Noise

Noise all around me. I do not exist in a bubble. Ping pong ball bounces along the table, caught in hand. Wonders of limoncello brings me to Cinque Terre, cheap hostel a block from the water. Mario and Luigi running up and down the stairs finding beds for soaked tourists. Now we pass sweetness around, Kool-aid spiked, with an edge. Fair trade banana sit in front of me on the table, surrounded by various bottles of alcohol, rum, tequila, brandy, jaeger, pucker, all poured off in shot glasses. She pulls port from the shelf, tainted by memory. Pour some in the blue glass. Please. Giggles in the kitchen. Whiskey and Vodka join the party. Absolut swirls around the glass, moments captured, soft hair along my neck. Breakfast? Shall we make eggs? Surrounded by friends, a man drinking whiskey in front of me. Photos, photos, bottles in the lens. I'm a mess, crazy just like me. That's what they say. Memories of a hot haunted night; strip down. How? To what? A pintata throwing Smarties. Bottle to the mouth, why? why? Arm held out, snap a photo. Jaeger emptied into a punch cup. She loves me, she loves me.

so tired, revised

I wonder how eye resulution works. I can't cee really well, so I'm relying on others of dubious perction to see my mistakes. Odd how that works. I'm so tired and yet so alive I want to stay awake alone and alive. I feel wooy though and cannot keep my eyes open.. I amy or may not run 1p miles tomorrow and I canot see eh letters I tyle. and we all fal asleep, good night my love. rememver that you're mine sweetheart.

Editor's note on the entry above: Upon awakening this morning, I recalled the experience of typing and struggling to see the letters. I had a feeling that I blogged. Upon looking at my computer, I discovered yes, I did blog late at night in a state of altered consciousness brought on by triple fermentation, dancing and extreme exhaustion. At first, upon reading my entry, I wanted to erase it. It's rough, crude, odd; I do not know what to make of it. But it's a record of my mind in particular state. It's a tangled, brambly path--an attempt to make a trail by someone only half aware of what they are doing. It is that state of awake to sleep captured in letters. Not awakening, but the inverse. The falling of asleep. What would Freud or Benjamin have to say about that? I say it's a montage of the mind.