wet and sandy on my bare feet, and the feeling is wondrous. I feel as if I am in Seattle.
From up on my perch, my throne, the top step leading to his apartment building, I can observe the world. The grass, Chinese and greeny-red, is rolling out of the street, and the ghosts of the houses across the street are setting down to tea, all high, buttoned neck-lines, ribbons, and hats. They came from an era even before these houses, I am sure, yet their gentle spirits inhabit the houses 3602-3606 Grand Avenue S. A woman walks down the sidewalk, headed towards the bus stop. Her beautifully blue umbrella is a little flat, and as she trods down the sidewalk, I sense the sadness radiating from her. She has probably never been happy in her whole life, and echoes from a time very distant from now, a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth. And Karl, Karl too is old. Glasses and green plaid, he stands out and glitters like the trees, the houses, the grass on the street and on the lawns, and the mat. He has aged so much this afternoon."
About how much more I appreciated getting a pack of cigarettes when I was underage: "After they had purchased the cigarettes, they would come back out to the car and climb in. We would hastily tear the cellophane wrapper from the pack, open it up, tear out the front flap of foil, pull out a beautiful, fresh cigarettes, roll down the windows (even in the middle of winter in Minnesota, we needed our nicotine), and light the cigarette. We would slowly inhale the first drag, and after that, our passion and enthusiasm waned. We carelessly smoked after that first drag of the pack, forgetting that were even smoking."
The rest was actually really depressing and/or too personal for the internet, so I won't post, but I completely forgot that I actually used to write and think about my life. Hm.
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